#b&tsm-meat

[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

[yakumtsaki]

Thought I’d let the year change without updating this?? So did I. Quick recap or check the most recent updates if you don’t remember anything: a) we unleashed Spymaster Spainot and Magus Olivia onto the populace, earning various war crime achievements b) Liz divorced her third wife, hot golddigger Consort Linotta to get back with Piratefu c) Piratefu iconically rejected both of Liz’s re-marriage proposals d) Liz sunk even deeper into tyrant madness going on yet another execution spree e) our kingdoms stats are once again absolute shit.

So taking the above into account, I could think of no better time to go after the time consuming, pointless, and insane Legendary Doomsword achievement, which is the biggest bullshit ever and I never managed to complete it last time I played TSM. HOWEVER I’m thinking I’m older and better at this game now so it’s gonna be ok! I mean truly these stats speak for themselves:

For those of you haven’t played TSM, the Legendary Doomsword needs two parts to be crafted, the blade and the hilt, both of which can only be found at the bottom of the beast pit, so you have to jump in there, survive, and hope you hit the jackpot and get the random rare event that gives one of the parts. 

Once you have the parts it’s not even a sure thing that you’ll be able to craft it, but let’s worry about that later, because our hopes rest on resident lover of goblins and haver of the ‘puny’ fatal flaw, Blacksmith Chester, so I doubt he will be surviving this, no offense Chester.

-OH GODS, WHAT CRUELTY THAT IT IS MY BELOVED CHESTER WHO HAS TO CRAFT THIS BLADE

Now that you mention it, Goblin-husband, Chester has to craft it but he doesn’t have to be the one to jump in the pit, we can send you instead and take the parts from your inventory? I like your chances way better seeing as you’re made of metal.

-No, no, this is Chester’s quest for glory, I couldn’t do this to him!

-Actually I’m really scared-

-Scared of not being immortalized for your bravery, I know, darling. 

-Ok.. ok.. HERE I GO

I believe in you Chester!!! And don’t worry, I have you saved in cas, so if you die I’ll bring you right back! Or well, you know.. a clone version of you.

-Well what are the chances of me dying on the first try, I’m not even wounded!

Definitely, you’re gonna do great!

............................ok then.

You know what this is fine, let’s just get the deaths out of the way and eventually we will succeed.

We’ve been at this for a while now, but I’m sure Chester 4.0 is gonna fare much better than his predecessors. I thought maybe if we buy some meat to feed the beast before jumping in it’s gonna be less ravenous, increasing our chances of survival.

Good, good, Chester 4.0, establish a bond with it, very How To Train Your Dragon!

-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA FUCK THIS 

It’s gonna be ok, just stay calm!!!

OH GOD IT’S HAPPENING, IT’S HAPPENING!!!!!!!!

HELL YES WE PICKED CORRECTLY!!!!!!!!! GREAT JOB CHESTER 4.0!!!!!!! 

Chester 4.0?????

GODDAMMIT FML

Ok clearly when you have the ‘puny’ fatal flaw this shit is a non-starter, it’s too bad four Chesters had to die for me to accept that but better late than never. It’s time to outsource this to someone else..

..namely possessor of the ‘herculean’ legendary trait and fiddle addict Commander Edward.

-Can’t this wait, I’m serenading the waves here!

I’m sorry Ed, you’re cursed with being the only competent sim in this kingdom.

Good, with both armor and herculean trait there’s no way you’re dying!

-I LIVED BITCH

Ya you also didn’t find anything, in you go again.

-First, a quick 20 minute ballad.

The emergence of your artistic side is ruining my life.

So Edward has jumped in a good dozen times now and still nothing, I’m starting to wonder if this shit is coded in some way where the more likely you are to die the more likely you are to also get the event??

At least we go this achievement!

-Ok enough for today, I’m grievously wounded.

Great, lower survival chances, maybe you’ll get the event finally! Jump back in!

-This sword is not worth my life!

Agree to disagree.

-I don’t know how to tell you this, Edward, but several of your bones are so broken that they have, for all intents and purposes, disappeared. 

-Really? Oh well, what can you do..

-You can stop jumping in the pit.

Shut up Donius, Ed loves jumping in the pit! Just sew him up and let’s go.

-He’s in no condition to walk!

He’ll be fine! He’s a lion! A bear! 

-A squirrel!

Yes! Wait what?

-He’s concussed, he’s just naming animals!

Ya ok Middle Ages M.D, whatever. Let’s gtfo Ed.

-Ok Beast, time to meet your maker!

You go Ed!!!

FFS WHAT DO WE HAVE TO DO TO GET THIS FUCKING EVENT

-Allow me to respond in the form of this song I composed in the pit entitled ‘Time To Face The Facts’.

Ya I refuse to accept a world exists where CHESTER gets the event and you don’t. One last jump, come on. 

-I have no more bones to break.

You won’t break anything, 50th time is the charm!!!

OMG OMG

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS

ILY EDWARD I KNEW YOU COULD DO IT

-Here, you little twerp, take your goddamn blade and fuck off. 

-Uh that’s great sir Edward, but I’ll need the hilt too-

-Tell it to someone who still has the majority of their skeleton. I’ll be at the clinic for the rest of the decade.

Limping back to you, ever thought of calling when you’ve had a few?

As Edward recovers, it’s time to send in our next pit-jumper, recently dumped loser Spymaster Spainot, who has nothing to live for and thus I feel less bad about endangering. 

-That’s not true, I have a kid!

No you don’t, Rodolfo took her when he left.

-Oh ok, that explains why I haven’t seen her in two weeks. 

Thanks for proving my point. Now during Ed’s 50 jumps I realized that wearing armor is half the battle, and subsequently assumed that if I bought Spainot one he would wear it before jumping in, but that clearly is not the case.

-Spies don’t need armor! It limits our flexibility. 

Ya ok it’s been great knowing you.

-HIYAAAAAAAAAA

Oh brother.

So Spainot gets this chance card on his first jump and I think I’m about to eat my words-

-but it turns out to be.. one of the beast’s babies??? WTF

Ya I really don’t know how I feel about us stealing the beast’s baby, it’s bad enough we’re always jumping in and bothering it, this is animal cruelty.

-It’s a miracle! I’m a father again, Beast Junior is my new child!!!

Ok sure, now why don’t you sleep this insanity off and we’ll try again tomorrow.

Tragically our subsequent jumps are massive flops, we’re not getting the event and the lack of armor is really fucking Spainot up-

-Tis just a flesh wound.

Why can’t you just wear your stupid armor??

-I told you, it would only slow me down!

Ya slow you down from DYING. Just go to the clinic, I’ve had enough of you. It’s time to turn to the last character in this kingdom who owns an armor..

..God help us. What are we up to, Liz? Literally fiddling while Rome burns?

-Nothing is burning! I’ve outlawed fires! Even for cooking!

No, I meant metaphorically because of our stats and you know..

-Know what?! There’s nothing wrong with our stats, they’ve never been better!

Right, sure, ok. On a different topic, how would you feel about putting on your majestic armor and taking a nice trip down the pit?

-Sounds fun!

Well that’s very brave of you.

-There’s nothing to fear, the beast would never bite the hand that feeds it all that treasonous scum. What if I die and the next monarch is sane?? It would starve!!!

Ya I don’t think the beast understands the chain of command when it comes to executions-

-Of course it does, you’ll see!

WHAT THE FUCK

WHAT

-Ah, that was a nice stretch. So, we done here?

HOW TF DID YOU GET THE BLADE ON YOUR FIRST TRY WTF

-What, like it’s hard?

I’m legit speechless, I guess you really have a connection with the beast??

-Well I told you! Fist bump? 

👊

Honestly Liz you did such an iconic job here that the only appropriate reward is for you to marry yet again! And on a semi-related note which is definitely not my main motive, we’re one spouse away from the 4 marriages with the monarch achievement! What do you think?

-You know there’s nothing I enjoy more than getting married! And I know just who to marry..

Oh, the Mercenary Lady of Advorton! Good pick, she’s pretty hot.

-Is she? I didn’t really notice, I just need someone to protect me from my bodyguards, they keep ‘accidentally’ trying to behead me.

-Dearly beloved, we are gathered here, as usual, for Empress Elizabeth’s monthly wedding ceremony. If you’re here to place bets on how long this one will last, please see attendant Golda.

Ah, everything’s coming up BackupKingdom2! 

Ok, showtime. Chester 5.0, no pressure but if you fuck this up you’ll be joining Chesters 1 to 4, you have your super special hammer that was also a nightmare to craft so no excuses.

YAS. YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS. FINALLY

-Wow, I can’t believe a humble blacksmith such as myself gets to wield this legendary weapon :)

LOL awww Chester 5.0, that’s adorable, it is OFC going to Edward to a) thank him for carrying this shithole kingdom on his back b) complete his look since he already owns the Doomplate. 

-Oh God, the power, the incredible power..

You deserve it, Ed! Let’s take this badboi for a duel test drive, we just need a worthy opponent..

..and I can think of no one better than Olivia’s wife Nyrexis, the literal human form of a dragon! This is gonna be the most aesthetic duel ever.

OH FUCK YES, this ensemble is so cool it was full on worth all the trouble. 

And Nyrexis’ dragon sword also gives off a purple smoke aura like the Doomsword, LOVE IT. GAME OF THRONES WHO

But apparently no magic sword can surpass the simplicity and effectiveness of a good ol kick in the balls. Girlboss move, you go Nyrexis!

Completing this seemingly impossible achievement has left me with such a sense of optimism about our future, now we can focus on improving our stats and I truly feel everything is gonna be ok-

-HAHAHAHAHAHAHA JK. Join us next time for the thrilling conclusion to the BackupKingdom2 saga!

#tsm

[beatricebidelaire]

i’ve said in vfdiscord earlier about how the conclusions in Sub-file B in file under: 13 suspicious incidents that don’t have matching counter parts from Sub-file One might possibly be Jacques’ or Kit’s mission / cases / incidents encountered misfiled because of someone maybe someone confused those with Lemony’s cases because of the same last name.

so after getting home today i reread some and i have. some more thoughts. like the misfilings could be of various reasons and not just last name Snicket, though some of them still might be.

take for example:

museum authorities??? well we all knew one person who was hanging around museum during the atwq times. there’s nothing saying it’s the same museum as the one kit was plotting to steal from (implying it’s in The City), but there’s also nothing directly saying that the mine voices was from the same mine Marguerite worked at (implying it’s at SBTS)

anyway more under cut because this got long

The Dagwood person mentioned in Deep Mine was mentioned again in Small Courtyard, which also mentioned the name Violetta, which was mentioned in Quiet Street. However, one of the mentions sounded like a more genuine, actual name, while the other said “Violetta Frogg-Drifter” was a fake name used only for paperwork. (Note - we know Blotted Boulevard (another BB!!!!) was in SBTS, or more precisely in an empty neighborhood within SBTS according to Pip and Squeak in WCTBATH, so if the Violetta in Small Courtyard was the same one as the Violetta in Quiet Street, then it felt comparatively more likely the three incidents all took place in SBTS.) I don’t feel the Violetta in the two incidents were the same person, but on the other hand maybe they’re all fake names, both Violetta and Dagwood and maybe there’s no geologist aka former travel agent father that was just a backstory invented for the fake name.

like. just because the two mentions of Dagwood didn’t include obviously fake last names that didn’t necessarily meant those were the same Dagwood.

Moving on.

The mentions of Dr Sobols might be the reason why this one was misfiled. When filing, the incident got grouped together Oliver Sobol’s incident. 

However, there are ... still a couple of intrigues here tbh. First of all, root beer????? 

Secondly, was “Bertram” really someone named Bertram or was that a misspelt version of Bertrand’s name, or someone who knew Bertrand (or even himself) using this as a fake name in a disguise?

The thing was, Oliver’s parents were mentioned, and somehow the way that sentence mentioned name they appeared to be still around the place when the incident took place. Oliver said in Pinched Creature that his parents left the town already and he would stay a few more months running the business until they come and fetch him. If Dr Sobols were around, then this took place earlier than Oliver’s newt case. Possibly before Lemony arrived in SBTS.

Now obviously I liked the headcanon of Theodora and her previous perfect apprentice worked in SBTS too (because then I could imagine Bertrand meeting Qwerty.) (Also like, Bertrand and Qwerty both were linked with the quote “They say in every library there is a single book that can answer the question that burns like a fire in the mind.”)

On the other hand, if they had indeed worked in SBTS too, that does beg the question why did Moxie Mallahan, Stain’d by the Sea’s only reporter, not recognize Theodora. 

(Possibility 1: Theodora was in disguise back then. Or she’s in disguise during the time when Lemony was at SBTS. Possibility 2: They didn’t stay long enough - they mostly were at another town but perhaps only dropped by the outskirts once or twice and perhaps Moxie had heard of them but never actually met them and did not therefore recognize Theodora when she showed up at the Lighthouse at WCTBATH. Possibility 3: Moxie only pretended to not recognize her - although admittedly this doesn’t feel very Moxie. But. Who knows?)

If “Bertram” was indeed Bertrand then .... root beer huh? Interesting ....

we see “underground structures” and “passageway” and “basement” and “mine” mentioned. The first three felt ... very The City. And then we’re kind of back to Who Was Stealing From A Museum In The City At This Hour. The last one, “mine”, was curiously also an important factor from Deep Mine, where Dagwood and museum authorities were mentioned.

Was this also, somehow related to Kit?

Was this one misfiled because of “Flammarion”? Who was Mrs. Flammarion and how was she related to Dr. Flammarion? What wig was she wearing?

“Land once the ocean floor” seemed a fitting description of SBTS. By the way, who was serving the meat of lizards and amphibians ... Oliver mentioned his father started a new job at Amphibians-A-Go-Go, an aquatic animal center and amusement park outside the city. Did the restaurants at this amusement park serve lizards and amphibians meat?

six slices of honeydew melon arranged into two initials ...... [eyes emoji]

speaking of initials,  The Salty Mess => TSM S. Theodora Markson => STM

??? coincidence?

what was once water echoed back again to the drained sea, but it’s not very conclusive tbh

this one was probably misfiled because of the blueberries mentioned in Three Suspects.

while this might be Theodora and Qwerty having this conversation ........ technically their initials could also be recorded as S and D so. it might totally not be them. plus. like. hat? Qwerty had way too cool a hairstyle to wear hats.

was the message this person was looking for the recorded message from Message Recorded?

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

as i reached the end of this i realized we’ve seen some vague stuff that might point to kit or bertrand but while my theory in the beginning was some of these might have to do with jacques, there were no hint at all pointing in that direction (obviously this doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved at all, because technically all these could still be about almost anything and we barely knew what jacques was up to during the atwq times. ghede when she was lecturing lemony in WITNDFAON mentioned a lot of stuff about what others were doing, but not jacques.

on the other hand perhaps the misfiled conclusions in file under: 13 suspicions incidents was just, keeping up with the long standing atwq1-4 books tradition of repeated mentions of kit and bertrand and barely any of jacques at all. consistency.

#misfiled under: 13 suspicious incidents #file under: 13 suspicious incidents #vera.txt #atwq #lemony snicket #theodora markson #dashiell qwerty #kit snicket #bertrand baudelaire #dagwood #violetta frogg-drifter

[empty-masks]

Book Five, Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait, what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two End.

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

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[empty-masks]

Book Five, Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We have a plan?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course, Ms. Brie.”

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

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

“Not particularly.”

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

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

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

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

“That leaves you two.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, the fun part starts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nancy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I’m your superior!”

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

“And what if I don’t?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Azariah, listen to me.”

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

“We need to keep running.”

“Lemme catch my breath first.”

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

Chapter 1 End.

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

[ Table of Contents ]

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

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[empty-masks]

Book Five, Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s up?”

“I’m not on leave. I quit, actually.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why? It’s just some fucking suburb—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Four End.

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[ Table of Contents ]

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

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

[empty-masks]

Book Four, Chapter Eight

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

What a bust. Not only was it a complete waste to extend an olive branch to someone in another division, she ends up quitting in her face, too. This has now become an issue of insubordination, of disrespect— so, she adds Brie’s name to the list. It’s not a literal list, of course, she’s not a compulsive note taker like that idiot she just wanted to help, but the names are engraved on a big plaque somewhere in her mind, no, on multiple plaques on the sort of hanging mounts you put taxidermy animal heads on. Each one’s empty at the moment, and she’s just added another wall mount with the following name etched into its shiny, entirely mental and metaphorical nameplate: Brie.

On the bright side, she still has the crowbar. It wasn’t hard to slink back over and snatch it up once those idiots had gone inside and the feel of her insides nearly getting pulped through sheer force had subsided. That uppity pencil pusher had it coming for abandoning ship, though. So what if she’d been rejected (again)? So what if that stupid, insignificant number cruncher practically spat in her face? She can spit back. She’s going to spit on every single one of them, and her spit is gonna feel much, much worse than theirs ever could. She’s going to score each and every single one of them like crispy skin on a holiday roast, just to drip her venom into their cuts, no matter how shallow.

Standing in front of Thistle’s house, she’s breathing heavy, she’s undoing and redoing her ponytail over and over, each time missing some hay-colored lock that refuses to obey her. After three times attempting to get it all in order she brushes her shoulders off and, finally, glances toward a new car in the driveway. It’s not Thistle’s well cared for beater, that’s where it’s been parked since she left. After all, when she and the others headed out initially the old man was in no condition to be going out and about. Alive, sure, but not in any state to be driving.

This car’s fresh off the lot, just expensive enough to show some displeasure with the lower end vehicles available but not opulent enough to draw attention— and there are no identifying brand markers, not even the manufacturer is visible. Whoever parked here isn’t interested in being looked at for longer than the second necessary for the average civilian brain to log and discard the thing in its totality.

She’s been dreading this. She knows it’s not local, it’s not beaten up or seen enough dirt roads to be local. This thing’s from the city, and if they’re here it can only mean one thing— the cavalry has arrived, because this is yet another issue she needs on her plate. Blondie didn’t need any damned peons, but poor little Piper, she obviously needs a squad of goons to help her get the job done. She didn’t, she doesn’t, but it’s just too late now isn’t it?

Hieronymus T. Thistle is barely conscious, heavily bandaged, and sitting at his own dining room table with four frightening-looking folks that didn’t even so much as tell him their names. Two of them have long guns, one a rifle and the other some kind of fancy, big city shotgun, and another has some absurd looking handcannon of a revolver hanging off her hip. The last fellow doesn’t appear to be carrying anything except for a month old issue of a cooking magazine.

Thistle’s eyes are glazed over. The idiot reading the magazine, “Jack” he thinks he heard at some point, overdid it with the pain meds. Not enough to kill, Thistle knows he’s not dying from this, but he’s gone straight from nearly passing out due to pain into nearly passing out because he’s high as a kite. High enough but still hurt enough that he won’t be having the food that was put out anytime soon.

“Mr. Thistle’s not looking too good,” Jack mumbles, having pulled down his mask. “Should we get him to an actual doctor?”

Between a small spoonful of food and a few comforting, albeit unsettling, spins of her revolver the gunslinger says, “Doesn’t really matter. We aren’t going to be here for long, after all.”

“Get with it. We ain’t here for pro bono work, boy.” To punctuate his sentence, and to get the point across, the Sniper leans his chair back and puts his dirty boots on the table. “Should’ve just killed him.”

The Shotgunner clears her throat before putting a fist against the table. “Flagrant inelegance and unprofessional! First and foremost— get your feet off the table! Nextly, how would we dispose of the body? He’s not only a local, but a coworker, in technicality.”

“Could probably mulch him.” Another spin of the revolver’s cylinder ends her statement. “He’s an organic.”

“Plant man becomes plant food.” The Sniper tilts his head, glancing toward the near catatonic Thistle over the twin mountains in his vision that are the tips of his boots. “Heh, I like the poetry of that. Kill him and gimme an hour. I can get rid of it.”

“Again I must ask how you actually plan to discard it!” The woman with the shotgun’s standing now. “That’s an order!”

Jack sets down his magazine, sighing. “Ms. Nancy, you’re not our boss, and there’s no pecking order until—”

“Until I show up,” hisses Piper, who has been standing in the doorway for the past three sentences. “What is this, a fucking sewing circle? Shape up if you’re going to be dragging me down.”

The four get out of their seats and stand across the table from her. She can gather a great amount from just the way they’re standing, the way they’re looking at her, the way they’re pointedly not looking at each other or at Thistle, whom she is surprised to see is out of bed.

In order stands the woman with her revolver, the Sniper, the one with the shotgun, and then their fourth, who appears to not actually have any real weapon on him. Jack’s the tallest, though largely because he’s one of the only two standing straight. The other’s Nancy, the woman with the shotgun, who’s shorter than him but makes up for it with her presence via some kind of salute and a hearty, abrasive, “YES, MA’AM.”

The shortest is the Sniper, since he’s old and stands all hunched. She can tell that if he stands straight he’d be on par with, if not looming over even Jack. Next shortest is the last of them, the one with the revolver, who if all were standing as straight as can be, would actually be somewhat taller than Nancy. She’s shorter due to her posture involving her lean back and her knees bend slightly, as though near perpetually pressed back by wind. It’s a relaxed, but disrespectful posture, the sort with her head tilted to the side as she eyes you up from down an alleyway.

Piper paces from one side of the room to the other, looking them all up and down before allowing the words “Helmets off,” to scrape out between her fangs. “Names, now. And you know what? Previous work experience.”

Smoothly, each one removes their respective helmets and masks, treating Piper to a small menagerie of oddities.

Beneath the Sniper’s helmet is a face of glass, fractured in places and restructured in others, lacking a nose and much of one cheek. What hasn’t been destroyed looks scraped and sanded with age, as one might expect the look of a scuffed lens left in the sand except everywhere on him, save for his eyes. His eyes are clear enough that were someone to stare deep enough with a good light they might be able to see right inside of his head. His old and shattered face contorts into a smile as he says, “Kranner. Several time marksmanship champion down south. I used to do hits, now I do this.”

Piper turns her nose up at him, letting her eyes drift to Nancy, who pulls off her helmet to reveal sharp, gray features and short cropped black hair. Her ears are pointed, though a bit bent, and her nose resembles that of a vampire bat. Her fangs are snaggly as she bares them in a smile, and with her usual gusto belts out, “Lieutenant Nancy, ma’am!”

Piper rubs her own jaw, considers her for a second, and rolls her shoulders. “A glass man and another fucking Vampire. Am I going to need to keep you two busy?”

Kranner clears his throat, then rasps out, “I ain’t fragile. And she ain’t a bloodsucker.”

“I prefer raw meat, ma’am!” Again Nancy raises her voice, causing Piper to hiss.

“Alright, alright, just quiet down!” Her gaze drifts, then, to the revolver nearby— then up to its owner’s face.

White silver strands of straight hair hang to a perfectly even cut bob, whose lower edge is just against the lobes of her pointed ears. Her eyes are wide, and the cool gray, like morning ice, threatens to draw Piper out of her anger. Still, it takes more than a pretty pair of elfin eyes to quash this rage. Besides, Piper’s spoken for. An uncomfortably gentle smile and a soft voice draw her to reality.

“My name’s Sundae.” In time with the soft and sweet final syllable, her revolver’s cylinder clicks into place. “Shepherd hired me on after I got out of prison.”

“And what did you do?”

“To get into prison or to get hired?”

Piper scoffs. “Do I look like I care?”

Sundae’s smile spreads a bit. “Sorry, non-disclosure agreement.”

“The crime or your work history?”

“Yeah,” she says noncommittally, brushing silver locks back behind one ear. “Anyway, my name is Sundae. How do you feel about civilian casualties?”

Piper’s eyes roll. “Just don’t tell anyone who you work for and don’t overdo it. And who’re you?” Finally, her eyes settle on Jack.

His face is simple and metallic. His jaw is dented somewhat, which adds some character to his tin-man charm. “Jack, Ms. Piper,” he says, hands folded behind his back. He smiles afterward, which, with the dented, slightly skewed jaw, gives him the appearance of a child’s well loved posable action figure. “I once handled a contract dispute with some Gretchin closer to the mountains.”

She looks him up and down, then purses her lips for a moment. “You got a gun? You don’t seem to have one.”

“Didn’t need one then, don’t need one now.”

“Alright.” Piper looks them each over one more time, then lists off each name. “Kranner, Nancy, Sundae, and Jack. Alright. You four better tell me some good news.”

Nancy forces herself straighter than before. “We are here and fully prepared to handle the operation at your leisure! Tell us your plan and we’ll execute with extreme prejudice!”

“Also that guy Gilroy’s got an in-house bounty set up for that other guy, Blondie. So, if we nab him while we’re out you’ll get a really, really big bonus,” soothes Sundae.

Piper smiles. “Good. Okay, that’s all good. I don’t need to prep any of you and that just means more money for us. Great.”

“Hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Kranner interjects with a slightly raised hand, “but while we’ve got means to handle him, we still need to find him.”

For a moment, it’s as though the slowly rising good mood’s been crushed. Jack, Sundae, and Nancy all turn their faces toward Kranner, who doesn’t look any worried over the matter. Piper, of course, is the worst, with narrowed eyes and bared fangs and her forked tongue poking out to extend her softer syllables into small hisses as she says, “What do you MEAN we still have to find him? You idiots have no INTEL?”

“Well, ma’am,” begins Jack, awkwardly and anxiously patting his hands together as his softly glowing eyes scan the room, refusing to make contact with his superior’s, “thing is, we know he definitely headed up this way after an encounter with Mr. Gilroy, but we lost track of him a bit west of Fusillade. He— uh— went off-road. I know that’s not what you want to hear right now, but we know he’s definitely coming here. Definitely.”

“And why wouldn’t he just fuck off into the Dividends instead?” Piper’s pacing, her tail’s lashing itself about, she’s starting to get taller. All four step back from the table as the fangs press out from between Piper’s lips and the thrashing appendage behind her swipes a table leg, snapping it and sending the entire affair, with all their food, to the hardwood floor— alongside the still largely unresponsive Thistle, whose only sound is a groan.

Nancy clears her throat. “He was very adamant during his conversation with Mr. Gilroy that he has plans to return to work! I was there in the room while they spoke, ma’am.”

“Stands to reason that he’s plannin’ to hit when least expected,” Kranner says. “He could run, but he’d have nothin’ anywhere else. If what snaggleteeth over there heard is right, we don’t really need to find him. He’ll find us.”

Piper’s claws have busted through her gloves and she’s rubbing her face, feeling it grow harder, scalier. It itches, it itches so much. She wonders often if those who grow fur feel better than anybody whose body’s texture changes with this. Those damn dogs don’t know how good they have it. “You not only LOST a big, flaming corpse,” she spits, entire body contorting as she struggles to keep the transformation down, “but he’s somewhere nearby, getting ready to attack? How is this good news? You’re idiots! You’re all morons!”

Jack clears his throat. “He’s after the miners, right? We can probably handle them all at once if we just let him make the first move.”

Piper stops, turning her gaze on him. “And let him tire himself out dealing with them?”

“As I see it,” Sundae pokes in, “seems like a good way to handle it. Great idea, boss.”

“Yeah, yeah it is.” Piper smooths a claw through her hair, looking down. “Glad I thought of it. Whatever, Kranner and Sundae go get some more gear. Do either one of you know how to outfit a civilian vehicle for a fight?”

Sundae speaks again saying, “No, but I know how to convince someone to.” Piper nods. “Good, get something high caliber on the car y’all rode in on. Don’t touch mine.”

“We’ll get ours and his set up,” Kranner rasps, gesturing toward Thistle on the ground. “He’s one foot in the grave, anyways. Won’t miss it.”

Piper laughs and crouches beside Thistle, looking him over, poking the side of his face with a claw deep enough to draw blood from beneath his thin, but tough hide. “Oh, Mr. Thistle, can we borrow your car? It’ll only get a lil’ dinged up, promise.”

The rest of them laugh too, until the old man on the floor turns his head. It’s a struggle; the command has to go through layers and layers of sediment, like trying to shove his hand through cotton, but eventually he does manage to cast his eyes up at Piper and work his mouth to say a simple, indignant, “No.”

Silence falls, and it looms heavy above them all until shortly, curtly, Piper tells him, “Wrong answer.”

She grabs Thistle by the leg with one large, clawed hand and tosses him into a cabinet nearby, where the finer plates and dining ware had been kept alongside various little knick knacks. The pain takes a second longer than it should for it to register in his body, but when it does he lets loose a croaking, scraping groan.

The only reason the cabinet falling on him doesn’t end it all there is because Piper smacks it out of her way with her tail before she’s on him again, driving the steel toe boot on her left foot hard into his already heavily bruised and somewhat shattered ribs. The sting and burn of fracturing bones and tearing flesh is muffled under the heavy medication, but it’s real, so viscerally real.

He can’t move. What the screwed dosage hasn’t rendered useless to him is occupied by pain and he’s staring to the side. Boots. Black, steel toe boots, all of them are wearing some. On his floor there are shattered plates and wood chips from the cabinet. Stupid little knick knacks and baubles are there too. A small figurine of a cow stares at him from its faux pasture, a little lump of green atop which the black and white ceramic bovine settles.

He can remember where he got each and every one of those insipid odds and ends, but as stupid as they are he can’t help but feel an extra jab in his gut. Surrounded by gifts and small, pointless treasures given to him by people he says he hates, Hieronymus T. Thistle is soaked not only with his own blood, but his tears as well.

After kicking his ribs until they cave, Piper grabs the cabinet again, shrieks, and crushes him with it.

“Stupid old bastard,” she sighs out, rubbing her face, claws receding and skin smoothing over again. She spits out a heavy glob of venom into the blood pooling on the floor, where it sizzles disgustingly. “Got what was coming to him.”

The four are still standing on the other side of the room, each one awkwardly shuffling from foot to foot. Piper’s head tilts. “What are you still doing here? Go gear up the cars. Nancy, weapon maintenance. Jack… Honestly I don’t know what you can do. Stand watch, I guess. Patrol, do something.”

They all mask up again and get their helmets back on, then head out.

Piper glances around, and something catches her eye, something glinting just a touch. A small ceramic cow on a pitifully small green lump made out to be a pasture. She picks it up, turns it around, and rubs off the blood with her coat sleeve. On the bottom of the green blob is something engraved, shallowly, as though with a pencil prior to the baking process: “To Mr. Thistle,” in the handwriting of someone young. “From Billy,” it reads after that.

She pockets it. “I can sand that off. Janet’s gonna love you.”

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

    “So,” Olive says, breaking the silence in the living room. Jules and Lucille sit across Samson’s living room from her and Leon, and though it’s clear that Leon doesn’t have much to say to them, seeing as how they had attacked the both of them earlier last month, she feels it necessary to break the ice, especially since they’re being let inside and not being told to scram. “Fancy seein’ y’all here again.”

Lucille chuckles, not a trace of amusement in her voice. “Yeah.”

“So. What’s up…?”

“Waiting for your doctor to patch up that girl so I can get my arm and nose checked.”

Olive frowns. “Y’think it’s broken? Your nose, I mean.”

“I know it’s broken,” she replies, cradling her face. “We’re lucky it's not bleeding all over this nice couch.”

“Ah.” The Owl turns to Jules instead, who has slumped into quite the comfortable position in a recliner. He’s more focused in listening in to the conversations happening in the adjacent rooms, especially the one where Brie’s being operated on. “How ‘bout you, Jules?”

“Oh, you know.” He smiles as he faces her, motioning toward his casted-up body. “Peachy keen. I’ll be in decent shape in a couple days, though.”

“How’d all that happen?”

“That guy who’s been following you, Blondie,” Lucille interjects. “Since he couldn’t find you in Fusillade, he went on a rampage. Nearly got the better of us.”

“Shit,” she suddenly grumbles. She darts from the room, holding her good arm under her nose like a leaky ceiling.

The Vampire laughs a little. “By your faces, I’m guessing you didn’t know the bastard was alive.”

And their faces do tell it all. Leon and Olive look at one another with utter disbelief— the former looking as though he doesn’t actually believe the claim, and the latter looking as though she doesn’t want to believe it, but she can’t help her brain accepting it as true right out the gate.

“You know that fried-looking person who walked in with your doctor and the detective?” Jules probes, holding out his free hand. “They’re one of those Notus. Notuses? Notii? Ah, whatever. One of those folks that comes back to life after being killed with fire. Your boy Blondie? He’s one of them too, now.”

“That’s a load of shit,” Leon says.

“Hey, ask anyone else who just got here.”

“There’s no way. We heard an explosion. We saw. An explosion. How the hell could there have been anything left of that guy to reanimate?”

Jules shrugs.

“He got into a fistfight with a fucking Wyrm.”

“Hah!” he laughs, quickly clutching his side in pain. “Don’t make me laugh like that. God, that’s good, though. Did he really?”

“I didn’t catch most of it, but I think a couple of ours did. He wrestled the Fusillade Wyrm. Got it in a headlock and everything.”

“And it exploded.”

Leon laughs back. “You should’ve seen it. Full mushroom cloud, hundreds of feet into the sky. I thought the world was ending.”

“That was scary as hell! I dunno why you’re laughin’, you certainly weren’t laughin’ at the time,” Olive adds.

“It’s funny in retrospect, Olive,” he says. “We were all trying to ignore it at the time. Couldn’t waste any breath gawking.”

Jules scratches his head. “I think I was still on the road with Lucille by that point. I know we heard a boom, but I don’t remember thinking much of it. Speaking of Lucille.” He leans over in his recliner, and yells down the corridor to where the Maw is only just now getting a grip on her nosebleed. “Lucille! Do you need any help?!”

“Don’t try to walk alone!” she yells back. “I told you to stay put!”

“You want me to get the doctor or something?!”

“Are you listening to what I’m saying?”

Jules turns back to Olive and Leon, grinning like a court jester. “Thank goodness. I didn’t want to walk anywhere anyways.”

“I heard that, jackass!”

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

    Judith, Cherry, and Meat find themselves outside on the back patio, after having been moved out of the makeshift operating room due to space reasons.

“Wait, if you know all there is to know about fire magic now,” Cherry asks, who is having the time of his life grilling Meat for their entire life story— or at least, everything they can remember about themselves up until this point. “Does that mean you could teach it?”

Judith holds up her hands in dissent. “Do NOT teach him any spells. Please. That would be a mistake.”

“Why?” Meat asks.

“Because he’s prone to screwing shit up. And giving someone like that the ability to burn down a house isn’t a good idea.”

Meat turns to Cherry as Judith scowls over at him. “She talk about you like this all the time?” He nods, reluctantly. “That’s kinda shitty, lady.”

“Well, it’s the truth. You think I find it fun?”

“You’re fine putting him down in front of a stranger,” Meat says. “That says a lot.”

“Says what, exactly?” “You’re bitter. I don’t know about what, but you’re bitter.” Judith scoffs. “I’ll admit that. I am a little bitter.”

“What happened, then?” Meat motions to the two of them. “What’s the problem?”

Neither Judith nor Cherry say a word for a moment. But, after being motioned to by the Werewolf, Cherry pipes up. “I caused an accident and made her lose her hand.”

Meat’s skull tilts just slightly. “How does that happen?”

“Mining machinery.”

“He made a water cutter go haywire. He lost control of it, and it took my hand right off. We couldn’t even put it back on if we wanted,” Judith adds. “That’s how bad it was.”

Meat doesn’t respond, instead looking the Werewolf in the eyes for a solid couple seconds. They give her ample time to realize that the kind of person she’s matching gazes with really isn’t the kind she’d like to challenge. Sure, she’s stressed out and sure, she’s got some very understandable beef with Cherry, but in looking into those burning sockets, she sees someone who really, really shouldn’t be messed with. Someone to whom first impressions are everything, someone whose sense of right and wrong is stronger than their capabilities in magic will ever be. Even though all they’ve got is a skull, she can see the experience written into their expression. And, if she’s honest, it’s a little sobering. It doesn’t stop her from narrowing her eyes at them, readying herself. It’s part frustrated and ventless anger, part cornered animal.

Meat sighs. Initially it seemed like a problem to be solved— that idea’s been corrected. “That’s something you two have to work out, then.”

“Agreed,” Cherry sighs, leaning forward on the picnic bench. “But…” he starts again. “About the magic thing.”

“No,” Meat replies, crossing their arms.

“Aw.”

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-cherry #b&tsm-judith #b&tsm-leon #b&tsm-olive #b&tsm-piper #b&tsm-meat #b&tsm-jules #b&tsm-lucille

[empty-masks]

Book Four, Chapter Ten

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

It’s cold on the roof. The breeze has picked up significantly, but Judith hardly minds, as her head has been placed firmly in a meat grinder on the finest setting.

It makes sense, but it doesn’t make sense at all. Leon’s not a coward. He’s never been a coward. There’s plenty of times that Judith can recall where he’s actively been the aggressor in fights. But he just admitted to something that made him look like the most cowardly person on the planet. By saying nothing, he let Cherry take the fall for something he didn’t do, he let the blame of her having to re-learn how to write, how to eat, how to wipe her own ass, go to that idiot instead.

And she was instantaneously on-board with it. She was so quick to jump down Cherry’s throat, in retrospect, you’d think she’d lost the keys to her house in his trachea. Day in, day out, she’d find herself getting angry at him. Every time she sat down to do something with a hand that wasn’t there, she was reminded of the person she thought had taken her hand from her. And she was ruthless. To a point where even Leon would defend him. And it was all completely misguided. She had verbally shit on Cherry for the past couple months all because of the truth that the person she now feels deeply for had never told her.

But, she can’t muster the anger. Towards either of them, really. Sure, there’s a tiny flame in the back of her throat that’s telling her to scream into the night sky. But, it feels like something’s been uncorked recently. There’s been a release of some kind that’s made her less quick to go berserk.

Maybe it’s him. Though, kickboxing with a true admittance of love for someone isn’t to be taken lightly. A lot of her thoughts have been about him, especially since they got to Pickman’s Hope. With all the downtime, it’s felt nice to be around him. Not just good, or neutral, as though they were the traveling partners from before. It’s been a genuinely good time to just hang around and talk about things. Even if he has been treading into introspective territory recently.

That’s probably why this is happening, isn’t it. Why he decided to come out and say it to her face, right now. It’s because he’s been contemplating things again. Reflecting on things. Which, she must admit, is something she hasn’t been doing much unless it was necessary. Or, unless it was relevant to the grudge she nursed against Cherry. In the latter case, she would make multiple mental notes whenever Cherry had fucked something up, and she would keep them in colour-coded case files against him whenever he had an argument. It would almost be impressive, if it weren’t making her feel so weird.

Is this the person she’s ended up being? A ball-busting blood-feuder? Something that feeds off the misery of someone who’s wronged her (or at least, that she’s perceived as wronged her)? The werewolf overseer with anger issues.

It’s just as that recruiter back at Shepherd Gemstone had profiled her. She didn’t realize it at the time, but he was entirely right to have put her in that specific place with that specific job. He saw what was inside of her, how the position would twist her into exactly what she needed to be. And it worked. She became that person for a long time, and only recently has she had to seriously reckon with that fact.

In a moment of clarity, she vomits up her dinner all over Samson’s front porch canopy and the front of her shirt and some of her hair and she has to struggle to not fall over on her hands into it.

But she won’t be that person anymore. She can’t be. It tastes wrong now.

What Leon did— she’d do the same, especially with how things escalated. Anybody would. It makes sense why he’s admitting to it. There’s something between them now, something that wants to be built.

Judith wipes off her mouth with her sleeve. She needs to level out; she needs a game plan. Something going forward. An agenda. A schedule. She understands that. She can do that.

She’s going to forgive him and place the next brick. That’s the smart thing to do. The right thing. And she’s also going to say sorry to Cherry, since that little— guy, didn’t do anything wrong. Hell, she might as well clean out the whole storage unit of dog-eared memories she has on him. Hope for forgiveness and move on weight-free. The plan is simple, and though it takes her a moment to get her legs stable again, she turns around to peek over the back porch.

Both Cherry and Leon have clearly been staring up there since she cleared her stomach, with varying degrees of genuine concern on their faces. She comes down in the span of a blink and stands before the two of them, just looking.

“Leon,” she starts, slowly turning her head toward him. “Can you come here?”

Visibly confused, he stands up from his seat. “Did you just puke?”

“Yeah, come here.”

“Jesus Judith, we need to get you a clean change of—” but before he can finish his sentence, he’s dragged toward Judith by the shirt, receiving easily one of the sloppiest, foulest kisses one can receive from a romantic interest ever recorded.

“I love you. And I forgive you,” she says after pulling away from him. Ignoring as he instinctively runs to the bathroom to scrub his tongue dry, she turns to Cherry. “And you.”

He holds his arms up in a cross. “Oh, no. I don’t know you like that, Judith. And you’ve just—”

“No, Cherry. I’m just sorry with you.”

“Sorry?”

“Yeah. I think I’d have to say it a thousand times with all the shit I’ve put you through, but I’m starting today. I’m sorry.”

He takes a moment to process this. A long moment, the kind that you’d expect would come along with a dial-up noise or a bad, distorted track of on-hold jazz. And at the end of that moment, he stands up from his seat as well, only to hesitate once again.

“You know, I’d hug you right now if I thought it wouldn’t ruin my clothes,” Cherry says. Instead, he extends a hand. “So I’ll settle for this.”

Without thinking, Judith shakes it. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to keep saying it. It’s okay.”

“Deal.”

Leon comes back into the room, pointing at Judith. “You need a shower. Or a bath. Or a hose down. You look terrible, god, I’m gonna have to hose off Sam’s roof aren’t I?”

“Shut up or I’ll kiss you again.”

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

The next five days are uncomfortably calm; each one passes without event, so improbably serene that only Cherry doesn’t notice, and that’s wholly because this sort of pleasant nothing is strikingly familiar. This is what those in Honeysett, as well as those around him now, in Pickman’s Hope, call normalcy.

Five days pass in which the lot of them aren’t attacked, they aren’t given any strange new revelations, and they aren’t forced to endure any new interpersonal reckonings. An actual, factual breather. A moment of respite among the strange and intense events that had been imposing themselves upon their lives, and a span of time allowing for so many to do the normal things normal people do.

In that time, dates occur. Normal dates, the ones where one takes their lover to eat, drink, and dance, where they watch a musical performance— admittedly a local and, while entirely pleasant, not entirely memorable set of people with instruments and a dream— or perhaps even a play, if they’re that set on having some nothing happen around them as their world shrinks and twists to be occupied only by those they bring and themselves. Such is the case for Leon and Judith, who take three of the five days to go on various dates to different venues starring performances they aren’t going to remember, all paid for from a small offshoot of the emergency funds Judith had so long ago partitioned out from their main funding. She currently calls this their “entertainment” budget, and it’s almost exclusively spent on the two’s drinks and various other small affections.

A markedly smaller amount of time is spent complaining between the two of them than is typical of their time together, but one can chalk that up to the grace period after the beginning of a relationship where everything is right with the world and the two are so flagrantly attempting to make up for some strange semblance of lost time— filled with the assumed ungodly saccharine and unironic platitudes one can drum up in the average hormonal teen diary— that people leave them alone due to a mysterious force that bats any would-be facade shatterers far, far away. Again, such is the case with Leon and Judith as, for once, the rest of the group give them their time and space. When they’re not out and about, they’re inside, curled up together, making snarky but not entirely malicious remarks about the world or exchanging fluff— or sucking face, from time to time.

It would be endearing if it weren’t almost always on the couch beside the recliner Jules has been more or less trapped in for the week, and while Lucille’s happy to provide her best friend company she’s not interested in watching an Orc and a Werewolf eat each other’s heads. So, the first day he’s stuck, alone, enduring the fact that the space he’s occupying is the only area inside the house where the two lovebirds aren’t going to be bothered by anyone else and aren’t bothering anyone, with Jules and Lucille being ruled out of the category of “people we actually mind bothering” due to their incredibly off-base calculations. Essentially, Leon’s rubbing their noses in it, and nobody’s about to try and stop him.

However, by day two Jules is at least able to hobble with Lucille somewhere else, leaving that room entirely to Judith and Leon whenever they’re at Samson’s.

Without much else to do, Jules and Lucille simply bum around the house and seek out brief, awkward conversation; aside from Brie, Meat, Samson, and Olive, few are all that receptive to the idea of a prolonged conversation with the two and generally avoid them, especially when, around the third day, they begin worrying when not only Blondie would strike, but when Piper would make another move.

The opinions are split; Brie has every intention to prepare and set up strategies for the inevitable attack, which has actually been on her mind since the moment she woke up all bandaged after her one-sided altercation with Piper. She spends the five days poring over maps of the town, even the blueprints of Samson’s house, and even takes professional advice from the two. After all, they were in the same boat as her.

Meat’s not particularly interested in long, drawn out conversations with people who’ve tried to kill them for a second time, but there’s at least some bonding over the events in Fusillade, and between them and Jules there are a good few jokes on the matter of the Carnevale. They know how to handle a fight and, despite suggestions to the contrary, find no reason to take advice from Jules or Lucille, and only offer advice when prodded by Brie to explain the fire magic, not under the assumption she’d try to use any but as fuel for her developing strategy to fight Blondie.

But, nevertheless, the conversation usually goes something like this—

“Is he here yet?” Meat asks, adjusting the straps on their ramshackle, brick-based shoewear. Constructed, of course, to make sure that they don’t singe any more holes into Samson’s nice hardwood floorboards.

“Is anything on fire yet?” Lucille replies.

“I am.”

“I mean the town. Last time he was around, he burnt down half of Fusillade.”

Jules interjects, “And, people around us started dying. Dunno about anyone else in town. Best bet would be to wait for the fire sirens to start going off.”

“Uh huh. Brie,” Meat turns to the recovering Detective, “when do you think he’ll get here?”

“In theory, he could be here already,” Brie says. “Simply waiting for us to drop our guard, so that he could make a move. But, that theory is a bit flimsy, as Blondie doesn’t seem to be the kind of murderer who would wait for an opportunity. He seems more akin to an opportunity maker.”

“And speaking of making opportunities,” Lucille starts, holding up a hand, “when are you going to tell us what your deal is, Meat?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Their head tilts and their shoulders roll back.

“The more we know about you the more we can expect to understand about Blondie. Far as we know, you two have the same powers. Can you blow shit up?”

“Yeah.”

Lucille frowns. “Okay, how?”

“Magic. You wouldn’t get it.”

“That’s not helpful.”

Jules raises his hand as well. “Listen, we don’t need to know how. Is there anything you think he could pull out his sleeve to fuck us over?”

Meat thinks about this for a moment. “No. If I’m around, I can cancel anything he does.”

“And what if you’re not around?”

“Don’t get hit.”

Jules snorts. “God, I’m sure you were fun to run jobs with back in the gang.”

“I’m just telling it like it is.”

“You think that’s why Leslie had it out for you?”

“I can’t remember. But it might be.” Meat cracks a slight smile. “I’m done talking about this. Let me know if anything comes up, Brie.”

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

Samson has an actual life to live filled with awkward administration, walks through the neighborhood, and talks with his old pals, so Jules and Lucille get precious little time with the wolfhound, though in the brief moments they converse it’s plain to them both that he most certainly understood their position. Being a former adventurer and a freelancer himself, otherwise known as being a mercenary, he knows well enough the temptations of the open road and a good weapon, the joys and pains of riding after the wind and letting it feed him. It’s a little poetic and uncomfortably nostalgic for the two, but through this they manage to at least draw out some level of strategy, as at their suggestion he takes to getting the local volunteers in the fire department to be on high alert for the time being. If there are going to be fires, the town will be prepared.

It’s then that the two are left with Olive for company, and by proxy, due to Azariah’s preoccupation with Roxanne and Samson, Cherry too.

After everything, Cherry can’t help but be overly helpful as Olive prods them with professional questions. Cherry asks if they need anything to drink, Olive asks how the two go and select their gear, et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseam. It’s like babysitting, except neither Jules nor Lucille are getting paid for this in anything except some decently cooked meals that fail to satisfy. 

One day, while Cherry was working on the truck, Lucille decided to snoop around on a whim— nearly scaring the Techie into cracking his forehead on the underside of the dash.

“Shit, sorry,” she says, holding out an assisting hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he replies. Cherry wipes his forehead clean, sitting upright in the driver’s seat. “Uh, what’s up… Lou, uh.”

“Lucille. Just being nosy, that’s all.”

“Oh, alright. Thought you might’ve had some bad news, or something.”

Lucille frowns underneath her face wrappings. “Not right now. This is the junker you used to get out of Fusillade before us?”

“Sure is,” Cherry beams, “old girl had more spring in her step than I imagined. Whoever had her last took pretty dang good care of her.”

“Reminds me of some stuff I’d see back up north. Fewer sharp edges, though.”

“Up north? You mean—”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Holy shit,” he mumbles. “Wow, that’s crazy. I bet some of the machines you saw could tear up dirt like nothing else. Tundra-based mechanics are off the wall.”

Lucille finds herself raising a brow. “You know that the biofuel they invented was originally an execution tool?” When Cherry’s jaw hits the floor, she laughs, and continues, “Yeah. Back when New Bird was first getting formed, one of the nomad groups had come up with a recipe for fuel that’d burn hotter and faster than anything else you could scavenge normally. They’d use it to roast people in seconds. Now that they’ve been united, folks found out that it could still be used for racing.”

“Hell yeah it can. I’ve seen some guys’ machines hit nearly two-hundred while juiced on that stuff. God, that’s pretty messed up, though.”

She pats the Techie on the arm. “Everything up there has a bad history. Especially the people.”

“Did the races used to be to the death or something, too?! I mean, not to make you dig back up some bad memories or anything,” Cherry holds up his hands, “but considering that, like you said, there’s some bad stuff up there. And you mentioned pointy bits. I know you can put spikes on car rims and stuff to shred other tires. But I bet there’s plenty of ways to make a car more lethal than it is.”

“I never got into any of that crap,” she replies, leaning up against the chassis. “Yeah, the races used to be a form of competitive goodwill between gangs that could tolerate one another. It wasn’t much of a circuit, and people would always die in the process, but the spirit was there. If you wanna call it spirit. More like bloodlust and adrenaline.”

“And then, it turned to just the normal races once New Bird was founded, right? Well, they’re not normal races at all from what I’ve heard. Have you heard the stories too? About the machines they’d build for those races? And how far they’d go out? How many people’d show up to the events?” Cherry asks, eyes full of stars.

“Makes the spots out here look like go-kart rinks.”

“What I’d give to go out there and see one.”

“Hey, maybe you will someday. When the roads are safer, hopefully. That’s not a fun trip.” Lucille stops, scratches the top of her head, and then turns her gaze to the truck again. “Is this thing prepped to handle combat? If you’re driving over rough terrain, can someone reasonably stand inside and use a weapon without worrying about getting knocked off?”

Cherry’s lips purse as his mind drifts, and after gently running his hand against the vehicle he nods. “I think it’ll be fine unless we hit top speed, or other unrelated potential problems.”

“I’d appreciate some confirmation on possible problems. Anything in mind?”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. I know it better than my house at this point.”

“I’m sure it’s handy.”

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

Roxanne well and should be as anxious as Brie over the eventual, seemingly inevitable arrival of Blondie and Piper, but she finds herself meaningfully distracted by her jackrabbit. Azariah, ever the charmer, refuses to let her stew in her anxiety and, like a recently rejuvenated yet still much older version of Leon and Judith’s sophomoric dates, the two head out and about to enjoy themselves while they can and when they aren’t pestering Samson. Dancing’s awkward, but the two manage; Azariah can overcompensate for her loss of limb by simply sweeping her off of them, twirling her around with a sort of strength he hasn’t shown her since before that first fight with the big white wolf.

“The longer I keep goin’, the harder it gets to act like my best nights are behind me.”

“Hey, that’s a good sign.” Samson smiles, standing on the front lawn with the old Hare, and after his sentence ends the both of them go silent. With one eye shut and the other narrowed, the hound gently lobs a horseshoe into position. It spins almost lovingly around the iron peg that they jammed into the turf an hour ago. “Yer best nights are ahead of you. Means things are lookin’ up, pal.”

Azariah snorts, tossing a horseshoe and landing it just on top of Samson’s. “That so? I thought the best years were back closer to when we spawned.”

“Nah, don’t believe the nostalgia. Your knees might not bend as good and your hands might not grip as tight, but I’ll tell you what, I don’t mind it none. Look around and tell me what ya see.”

Running his eyes along the yard, across gardens and a beaten up but cared for street, across houses about as uniform as the folks who live in them, Azariah sighs. “I see a lot. My eyes aren’t goin’ yet, Sam.”

“Come on now, that ain’t the point. Look at them folks. This is peace and community, Azariah. I might miss knocking skulls with you, and I might miss slaying Monsters with my old pals who’ve all gone and wandered into their own lives, but I wouldn’t give this up for another night as some pup with a fencepost for a sword. I might’ve had more reliable fingers, but that can take a back seat to some pumpkin wine and sweet tea. ‘Sides, we weren’t very good men in our youth. No point in missing that.”

“You were better’n me, that’s for sure,” the Hare mumbles. “Don’t know how you and Roxanne stood me for so long.”

“Don’t know, then again, I don’t know a lotta things. You an’ Rox on right now?”

“Think so, maybe. I think we might be on for good now, all considered. After what happened, I don’t think I could bring myself to leave her again, barrin’ certain possibilities.”

Samson turns. His eyebrows, heavy as they are, still manage to raise themselves in some kind of concern. “God, you’re really gonna try it, aren’t ya?”

“I’ll win.”

“You don’t sound certain. Y’know, I bet y’all could run. Just take Roxanne and get out of here. I’ll keep the kids safe.”

“They ain’t my kids.”

“You act like they are. Both of you do. Roxanne’s come close to throttling me over me fat-fingering that crowbar the gal was stuck with. I’m sure you’d take a swing if I even came close to harming a hair on any of their heads.”

Azariah rolls his shoulders, and he smiles. “Keep throwin’ horseshoes, old timer.”

Another soft ring of metal on metal; the horseshoe comes to rest on top of the previous two. “You don’t have to fight. Took me a lifetime of it to realize you don’t have to.”

“I understand. I ain’t doin’ it to prove anythin’ to anybody. I don’t have anythin’ to prove anymore, just folks to protect. If they run, I run. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure they all get out alright.”

Samson laughs loud and hard, grinning as he pulls his belt loops a bit higher, adjusting his pants. “Well, be careful. Do anything reckless and you’re liable to break my heart. Who’ll I get to play mandolin with the boys during parties?”

“I’m not gettin’ the mandolin out ‘less you get the spoons.”

“Ain’t played spoons in years, Azariah. I graduated to washboard.”

Roxanne laughs behind them, and the two turn their heads to watch her settle into a chair on the front porch. “Are you two out here talking philosophy again?”

“Dog’s gotta howl,” Samson says. “Ain’t much to do but chew some fat and enjoy the taste. You two busy tomorrow?”

“Naw.” Azariah smiles at Roxanne, and she returns it tiredly. “I think she’s a mite danced out, so we’re probably just gonna spend tomorrow doin’ somethin’ low energy.”

She scoffs. “I’m not the magically infused one. If you’d like to drag him to something exhausting, go ahead, but he’s done a damn good job of running me ragged.” Still, despite the words, the tone is sweet.

Samson snuffles. “Aw hell, it’s just like the old days. I’m thinking I might be about to cry.”

“You’re about to lose at horseshoes,” Azariah points out. “Why’d you wanna know what we were doin’ tomorrow?”

“Billy wants to go fishing with some of the old heads. I think it’d be fun. You’re welcome to come, and so’s Roxanne, if you don’t think fishing is too intense for your bones?” Asking this, Samson’s gaze runs from Azariah to Roxanne, and his smile is too wide, too intense for either of them to watch for long without their own smiles threatening to split into grins.

“We’ll come,” Roxanne replies. “Of course, just make sure you buy an extra case of beer.”

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

On the final day, Piper and company are moving out of the deceased Mr. Thistle’s house, leaving it an empty hollow. They’re preparing to find a new base of operations, her and Kranner, with Sundae and Nancy in tow for negotiations, or “negotiations,” until Jack arrives, breathing heavy, from a long and winding recon patrol.

“I have new information, ma’am, but I don’t think you’re going to enjoy hearing it,” he says to her, standing straight again and dusting himself off.

“Give me the good news first.”

“On my way around town I found the place where Blondie’s been hiding.” With a heavy, metallic sigh he draws a finger to point out toward the southeast. “He was squatting in the woods just south of town.”

Piper’s eyebrows raise. “Was?”

Jack nods. “That’s where we get to what you don’t want to hear.”

It’s an hour or so until sundown on the fifth day, and everyone’s come back for dinner. That’s when the heavy freight truck fueling station down near the south end of town blows up.

Book 4 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-cherry #b&tsm-judith #b&tsm-azariah #b&tsm-leon #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 Four, Chapter Seven

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

The Bleeding Scab isn’t the best place to lie low and wait out a quarry, but it’s chaotic enough to cover up the fact that Piper, Jules, and Lucille are very obviously not from around there. Most of the workers busy themselves with their own pockets of enjoyment, so the three oddballs just fade into the corner of the room; especially since they don’t plan on renting a room, nor are they on payroll to be accompanying potential renters. Instead, as Lucille awkwardly sits in her section of the booth with Jules right beside her, picking away awkwardly at some local type of blood sausage— not the sort of blood he needed, but fangs are meant for meat— Piper simply presses heavy spoonfuls of a thick, sludgy soup into her mouth, watching the people move and talk, her tail wrapping around the center pole of the table between them.

They’re nestled into a far corner with easy visibility of the main bar and the front entrance. Anyone who seems to notice them is disquieted by a combination of Piper’s glare, Jules’s grin, and Lucille’s covered mouth, and anyone who doesn’t is too busy going about their business. In a sense, they stick out. But, sticking out just enough to discomfort is, in itself, a fairly good way to camouflage yourself. To lack the comfort of familiarity and the novelty of strangeness both is to convince the viewer not to view at all, and is thus a good way to hide in plain sight.

The fine details of this method, something Jules and Lucille have utilized time and time again to simply wait for their quarry in a populous gathering space and then pounce at the last second, are somewhat lost on Piper. Her shoulders shift and roll to ease the tension, she tilts her head to crack her neck, and after a time the spoon settles into the bottom of the solidifying muck she had called a meal some moments earlier as she’s taken to popping each knuckle on each hand individually, slowly and methodically. Her tail twitches. As though simply to elicit some response, the tip drifts against Lucille’s leg.

This whole time, Lucille’s been staring past her companions and into the sea of people also. She’s careful not to think too hard on the way the moving of boots and feet in this place reminds her painfully of the hustle and bustle of camps in the past, or how the roaring laughter of these people, likely celebrating a finished house or some other project, echoes against those she had once called her peers. The Snake’s touch against her leg is only registered after it gets firmer and runs up her calf, when Lucille nudges it away with her boot.

Piper smirks. “I’m bored,” she says, running a finger along the rim of her bowl. “How long does this usually take?”

“It isn’t always high octane chases or intense stakeouts. Sometimes it’s just sitting in some greasy spoon waiting for somebody to show up.” Lucille’s head tilts. Her eyes linger on Piper’s own golden pair as her jaw sets.

Jules chuckles. “We’re hunters, right. Which means, Pip, that you have to learn to treat the target like they’re animals. Complicated, complex animals, but animals. Shit, that analogy doesn’t really work, huh. Think brutal reality shit, you get me.”

A grin crosses its way over Piper’s features, but she doesn’t respond to him. She’s a bit busy breaking her gaze from the staredown to follow the familiar shapes of Brie and Roxanne, accompanied by the unfamiliar Meat as they plow through the entrance and straight to the front counter. Roxanne swiftly places down a bundle of cash, raises a small ruckus, and is handed a key by the bartender. Once the charade’s complete, the three dart up the stairs and into the hall where the rented rooms reside, just as two more shapes enter.

The two figures approach the bartender, and just from a cursory glance Piper has some idea that they aren’t locals, given as one of them— a tall man, made of literal stone with small streaks of metal throughout his face and bald head like tattoos— is wearing a black suit and a horrendously patterned tie that speaks to having been picked up either in the home of an insane clothier or a low-grade alchemical mentor. The swirling red, blue, green and electric cyan patterns are hard to look at.

The other, an orc, isn’t wearing a suit but his clothes are simple, crisp, and very obviously mass produced; he’s from a real city. On top of his head is a flat cap, chequered, black and white. Similarly, his t-shirt is a simple black, his jeans white, et cetera, over his green skin.

Combined they cut a fearsome silhouette, a mountain of a man made of rock and iron glaring, stone-faced, as an Orc of nearly equal stature cracks and rolls his knuckles as though preparing a weapon. On the Golem’s lapel is a pin, and even from a distance Jules knows the symbol it bears well; after all, Leslie Carnevale wears it all the time and so do the properly initiated members of the crew, as it’s the sign of the family. The Orc isn’t wearing one, but he probably has one, Jules thinks.

Based solely on looks, he can assume who they are. There isn’t any shortage of rocky muscle in the organization but rather few get to the point where they start buying expensive suits; shows this isn’t just some brick-headed associate out to crack skulls. This is a soldier, sure, not a capo like Leslie, but give him a few years and a few more busted heads and he’s going to get there.

The Orc, he knows. Normally the guy works an entirely different track; he’s an urban collector, a soldier who doesn’t work for Leslie and probably already misses the man-made mountains and jungles of concrete, wood, and steel back in the city. Wide at the shoulders and tight at the hips, he’s practically threatening to bust that shirt open during a fight. It’d be attractive if Jules didn’t know the moment the guy gets going things are only going to hurt.

Grant “The Slab” Slate and “Lucky” Luciano. Professionals, even a little above Jules’ paygrade. Leslie’s pulling out all the stops to deal with this Notus. Someone who might be fireproof and somebody willing to put hands on a campfire. Sensible, but it stings a little to know he’s been outmoded for the moment.

The bartender doesn’t tell them anything, and unfortunately for Grant and Lucky, this isn’t a place where they can bust out pieces and have the run of the joint; the moment either one of them pulls a gun on a local, the rest’ll tear them apart. They didn’t account for Jules being there, though.

Some part of him does feel a little bad for the brief wave and the vague gesture pointed toward the stairs up, as that Meat person didn’t seem all too bad when they weren’t trying to kill one another, but family’s family, even if he himself is taking a break from it to keep rolling with his best friend to get a job done. It’s all quick, professional, and mostly painless.

Frustrated, the two goons look around. They eventually spot someone who’s entirely willing to make eye contact with them— that being Jules— who quickly and vaguely points toward the stairs nearby with a slight nod of his head. Then comes another gesture, the slight tapping of his fingers, still only using his good hand, against his chest in the spot where, were he to wear one, he would place a Carnevale pin on his jacket, mirroring the placement of Grant’s on his suit.

Daylight gangsters, the sort with very public facing personas, get pretty good at interpreting that kind of message. It’s easy enough; the two’s quarry had gone upstairs and the gray-faced and messed up looking fellow in the far corner saw, and not only that but also has connections to the family. Had they a few more minutes they’d probably find out that this fellow is, in fact, the guy whose job they just took, but they’re too busy. Instead, there’s a brief nod in response before the two storm up the stairs and past some working men and women, off to start busting down doors.

As the two disappear upstairs, Lucille turns to Jules and lets out a sigh. “Was that needed?”

“Even if I’m off that job, it’s good to stay on people’s good sides. Also, hell, at least one of those guys is on the up and up, and it never hurts to be in with somebody like that.” A fanged smile greets her from beneath a thick and recently combed mustache.

“And who’re they?” Piper asks, eyes still lingering on the staircase, mind elsewhere.

“I think a word for it is “coworkers.” People who’ve dedicated much more to the- er- family than I have.”

“Mafia goons,” Lucille adds. “Doesn’t matter, we’ve got other people to wait for. It’s just a matter of time.”

Piper’s lips purse, and the three go silent and wait for a few minutes more before she finally rises from her seat saying, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

“Are you?” Lucille raises her gaze to Piper’s face again, narrowing her eyes.

“Does it matter?”

“Would you be lying to us if it didn’t?”

As Piper adjusts her coat collar and sets her jaw, she shrugs. “Suppose so. Either way— you two stay here and watch for those idiots, and don’t go starting any scenes.” And then she’s off, walking right past the sign directing those inside the bar toward the restrooms and she’s heading up, heading after the two she’d seen and the three runners.

Brie’s legs want to give out after so much running and the intensity of the standoff inside the room. Her hand’s on the semiautomatic in her bag, and her eyes are focused narrowly on those of the green skinned fellow in a flat cap who’s only just barely keeping his muscled frame from pouncing on Meat who is, at this very moment, literally butting heads with a golem that’s looming over them like a bent tower.

Roxanne’s got the crossbow out, of course, but she’s not in a position for it to be terribly useful; fact is she’s not got a good shot on the Orc and the Golem is, again, made of rock. Even if it’d punch into him, he’d probably just pull it out. While the room had been something of a good bet to hide in, it’s the last place she wants to be in a real fight, especially when she can’t shoot worth a damn at this range and Meat can’t make any sparks fly for fear of lighting the whole town up. Only Brie’s got free range in this room, and even then, she’s not likely to pull the trigger.

“Mack.” The Golem’s voice is slow and heavy, deliberate like the placement of a statue. Every syllable is a perfectly placed brick. “You’re a real long way from home.”

Meat’s brow chafes somewhat from rubbing against stone and metal, as they press their neck and shoulders forward and they stand on the ball of their feet to shove their bony forehead against that of Grant. “I’m not Mack anymore. I’m not in the mood to be explaining this to people I might’ve once known, but I’m not Mack. I stopped being Mack a while ago, and if anybody calls me that again I am going to—”

“Meat,” Brie chimes in, “I do not think attempting to intimidate someone twice your size is going to do much. Sir, please do not call them Mack. They prefer Meat.”

“We come here to tussle or we come here to have tea?” Lucky spits, nose scrunching as he shoots a glare Brie’s way. “Meat, Mack, either way ends the same. Been waiting to take a swing at you for a while…”

Grant raises a hand, then stands back to his full height. “Don’t be a bitch, Lucky. Alright, Meat, I’ll call you that. Still, job’s a job.”

Meat’s arms cross, and their teeth clatter as they work their jaw wordlessly for a second. Then comes an idea, something quick and simple. “We can’t fight here. I don’t know either of you, or at least I don’t anymore, but I get a feeling you two don’t want to have too much… Collateral.”

“What, these two?” Lucky gives a quick glance over the two women before he laughs. “What’s it matter?”

Grant scowls over at him. “Shut your face, Lucky.” Afterward, he turns to look at Meat again. “You sound like you’re about to make a proposition. If it’s happening, out with it.”

“I… Uh…” Meat stops. They didn’t actually think they were going to get this far. Flying by the seat of your pants is good for a fight, but it’s not quite there as conversational tactics go.

Brie steps forward, putting up both hands in a supplicating gesture. “They are technically still working for the Carnevale. It would be in bad taste to kill a coworker before they finish their job, yes?”

“That’s it, I’m gonna shove my hand down this—” Lucky starts, stepping toward her before a large, suit-clad arm stops him.

Grant’s cold, stoic face turns to watch Brie as he says to her, “Explain.”

Meat steps back some, and Roxanne lowers her crossbow as Brie smooths out her pants and readjusts her collar. “Back in Fusillade, your employer tasked Meat with defeating the other Notus, the one known as “Blondie,” whom they— we— are currently pursuing. Blondie was not defeated in Fusillade and thus, the job is unfinished. Obviously Mr. Carnevale expects this to have been finished by the time you arrived, assuming that is who hired you in the first place.”

The Golem and the Orc exchange looks. A small, almost entirely insignificant smile pulls at the corners of Grant’s lips. “Convincing. Stupid, but very convincing. I need more than a technicality to make letting you three go worth it.”

“Unless you can beat a five-figure paycheck,” Lucky breaks in, “I don’t expect anything like this to be worth it. Let’s just kill ‘em.” Though he says this, his hands are already lowered, pressed into his pockets.

Meat rolls their shoulders. “I can’t beat five figures… Let me help them beat this Blondie guy, though. I’ll owe you one. From what I’ve gathered, that’s worth a lot. Apparently my death’s worth that paycheck.”

“And you already stood up again after that Dragon incident. No telling if you’ll stand back up after what we’d do to you, but I guess that can’t be helped. You should’ve stuck to the family life, Meat. You’re good at it. Dealing and all that. You too, sister.” Grant nods, first toward Meat and then toward Brie before he says to Lucky, “I think a favor might come in handy later on. Don’t be too sore over the check, it’ll make you look bad.”

“For a rock, you’re soft as shit.” Lucky snarls, but as everything settles, even his muscles relax.

All just in time for the door to open again and something long to swing out, lashing at the back of Grant’s knees. Unprepared, the giant of a man is sent to the ground, only catching himself by his hands on the floor. By this point another figure’s entered the room and, stepping neatly over the grounded Grant, closes the distance with Lucky.

He’s better prepared. When something bronze and long swings out, lashing toward his face, he catches it between his calloused hands as though clapping his palms to either side of a long blade. Only in the brief moment of calm after it’s stopped in his hands does he realize— it’s not a weapon, it’s a scaly tail. Before he can capitalize on this knowledge, as his soft, blue eyes dart up to gauge the enemy, his vision finds itself blotted out.

Brie, Meat, and Roxanne are dumbfounded as Piper, her tail trapped between the hands of the Orc, just having tripped up Grant, pulls out something strange, some abomination of a weapon derived from strains of crowbar, tonfa, and club. She already had it out by the time she entered, and by the point of her tail making contact with Lucky’s hands she’s spinning it. Now, as Lucky finally looks at her, looks her in the eyes, she’s carving a ragged arc from one side of his head to the other, the pointed, clawed crowbar end of the weapon digging in through one cheek and through his back teeth, through one of his tusk-like canines, and full through the other cheek.

Lucky expects a fight, something real and intense, life or death. He doesn’t expect to be absolutely stunned with cold, shooting pain as he attempts to hold his jaw where it should be on his skull. Blood sputters from his open cheeks and down his neck onto his black shirt and hands, and his attempts to speak only come out as muffled, muted gurgles. His nigh perfect stance from moments ago is ruined as he attempts to back away, tripping and falling as he continues to clutch at his face. He’s been stabbed, shot, clawed, bitten—  but this is new. This is so horrifyingly new.

Roxanne’s breathing fast and awkward, partially out of an instinctive fear, secondarily out of a learned, familiar resentment. She’s realized by now that this isn’t Blondie, it’s just his coat being worn by that foreman, Piper. But that’s just enough to send her brain into panic mode, send phantom pains shooting through her missing foot. And that’s only the beginning of her troubles. It’s one thing to be used to seeing viscera in a medical context; it’s something else entirely to watch somebody lose bits and pieces of their face to a glorified pry bar.

Meat’s been unsure of what to do this entire time. Admittedly, not having to owe him anything would be really, really nice. However, if the guy was willing to let them actually talk it out then they weren’t that bad— and if they weren’t going to condemn themselves for having been a member of the Carnevale, it’d be real hypocritical to let this guy die just because of that. And furthermore, they remember Brie’s worries. Is Brie next?

Brie’s frozen. Inside herself, she’s shut down. The time has come. To struggle is pointless when in the face of this brutality. She hadn’t gotten to see Blondie do such things, only having seen the aftermath for the most part, save for that man that Blondie’d burned to death back in Fusillade at the start of the fight, but she’s seeing it now, in Piper. And God, it’s coming for her next.

As Meat moves to place themselves between Piper and Brie, Piper’s gaze, wild and absent of expression, like the glazed but attentive stare of a predator, passes them over in favor of Grant, who’s trying to struggle his way to his feet again. Being a big man means being hard to topple when he’s ready, but if he’s caught off guard then it’s going to be a while as he gets back up.

When he’s finally on his own two feet again, a strange whistling enters his ears, like something spinning faster and faster, metal clawing the air, leather on leather. His eyes run up in time for the already bloodied metal claw on the heavy end of the weapon to strike down on his bald head.

Now everything’s ringing, swimming, and there’s trickling. Like a stream descending a mountain cliff, blood trickles between the crags and crevices in his face from the place she’d struck him. He bellows deeply, but is silenced as the whistling twirl of the weapon collides with his head again, and then again, each strike pushing him down further and further.

Each song-like swing of hardened steel finds itself a sickening, climactic crunch to cap it off. Again and again she strikes, panting, grinning now. In Piper’s mind, she’s calculating the perfect position to strike to chip more and more away. It’s just mining. Instead of groundwater, though, it’s blood.

Meat calms down alongside Roxanne, who by this point is awkwardly clutching at them and saying, “Please stop her, Meat,” between her steadily calming breaths.

Before anything can be said in response, Brie pushes out from behind the both of them and shoves herself into Piper’s path, raising her arms to take the next blow meant for the Golem now on the ground. It doesn’t land, though; Piper stops her movements, and in that second her features contort grotesquely with rage and confusion.

“If you are here for me,” Brie says, a slight tremble in her voice, “then hurt me! Don’t hurt anyone else!”

Piper glances around the room. Lucky’s clutching at his face still, looking distant and pale, and Grant’s on the floor with a good chunk of rock missing from his head, bleeding profusely but obviously not dead. Hell, she was pretty sure she only gave him the Golemnic equivalent of a concussion, or maybe a bit of internal bleeding if she’s really fortunate. Meat and Roxanne are both gawking at her like idiots but obviously they’d try to take her on if she did anything.

A smile and an almost eerily serene posture take over Piper then, and though her black coat, her weapon, and a bit of her face are all splattered with blood, she looks like she hadn’t even exerted herself. “I’m not here to hurt you, Brie.”

Brie’s arms lower and, in her confusion, she blinks. “You’re not? Then why—”

“To protect you. We wouldn’t want anything happening to our number monkeys, right? Especially not one working directly for Ms. Hickory.” A bloody, gloved hand reaches up to grip Brie’s chin. “You should be careful. They don’t like folks like us around here. We have to stick together.”

Brie’s eyes are wide and her face is hot, hot with anger and dread and all things confusing to the logical mind. “How can you be so candid after hurting them like that?” She snaps, immediately. “Look at what you did! It is all so— so needlessly cruel!”

Piper chuckles, and that hand on Brie’s chin pats her cheek before the snake turns to walk out. “Shit, write it all down in your lil’ notebook and get along with your job. Maybe I shouldn’t have come to your rescue after all. There are better things to do than protect people that ain’t even going to give me so much as a thank you.” On her way out she snags one of the several extra blankets, and as she walks out she takes the time to wipe off the blood. Luckily enough for her, the coat’s been treated— blood doesn’t stick. Blondie thought of everything when ordering these things.

In the room Brie is huffing, face vividly darkened by a flush, face for once twisted heavily in some semblance of fury. She only comes out of some hidden, angry place in the back of her mind as Meat snaps in front of her face. “Hey, I know this isn’t a great time, but Roxanne needs our help moving the gangsters.”

“As in, I need you two to drag them downstairs so that the locals can handle the rest. We have to see Sam.”

Getting the two gangsters situated in the clinic was no easy task, but the working folk of the Bleeding Scab brought forth everything they could muster to help. Roxanne found herself impressed, and somewhat missing that kind of community with her fellow folk. There’s nothing quite like the feel of everyone dropping their beers when someone’s in dire need.

But, the job isn’t finished. As she exits the clinic to a rather overwhelmed Brie and a notably on-edge Meat, she says, “There’s someone we’ve got to see. Let’s get a move on before anything else happens, yes?” Brie attempts to raise a hand, but Roxanne just replies, “We can process what happened in a bit, Ms. Brie. Right now, we’ve got to get to my friend. He’ll know what to do about all this.”

“Where to?” Meat says, eyeing the streets suspiciously.

“Samson’s place. He’s the union head here, and he’ll know how to drive Piper out, now that she’s here.” The Medic starts to walk, taking Brie’s hand as she passes by. “Keep up now, you two. We’ll be safe, but I don’t want either of you getting lost.”

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

    Covered in grease but satisfied with his inspection and installation of the Pounder nitrous canister into the truck, Cherry pushes himself out from underneath the vehicle, dragging his toolbelt along with him. Now, if he’s done everything correctly, the button on the side of the middle control panel should work for a last-ditch burst of speed.

Though, as if on-queue, Cherry had noticed something odd while working on the truck. Since he had become so familiar with the vehicle’s inner workings, he had slowly begun the process of trying out his power on it. Unscrewing and rescrewing nuts, lifting parts off the pavement for insertion into tight spaces, and other such activities that had tired him out after a while. In fact, after he had finished, he had a thought— since his power seems to consider the process of moving things as a function of building, could he, in theory, move more than one component at once?

To his surprise, he could see it happening in his mind when he closed his eyes. A wireframe map of the truck had been built in his headspace, and when he felt for a section, he could feel it begin to move slightly under his influence. Of course, this was about as strenuous as trying your hardest to lift a screwed-on piece of machinery from its frame, but nonetheless, all he had to do was wipe a bit of blood from his nose before heading inside.

That is, before Roxanne showed up in Samson’s yard with Brie and someone else.

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

    Brie and Meat stand back from the scene, waiting on the front lawn of a rather well-kept house. They watch Roxanne embrace the Hare and the human covered in motor oil sitting out on the front porch, who Brie correctly assumes to be the ones she’s been hunting this entire time, and soon after, hug the massive Hound who walks out as well. There’s brief, but fervent conversation— something about being followed to town, something about a pair of gangsters, something about Shepherd Gemstone. That last bit perks up the Hound right away, and both Brie and Meat watch as his hand naturally gravitates toward his hip. The Owl standing next to them also becomes visibly nervous, and again, from what Brie can surmise by the instructions she was given at the beginning of her contract, she’s also one of the people she’s supposed to be hunting.

In fact, two more people come out of the house, and they both fit the description perfectly. A toothless Orc and a Werewolf, but one who didn’t like to turn. Her entire quarry, right there, right in front of her. If she were someone else, she’d be leaping at the opportunity to seize them and claim her bounty, complete her contract, and leave this whole thing behind. But, beyond the fact that they looked like tough customers, she doesn’t feel obligated to do that at all. In fact, she feels as though it would be wrong, if not completely morally red, to attempt to break up their panicked reunion with the announcement of her aiming to fulfill her contract.

As she briefly turns to look at Meat, she also realizes that she’s been traveling with someone who knows what it’s like to be hunted. Though they’ve only been alive a few weeks, there’s no denying that they’ve had to have been on-edge the entire trip. And they were right to feel that way, as they nearly got themselves, as well as Roxanne and her, in serious trouble just now. Being chased like that, it must not feel very nice. She can tell somewhat by looking at their face. And when looks back at the group of folks on the front porch, something terrible occurs to her.

She’s been an unknowing predator. She’s been the chaser, not the chase-ee, this entire time, and that fills her with a sense of something she feels is unprocessable. She looks at them, discussing what to do in this dire situation, and knows in her heart that she’s been in the wrong for even thinking that taking that job had been a good idea, much less to follow through on it.

And in that moment, she also realizes that Meat has been knocked on the skull with the flat side of a familiar crowbar, sending them into the dirt face-first and entirely unconscious.

“That’s all it takes? Really?” Piper says, stalking up besides Brie. She makes sure to give Meat’s body a hearty kick as she wraps an arm around the Detective’s shoulder. “You ready to do this thing, pal?”

Brie wants to scream, but not only will nothing come out, the others have already noticed the presence of the mercenaries and have hunkered down inside the house, with the exception of Samson, who stands firm on his front porch.

He yells, “I figured they’d send a dog, but they sent me a snake instead! You’d better make this easy, girlie.”

Piper spits out a bit of venom and smiles. “What do you think, you two?” she starts, turning to Jules and Lucille. “Should we make it easy on them?”

“No,” Lucille replies, “but I think this is fucking stupid. What the hell are we doing here, Piper?”

She ignores her comments, “Good. Then I guess it’s about time you two stop dragging me down.” She releases Brie from her grip, and starts to walk over to the two mercenaries, crowbar spinning like a weed whacker’s blade. “Understand that when I say this is nothing personal, I don’t actually mean it, L. It’s totally personal. I’ve been wanting to brain you since we last met. You’ve turned into a real bitch,” she finishes, raising her weapon in a flourish.

Survival instincts begin to fire in Lucille’s brain, but they aren’t enough to protect her from the blow that she attempts to block with a combination of her left arm and shoulder. She definitely hears something crack, and by the time she’s hit the dirt, she can’t even feel it anymore. And there’s hardly any time to scream either, as it’s lights out with a swift boot to the face.

Though her sadistic side tells her to keep going, Piper decides that she might feel bad if she kept wailing on one of her old colleagues after she’d been knocked stupid. So, instead, she turns to Jules, who has fallen on his ass in the process and is clearly in no shape to fight. Something tickles her brain when she starts to approach him like a slasher flick monster, spinning up the crowbar as he tries to scooch himself away in the grass. The only thing that would make it more perfect is if there was a dramatic score, one with shrill strings overlapping a sinister bassline— or, if he were begging. He’s surprisingly silent, just staring up at her in disbelief of what he’s seeing. And that makes it weird.

“If you get up,” she says, frowning. “I’m killing you. Understood, J?” Jules scowls at her, but nods. “Good. Now, Brie,” she starts, turning back to the Detective.

Through the calls from Samson for her to come to the porch, she doesn’t budge a single inch. In a sense, she’s stalled out. It’s all too much for her to handle at the moment, and to be frank, she feels as though she could sink into the center of the world, through the ground where she stands. She jumps a touch when the Snake touches her shoulder again, and feels like nothing but crying when she’s looked in the eyes by her.

“C’mon. You and me. Let’s get this job done so we can go grab some lunch,” Piper says. “You’re on the payroll too, so we’re in this together. Get your gun and let’s do this thing.”

In a moment of clarity, she gazes down at the pocket where her nametag is hidden. She picks it up, shows it to Piper, and throws it into the road. “I will not. I quit.”

Piper frowns, unsurprised and pitying. “I knew you were soft.”

The claw of the crowbar is hooked behind Brie’s ankle and her leg is pulled out from under her, flipping her into the dirt. The wind’s knocked from her lungs, and the Detective sees the claw rise again before it digs itself into her side and hooks around one of her ribs. She can feel the cold metal up against her insides, and when she tries to scream in shock, there’s no air left to fuel it. All that’s left is the pulling, the tugging of an animal trying to lever one of her ribs from its cage.

“Hickory always had a knack for hiring trash. What do you do to help with this shit? Run around and take notes. Follow the trail, but never to the source. Find the evidence, but never the killer. Who the fuck am I kidding, you hardly even did ANY of that,” Piper chides. “So, I think I’m gonna drop you off in a trash bag at her front door. Maybe that’ll teach her a lesson, huh?”

Before Piper can start the dismemberment process, she’s sent flying off her feet with a thundercrack.

“Never seen a more disgustin’ display in all my years,” Samson sighs, ejecting the spent shell from his shotgun. He quickly makes it over to Brie, who is just now catching her breath. “We’re gettin’ you inside. This is gonna hurt a lot, and yer’ gonna start bleedin’ bad, but we can fix ya’. Just don’t move, okay?”

“You fucking dog,” Piper hisses, clutching her still-steaming stomach. Though Blondie’s vest had taken the buckshot, the force alone was enough to make her want to puke up her breakfast. It was both a jabbing, sharp pain in all the areas where the individual pellets had pushed up against her skin, and a dull pain filling in the gaps. 

She’s able to get back up, but as she does, she finds herself thrown into the street by another thundercrack, and the pain has multiplied by a magnitude of three. Her combat armour torn to shreds, she writhes on the cobbles of the road, trying to get a grip.

“Shut it, snake!” Samson yells, before turning back to Brie.

    The sunlight has become quite hazy in her eyes, and she hardly notices when Samson manages to gently finagle the crowbar out from underneath her rib. From there, time becomes a blur— but she remembers hearing Roxanne’s voice, and she can’t shake the feeling that beyond the pain, she had made the right decision. It’s an oddly warm thing. Or, maybe it’s her own blood.

After getting the Detective inside, under Roxanne’s care and with his emergency kit, Samson realizes that there’s still two people out on his lawn, one of them entirely unconscious. Piper is nowhere to be found, and only moments after tossing it aside the crowbar’s missing too. Ejecting the other spent shell from his gun, he walks back out, and approaches the Vampire.

“You two workin’ with her?” he asks, arms crossed.

“Not anymore,” Jules responds, clutching his side. He offers the Hound a weak smile. “In hindsight, it wasn’t a good idea to begin with. Can I get a hand?”

“You with Shepherd?”

“No sir. We worked security for them before they liquidated that department for people like her.”

Samson frowns. “And now?”

Jules frowns back. “I don’t know.” He gestures over to Lucille, who’s in the process of waking back up. “Ask her. But if I had to bet, we’re done chasing this fuckin’ bounty.”

“You’d better be.”

“Look,” the Vampire says, “I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. But I also know some of those people inside. Not on good terms, but I’d like to change that, since I’ve realized how stupid I’ve been.” He gestures with his head. “Can you please help me up?” It takes a moment, but the Hound does eventually offer Jules a hand, pulling him to his feet. “Thanks. I appreciate it. And I’m sorry for all this, even if I was being a dumb lackey in it.”

“Don’t mention it. Now, can she stand?” Samson points to Lucille, who is in the process of wiping turf off her face, while nursing a noticeably broken nose.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she says, wobbling as she gets up. “I think I’ve got a concussion.”

“You in the same boat as this guy?” he asks.

“Yeah. We’ve got some apologies to make.”

“Good. We can talk later over some coffee.”

“That sounds nice,” she groans, clutching her nose.

Samson snaps his fingers and gestures to Meat, who is also in the process of getting up. “You come too. Roxanne’s got some explaining to do.”

Chapter End.

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

[ Table of Contents ]

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

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[empty-masks]

Book Four, Chapter Six

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

The road to Pickman’s Hope from Fusillade is dull. There’s not much to see, as scenic views have yet to be shaved through the dense, forested mountains for in-transit nature porn. Not even the mountains themselves particularly are eye-catching, thanks to the roadside underbrush masking any idyllic uphill environments. In a way, the road had been made in such a way that would allow for two things— cars to get where they’re going, and people to follow in case they get lost.

Brie felt as though she would prefer the latter, as her mind heats up in an oven of poor sleep and the concept of being sacked. Her hands grip the wheel a little harder than usual, as the thoughts bubble up in her head— she had never been sacked before, what would that even feel like? It sounds like it’s humiliating, or maybe it could be painful. But, it’s just a contract, it’s not like them ripping up a slip of paper could be that painful. Unless they’ve got something else in mind. But what would they have in mind? A company isn’t a single mind, they’re a bunch of minds who operate on the same field. But what if her boss, Hickory was her name, she recalls hazily, what if she doesn’t want her on the job anymore? Why had she taken the job in the first place?

Was the job even something she was interested in? She had taken it on short notice, after all. She didn’t even remember the job prerequisites. There was just a notice nearby, she had applied since she needed the work, and she got the job immediately. Maybe that should’ve been a turn-off. Jobs that accept you on the fly like that are probably a bad idea.

“Roxanne,” she asks, turning her head to the Medic, who is enjoying the cool weather through her open shotgun window.

“Yes, Ms. Brie?” “Would you say that a job is shifty if they accept your application almost immediately after you apply?”

Roxanne turns to face her as well, pointing ahead of them. “Eyes on the road, please. Yes, I would say so.”

Brie turns her head back, and sighs. “I was foolish to have accepted this contract, then.” “I would have to agree, Ms. Brie. This has been a clown show, if I’m being frank. A very deadly clown show. And you haven’t struck me as one for clowns.”

“Do you recall how much a contractor such as me would be paid, if I don’t end up being sacked?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Do you recall if I am to be paid at all if I’m sacked?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Ah,” she says.

The thoughts begin to bubble again. Wasn’t the reason she had accepted the job in the first place because she needed the cash, and that Shepherd Gemstone was offering quite the large payment upon completion of the contract? If she’s not going to be paid for all of her hard work, then this would mean she’s in the negative. Pretty hard, too. And that’s not something her girlfriend is going to be happy about, considering how her last contract up and voided her once they’d noticed Brie was going out of her way to investigate things outside the perimeters of their agreement. In fact, the only reason Brie was able to avoid proper legal persecution is because the city had backed her, as exposing an underground gambling ring run by her very same employers was something of a heroic deed back in those parts of the world. She was given compensation from the city— but she never saw a cent from the employer. Hell, in retrospect, she realizes that THAT job was probably too shifty for her own good, too. It would be a little funny if it weren’t so dangerous. How does she keep doing this to herself?

She opens her mouth to ask that to Roxanne, but closes it before any words come out, realizing how it would sound. Perhaps a different approach would be more appropriate.

“Roxanne,” she says.

“Yes, Ms. Brie?”

“Am I gullible?”

“Absolutely not,” the Medic responds. “You’re one of the least gullible people I know.”

Brie scrunches up her face. “Are you being sarcastic?” “No ma’am, I am not. I wouldn’t call you gullible, rather something like ‘very good at pursuing things you realize aren’t good for your health in hindsight’, if there’s a word for that. Would you agree with me?”

“Yes, I think I would.”

“The first step to getting better is realizing there’s a problem,” Roxanne says, holding up a finger. “There’s nothing worse than not knowing you have a problem.”

“I would have to agree there, too,” Brie frowns.

Shifting in her seat, Roxanne looks over her shoulder to check up on Meat. Their body, arms crossed and skull resting lightly on a headrest, appears to have shut down somewhat. They said they were going to try and sleep, partially to pass the time and partially to parse whether they could, but it looked more as though the two were transporting a corpse in Brie’s sedan. It’s especially hard to tell, since the flames burning in Meat’s eyes never quite go out. For all Roxanne knows, they could still be awake.

“Well, I suppose it’s as good a road conversation as anything else,” Roxanne says, returning to her normal position.

“Is there something—”

“Did you ever meet my boyfriend?” she asks, cutting Brie off.

A moment of silence falls between them.

“You have a boyfriend?” Brie asks.

“Yes and no. We’ve dated for decades on and off. Some days I would’ve liked to murder him, and some days I seriously considered marrying him. But right now, I would say we’re off again. Thanks to circumstance, mostly.”

“That’s unusual.”

“He’s one of the people you’re hunting for your job, Miss Brie,” she chuckles.

“Unusual doesn’t do it justice.”

The Detective’s eyes nearly bulge out of her head. “I have been hunting your boyfriend as a part of my investigation contract?! He’s one of the escaped miners?!”

Roxanne laughs again. “I should’ve introduced you two back in Kiln. I think you would’ve gotten along.”

“Roxanne, why didn’t you tell me this from the beginning? I would have…” she trails off, realizing that actually, there’s little she could’ve done. “It would have been useful to know.”

“Useful for what? It would’ve meant that you’d have had this epiphany about Shepherd Gemstone earlier in your contract, sure. But at the time, you were still quite adamant about seeing things through, and we didn’t know each other as well. If anything,” Roxanne says, “it probably would’ve put you in a nasty position— leave the little old crippled lady in Kiln as bait for her jackrabbit to come home, or keep her with you as bait for him wherever he may be.”

“I would never do that to you, Roxanne,” Brie says, her voice hitching a little.

“Now, you wouldn’t. But back then, I had to be more careful. Catching a ride with you meant keeping some things secret.”

“I… that is. Very upsetting.”

Roxanne smiles empathetically, and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, honey. I know it was a little mean, but I think it’ll help put things more into perspective for you. Shepherd Gemstone was known to hire folks who’d do that kind of stuff, so when I saw you on the site, I had to assume the same.”

“They do?”

“They absolutely do. How do you think they’re able to keep a decent profit margin despite all the damage they cause?”

Brie pats the notebook she keeps in her left-hand pocket. “Tens of thousands of Tilt’s worth. But they hire… bandit-types to handle it?” she frowns.

“Exactly that. Bandit-types is the appropriate term,” Roxanne says, patting her on the shoulder.

“I am not a bandit-type.”

“And I realized this only once we had left Kiln.”

“Thus, up until that point, you had to treat me as though I was.”

“Yes, Ms. Brie.”

As the silence fills the space between them again, Roxanne decides to break it with something a little more lighthearted. “Would you like to hear how I met him?”

Brie nods, maintaining her deep-thought frown.

“I popped his fingers back into place.”

“What?” Brie suddenly says, her face shifting back to something less pouty.

“He had just finished fighting at a local ring. Had a date to get to, and he wanted to show up with nothing dislocated for once. So, he visits me to pop a couple fingers back into place. Goodness, I remember how he howled like a dog at the moon every time I set one. But, we ended up bonding over it, since he dealt with pain by telling jokes and stories. He had some real good stories.”

“He had a date the same night he got into a fight?”

“A scheduled fight, mind you. From what I heard, though,” Roxanne says, leaning in close, “it never went anywhere. His opponent wasn’t happy about his loss, and so happened to be one of the friends of his date. The loser showed up to the date, got his tail kicked again, and had to run home crying. But, after being kicked to the curb, Azariah came to me. And the rest is history, I suppose. Goodness me, it’s been over forty years, hasn’t it.”

“That’s… a very long time.”

“Longer than you’ve been around?” “Very much so, yes.”

The Medic smiles. “There’s a lot of history there, Ms. Brie. But,” she says, leaning over her seat again, “I would like to know if we have another listener in the car.”

Meat cracks their neck, sitting up and stretching their arms a little. “I don’t think I can sleep.”

“I had a hunch,” Roxanne replies.

“Is that car still following us?”

Both Brie and Roxanne look at one another briefly, then at Meat.

“There has been a car following us?” Brie asks.

“Yeah,” they say. “Ever since we left Fusillade. I think they noticed me looking at them. I haven’t seen them for a couple miles.”

“Well,” Roxanne pats Brie on the shoulder again. “I think I’ll save those stories for later, then.”

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

    Hieronymus T. Thistle is, by no means, a man of wealth— nor is he one of taste or of staunch morals. As expected of his appearance, that being of a person crossed with a manner of tumbleweed, which has long resulted in him being closer in visage to a skeleton with small, thorny branches for hair and eyes that nearly pop out of his skull, he does have a spine physically, just not one in the less literal sense. A spine of that sort requires some kind of belief to cling to, some great motivation to use as a shield or armor, and to wield as a blade when the time comes. Mr. Thistle lacks these things in plenty, as while he gets to live with many of the older folks in the community and often tells stories of his involvement in the overthrow of Shepherd Gemstone— he’s still on the payroll.

Nobody thinks it even a bit weird that he’s never really had to put himself out there in a long time to keep his lifestyle afloat, that being of a curmudgeonly prick who’s also equal parts nosy neighbor and hermetic jerk. He goes to every single union meeting, sure, and he talks often with those old guard types who come by his rather unsettlingly well kept lawn, but this is all just resource gathering. He hasn’t really cared for these people in a long time, perhaps closer to ever, since he never was one of them in the first place. He’d been on the company payroll for longer than the town had been called “Pickman’s Hope,” and had, ever since drifting in, been a remarkable spy.

It was more difficult back in the day than it is right now, of course. Back then he had to actually pretend to like his neighbors and his companions, to show some investment in his community and hatred toward the over-corporatized hellscape that constituted the big cities. Over time, while many of those he had to fool into being his friends grew thick whiskers and their muzzles turned gray, he simply reverted to being himself. A quirk of being old, he supposes, is that nobody bothers questioning why you don’t like them anymore. They just assume you’re tired, or maybe that you’ve gotten to the point where you’ll be damned before you spend another minute of what you have left pretending to be nice.

His old friends don’t question his loyalty to the town and to the working folk from their time with him; the younger ones don’t question it because he’s always been around and always been like this, so to assume Old Man Thistle’s some kind of corporate spy and has been since before the town rebuilt itself is tantamount to accusing your own great uncle or grandpa of selling your secrets to a serial killer. It could certainly happen, yes, but if you’re not perfectly, one-hundred percent certain that that is what’s going on, there’s a perfectly sizable chance you’re just screaming at someone whose weirdness can still be ascribed to age.

With a combination of time and age, just the right amount of hospitality and curmudgeonly habits, Hieronymus T. Thistle has constructed the perfect cover to often and routinely send out packets of information to Shepherd Gemstone HQ for a very steady pay that, at this moment, he keeps shoved inside of his mattress. He knows better than to live beyond the means expected of a man supposedly making most of his money off of goodwill from the town and some decent investments around it. After all, behind closed doors he was one of the folks helping to bankroll the Bleeding Scab, among various other local haunts that raked in the bucks. Thistle is so perfectly set up that, upon their arrival, he had to convince Piper that this house is, in fact, that of the man she was told about and that, yes, he is the Shepherd informant.

That was irritating enough, and so was having to park his car out on the street like some kind of animal while she put her lavish vehicle in his garage, because if there’s anything worse than his car being out on the street it’d be her car attracting attention. Not to mention the two absolute mercenaries she’d dragged in, along with herself, out in this place looking like the worst of the worst. It’s more than he can handle, and for a moment while the three shove their things into the guest rooms of his house he has a small tantrum.

After the sun’s risen and after combing his bristles and thorns back on his head, readjusting his bedtime robe, he returns to the three of them and says, “Alright, welcome to Pickman’s Hope, best call it that. Second, you three need to be careful. I get it that none of you had anywhere else to go, but I’ve got a good thing goin’ here and I wouldn’t appreciate you blowin’ it.” His first mistake aside from being on the corporate payroll at all is to point even a single finger at Piper during this diatribe.

She’s amused when she thinks it’s directed at Jules and Lucille, and far less amused when she realizes the old man’s talking to her. This earns him a quick, almost businesslike punch in the throat, which sends him to the floor gasping and clutching at his neck. “You speak when I say you can speak, you tricksy lil’ fuck…”

By the time Lucille’s come over to grab Piper by the arms and back her off, Piper’s already kicked Thistle in the ribs for good measure. Jules, an arm still largely out of commission and a leg in a brace, busies himself trying to drag Thistle away, a concerned look on his gray face.

“Get out of my way.” Piper hisses, eyes locking with Lucille’s as the latter continues to hold her— though by the very second she can feel Piper getting stronger, harder to control. “I’m gonna shove my boot into that old rat’s craw! Let go!”

“Don’t make a scene!” Lucille grips harder, twisting Piper’s wrists awkwardly to leverage technique over brawn. “It’s barely morning you ass! We haven’t been here more than a few hours and you’re going to ruin it!”

The struggle continues for a second until Jules returns, clearing his throat and saying, “You two need to cut this shit out.” There’s no comedy in his voice, nor is there any authority. He’s tired.

Lucille lets go first, but Piper doesn’t storm away. Instead she spits some venom onto the floor and rubs at her wrists before telling them both, “Fine. Y’all act like I was gonna kill him or something. I’m not stupid.”

“If you weren’t trying to kill that old man,” Lucille begins, eyes narrowed, “then what were you doing?”

Without a hint of hesitation, the reply is thus, laced with a long hiss and no small amount of malice, “Reminding him of his place, something you two morons need to keep straight as well. Besides, it’s not like there’s any reason to feel bad for him.”

“What do you mean?” Jules tilts his head as he settles back onto his temporary bed. “Damn near snapped his neck with that punch, you’re lucky he can still breathe.”

Turning around to face away, Piper speaks as she stops in the exit to the rest of the house. “The man’s making a living selling the secrets of this town as an informant, J. Names, addresses, exchanging of goods and trade deals, all of it. And all the while, everyone around him thinks he’s just another neighbor.” She grins over her shoulder toward them. “Honestly it’s a little insulting that he’s been so successful and all he’s done is send letters. People have died because of his pen. Amazing, ain’t it?”

Lucille rolls her shoulders, then settles into a spot sitting beside Jules. “So?”

“So he’s a rat.” Piper snickers. “Snakes hate rats.”

Jules gives an attempt at a clap, but stops quickly as pain shoots up his arm and Lucille smacks the back of his head. “You’ve gotta admit that was a good one.”

“Glad to see somebody still has a sense of humor. ‘Sides, this idiot doesn’t work for my branch of the company so I don’t really care what happens to him.”

Lucille bristles. “Don’t kill him.”

“I wasn’t going to.” The tip of Piper’s tail brushes Lucille’s legs. “I’m just going to get every important piece of information out of him. I know he’d do it willingly, but… Well, it’s not like I care about anybody working for Gilroy anymore, and I still need some practice.” Saying this, she picks up a candlestick from the mantle as she heads out. “Whatever you hear, don’t open the door. You might ruin my focus.”

Lucille rubs her face for a moment, lowering her scarf-shawl before turning her tired gaze on Jules, who shrugs. Once she hears another door shut and the muffled sounds of somebody getting upset, she asks, “Why did you humor her?”

“Easy,” Jules nods, “the quickest way to cool someone off is to laugh at their joke. And, I didn’t feel like letting you two start fighting over some old fuck that… Look, she has a point.”

“I know she has a point. I don’t like it, but it’s fair, the guy’s a piece of crap. Still, I don’t like the idea of her doing it.”

An arm heavy with exhaustion wraps its way around Lucille’s shoulders and the hand capping it pats her shoulder as Jules says, “Agreed. She’s the boss, though. Orders are orders.”

“Yeah,” Lucille mumbles. “Guess so. We’ve come too far in this hunt to give up because the person signing our paycheck’s beating somebody up.”

“See, now you’re getting it.” Jules smiles. “If you would’ve gotten in on the Carnevale with me, you’d have fit in perfect.”

Lucille’s head settles into her hands, elbows against her knees with a soft and tired, “Oh, fuck this.”

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

In the hours of the morning where the crickets have stopped their chirping and the birds have taken their place, Azariah finds himself sitting out on the front porch of Samson’s home, eating a makeshift breakfast of leftover bread and some jam he knows won’t be missed. It’s odd— sleeping was never an issue when he was out in the woods, but as soon as he’s back in friendly civilization, it’s a real hit or miss. Sometimes he’ll wake up before the sun, still deathly tired and certain he never fell asleep to begin with. Other times, he’ll find himself sleeping like the dead until noon.

Olive opens the door behind him, peering out as though there might be something sinister on the rocking chair.

“Oh,” she says, stepping outside fully. “What’re you doin’ up this early?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I think I’ve got some issues to work out on that front, Olive.”

He offers her a piece from the loaf of bread. “How ‘bout yourself?”

“I always wake up at the crack of dawn.”

“You’re tellin’ me that it isn’t Judith or Cherry gettin’ us breakfast in the mornings?” he chuckles, pulling up a chair beside him.

Olive smiles, and rolls her eyes. “No use tryin’ to get Cherry up for nothin’. He’ll just be back in bed by the time he gets whatever you wanted done, done.” She sits down, and breathes out a deep sigh. “Feels weird, don’t it?”

“What, takin’ some stranger’s hospitality?”

“Yeah, kinda,” she nods, “but also not feelin’ like we’ve gotta book it somewhere, y’know? Feels like there’s been so much more time in the day, these last couple. Can you feel it too? Like, when you look back on what’s happened, it feels like before.”

Azariah takes some time to chew on this, both metaphorically and physically, via a chunk of particularly chewy bread. “I think you’ve got a point, there. I guess I ain’t as deeply introspective as you, Olive.”

“I don’t know if I believe that,” she says, leaning back in her porch chair. “I saw the way you were lookin’ at Mr. Samson while he was tellin’ that story. Couldn’t tell if it was playin’ back a movie in your head or if ya had somethin’ for him.”

“I’ve always had a thing for canines.”

“Don’t tell me!” Olive squawks, slapping her knee. “Don’t tell me that’s what was on your mind, Azariah. You got it for Samson Parrish?”

“I’m afraid I do, Olive. Or, did.” Azariah chuckles too, tapping the armrest of his rocking chair with a finger. “And maybe I did feel a little somethin’ last night. But again, I couldn’t tell you what it was, since I’m not that kinda person. Love is a weird thing.”

“You don’t need’ta tell me. My history with that sorta thing is embarrassin’ to say the least.”

“Really, now?”

“Really really. Findin’ someone who’s able to take the fact that I’m not into certain stuff makes it nigh impossible.” She rubs her forehead with a hand. “Not includin’ the fact that a lotta people just friggin’ suck.”

Azariah adjusts the position of his chair to face her. “I understand, kiddo. Even the embarrassment bit, it took me decades to get over some of those one-night stands. Some of ‘em still haunt me to this day.” He fake-shivers as he says, “Nothin’ that’ll burn into your memory quite like getting puked on.”

Olive scooches her chair back away from the Hare with an, “Aw shit, Azariah! You’re gonna make me hock up my dinner! That’s foul, no more talkin’ ‘bout that!” Through his cough-laughs, she manages to get in, “Almost makes me glad I don’t feel pulled toward that stuff. Can’t hear a single good story ‘bout it without hearin’ another where some bodily fluid’s involved. An’ not in an intentional way, neither.”

“That’s part of the fun,” he coughs, having calmed himself down substantially from his laughing fit. “There’s always the chance someone’ll screw it up royally, and by that point, you might as well put a mental bookmark on the memory with how many times you’re gonna be tellin’ it at parties. But, you were sayin’ something about not being into it?” he asks, holding out an arm. “Oh, but if you aren’t comfortable with talkin’ about it, I can ease back.”

“No, it’s okay. I ain’t like, disgusted by the concept,” she replies. “I’m just… I don’t want it like other people want it, I guess.”

“What, throwin’ up? Or bein’ thrown up on?” Azariah teases.

“Ha. Sex in general’s what I mean. And like I said, it ain’t somethin’ a lotta people are alright with. Can’t tell you the number’a people I thought I’d fallen for who’ve taken that as a dealbreaker.”

The Hare frowns, and preemptively spreads a little jam on his bread for later consumption. “That certainly is an uncommon problem.”

“An’ it ain’t like I’m leadin’em on,” she says, motioning with her hands. “I’m usually pretty up-front with everythin’ about me, since, well, y’know. But I’ve even had some guys go a couple dates in before askin’ whether I was bein’ serious or not ‘bout it.”

“Did you feel like you loved them?” he asks.

“Some of them. Others, maybe. I dunno.”

“But they weren’t what you were lookin’ for?”

“They were enough of what I was lookin’ for, at the time. Guess not enough, though.”

Azariah offers her the piece of jellied bread. “Can I give you some advice, Olive?”

She eyes up the bread for a moment, before nodding and taking it.

“If those people weren’t willin’ to give you a shot after learning they couldn’t take you for a ride?” The Hare motions with an open hand. “They weren’t the kinda people you’d wanna settle for anyways. Findin’ someone who fits all your needs and wants isn’t something that most young people do anyways. They’ve got their top three wants, one of them is usually sex, and it’s assumed that everyone else feels the same way. You, though, you think a lot about those needs and wants. It makes sense that it’d be hard to find someone who fits them right.”

“I saw a lot of young people settle for folks they didn’t realize they hated,” he continues, sighing. “I was nearly one of ‘em back in the day. And to be frank with you, I still don’t know how Roxanne settled for me, ‘cause I feel like I won the jackpot.” He holds out a hand to her. “The point I’m tryin’ to make here’s that there’s so many people out in the world, and you’ve got so much time. Those chumps will come to regret not givin’ you a chance when they’re older, when you’ve got someone who fits you like a glove.”

Olive stares out the front porch, chewing her bread slowly. “Thanks, Azariah. That… helps.”

“Won’t help the heartbreak,” he says, scooching his chair to face forward again. “But it’ll help the mindset goin’ forward. Heartbreak is best dealt with when you aren’t constantly inflicting it on yourself. Trust me.”

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-azariah #b&tsm-olive #b&tsm-piper #b&tsm-brie #b&tsm-roxanne #b&tsm-meat #b&tsm-jules #b&tsm-lucille

[empty-masks]

Book Three, Chapter Twelve

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you MEAN he’s still stuck?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Mack.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know!”

“This is gonna hurt a lot!”

“I know!”

“The turn’s just about to—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Probably.” Meat’s head tilts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jules, you’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

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

“I know, Lucille.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Book 3 End.

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

[ Table of Contents ]

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

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[empty-masks]

Book Four, Chapter Three

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

Jules sips his cup of blood, stale and tasting of IV bag. Though it wouldn’t be enough to fix him up immediately, keeping himself juiced would be imperative to a speedy recovery if he and Lucille plan to get back on the road. He had gotten all his bones set and splinted, his cuts stitched shut, and his eyes checked for any concussions. All they had to do now was wait for the magic to happen. Which would take up to a week for him to walk, not run, without a cane. He sets down the cup, and adjusts himself in bed.

    “Hey, thanks again,” he says.

“Don’t mention it,” Lucille grumbles. She sits on a rickety old chair, nursing her own cup of something with both hands. There are bags under her eyes from having spent the night keeping Jules stable.

“I’m sorry for this.”

She looks up at him. “For what?”

He motions to his body. “This. Having to do something stupid to save us, ‘cause I fucked up.” He also motions to her. “And for that. You look terrible, Lucille.”

For a moment she looks as though she wants to argue with him, but with a tired sigh, she just replies, “It happens.”

“They happened ‘cause I was an idiot. I didn’t think ahead, I didn’t consider the you factor, and it got us both burnt.”

“Don’t tell me you had anything to do with that monster.”

“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the gang thing. You know, the mafia I didn’t tell you about?”

“That barely matters to this,” she says, motioning to him, “right now. That thing did this to you, not the gang.”

The Vampire frowns. “I know, but you were mad at me earlier for it, and we wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t fucked up in the first place. I want to make amends. Somehow.” He looks at her, all sad eyes and untamed facial hair. “For real.”

She looks back at him, eyebrow raised and cup of joe in hand. “You’re out of commission, Jules. What can you do?”

“I can quit the Carnevale,” he replies. “They don’t let people quit.”

“Then I’ll leave. Stop taking calls, stop doing their work.”

“Really?”

“Leslie will want me dead, but if it means being honest from here on out to my partner? I’ll leave today, I don’t give a fuck.”

“Really.”

“Really really,” Jules says, grabbing his cup of blood. “When I can visit to break the news, anyways.”   

“Which will be?”

He begins to sit up in bed. “Let’s see.”

She stands up from her chair, and quickly moves to his side. “I get your point,” she chuckles. “But don’t fuck around like that, you’re still too screwed up. Idiot.”

“I’m serious! You think I’m not committed, Lucille?”

“Committed to getting yourself hurt.”

“To this,” he motions to her with his cup. “And to this,” he motions to himself, before finishing the rest in a single swig. “Because I don’t think there’s anything I love more than us. Maybe I was taking it for granted, but mashing my bones to paste and hurting my friend has taught me better.”

Lucille finds herself struggling to respond for a moment. Never, not once in their entire partnership, have they ever had a heart-to-heart about the nature of their job. Appreciation was always in the form of banter, gifts, medical care. Money. It was easy for her to grow a little cold toward him, because in her head, she had also taken him for granted in a way. He would always be around, and so, it was impossible to imagine what it’d be like without him. But now that he’s in this state, having nearly turned himself to jelly to save them both, she realizes just how mortal he is. And how mortal she’d be without him. She sets her cup down, then leans over the bed to hug him.

“I’m sorry too, Jules.”

He accepts the hug lightly with his good arm, not particularly sure what to think, seeing as how she has a maw on her stomach. “Uh, for?”

“Being a dick and not understanding what this meant.”

“This being?”

She pulls away from the hug, and motions to the both of them. “This, prick.”

“Oh!” The Vampire beams. “That means a lot, pal.”

Lucille walks back over to her seat, and wipes her eyes free of any errant tears.

“I know.”

“Wait, are you crying?” he asks, leaning forward in bed.

She shakes her head no— but as she does so, she also leans forward in her seat, and holds her eyes with one hand. “Aww, Lucille! It’s okay!”

It takes her a while to recompose herself, as the last time she’d cried was during the funeral of one of her closest enemies— the kind that gives you purpose in the same way a good friend does. And when the waterworks start to flow, it’s difficult to get them to stop if the pipes haven’t been used in a while. Jules finds himself comforting her to the best his body can muster, even if it means that she has to kneel next to the bed so that he can put his non-splinted arm around her.

Eventually, she looks up at the ceiling, gives herself a good slap, and dries up her eyes with her sleeve. “God, that was embarrassing,” Lucille says with a sniff.

“My lips are sealed,” he responds. “No shame from me. Most people do it all the time.”

“We’re not most people.”

“You’re right on that front.”

She stands up, shaking out her legs. “Well. I gave Piper a ring while you were out.”

Jules bunches up his face in light disgust, “Piper? Why her?”

“I thought we could use a little assistance. Since you’re all fucked up, and all.”

“Piper…” his voice trails off.

“Yeah. I had to leave a message, though. Hopefully she gets it. I know it's a few days drive up from Shepherd HQ,” she says, sitting back down in her chair.

“She knows about the quarry, right? About how we’ve got no idea where they’re at?”

“Everyone in that company knows. I figured we’re out of the game, but I didn’t want to stay here. Not where the Carnevale can keep on our asses.”

“So you called her, a Shepherd Gemstone foreman, to take us to Pickman’s Hope. AKA, the only place in the valley where she can’t go.”

“She won’t want to stay. What’s there for her? Those bounties never stay put anyway. She’ll be on their trail.”

“Good point,” Jules says, not entirely believing himself.

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

    Piper’s lips purse as she runs her fingers over a fabric that she would have feared to tear mere weeks ago, her fingertips gliding across the soft, handwoven dress. It’s blue, and about the right size for the girl. All things considered it might be enough to smooth over their talk, given some time.

She’d already gotten something for the boy. Luckily, while many of the shops in Fusillade had been more or less decimated by whatever hell had come calling, the one toy shop had not. She’s standing in the middle of it now, still feeling over the dress. The work that goes into making dresses for dolls can also go into making dresses for girls, and much the same for the clothes of the good soldier toys and much of boys’ clothing. Besides, if you’re buying toys for kids, you might as well undercut the obvious front shop’s rates for children’s clothing.

She brings the dress to the owner of the shop, a frazzled looking old bird in a bandanna and a simple overall dress, and places down the dress before setting a wooden pop pistol— the sort with the cork on a string you place in the barrel before pulling some mechanism to make it ‘pop’ and, as such, shoot— atop it.

“Got kids?” The old woman squawks, beak clacking and black feathers ruffling.

“I do now.”

“Ah, okay. Want these packaged and labeled?”

“It’d be appreciated. Pistol’s for Tanner, the dress is for… It’s for…” Her eyes are trailing after someone just outside the window, a human woman with brown hair and an unbearably boring style of dress. “Brie?”

“Tanner and Brie, gotcha.”

“No, Tanner and Madrone, actually. There’s somebody outside—”

The toymaker nods. “Tanner and Madrone, got it.” And with that, she’s crossing out the already written “BRIE” on the packaging, placing some entirely opaque tape over it, and writing “MADRONE.”

Piper doesn’t need to head outside to cut off the investigator, because she actually walks inside, notebook in one hand and a well used pen in the other. “You,” she says, clicking her pen in anticipation of noteworthy material. “You are one of the foremen from the Smokestone location down beyond Kiln. Piper, yes? I remember you.”

“That situation’s a little complicated at the moment.” Piper, smiling, places a small wad of cash in front of the toymaker and is given a bag with her two packages inside. “And you’re Brie. I remember you plenty, too. Surprised to find you here of all places, considering as you’re playing lackey for that parasite Hickory. It safe to assume those runaways have come through? They what did all this?”

Brie shakes her head, then walks over to the owner of the shop, with whom she begins asking basic questions, if anything had been destroyed and the like. Meanwhile, Piper goes and stands outside, opting instead to wait for the end of that incredibly boring bit of work on the insurance department’s end so that she could continue prodding Brie for information. Jules and Lucille can wait a little longer for this.

A few minutes later Brie’s exiting, eyes trained on her notebook, and Piper falls into step alongside her. “You didn’t give me an answer on the whole thing going on around here, B. So, it wasn’t the runaways?”

“No, Ms. Piper, it was not.”

“Huh. Weird, so far, utter destruction has followed in their path. What the hell happened, then? Looks like somebody tried to grill the town.”

Brie frowns, but taps her notebook with her pen. “I am still processing it myself, but there’s quite a lot to catalogue at the moment.”

The two come to a halt at an intersection, or at least a crossroad that could generally be considered the dirt expy of one. The fires were put out a long, long while ago, so now all that’s left is for the wood and stone to crumble or be rebuilt. In some of them folks are working on patching up what’s there, in others there are tough looking types with hammers clearing away the ruin to make room for something new. Either way, Fusillade’s quick to recover.

Brie gestures around with her pen. “It is all necessary to write down because, technically, it has happened in part due to Shepherd Gemstone. If not entirely due to Shepherd Gemstone, because a great deal of it has been destroyed by one of their own employees.” She stops, then squints at the coat Piper’s wearing.

“How unfortunate. Well, I’m sure that Ms. Hickory’ll be real happy to hear about how this investigative endeavor of yours has gone from finding murderous runaways to letting her know how much all of these people are owed by the company because of some wild arsonist. Bless your heart, I could never do this sorta thing myself.” Piper laughs, looking around. “Yeah, damage control just seems like a good way to get walked all over, since it looks to be all about you tallying up the shit other people get done while your work gets away from you.”

Piper slings the bags over her shoulder and begins walking back toward her car, adjusting the weight of the presents against her back as her tail sways and curls against the ground behind her. “That’s why I’ve decided to move branches, I’m done with mining— and write that down for your stupid little report, too. I couldn’t be the culprit, I was a bit too busy getting a position in acquisitions down at HQ whenever this happened.”

Brie clears her throat. “I do not need evidence as to who did it. The identity of the perpetrator is not an unknown factor here, Ms. Piper, as it is none other than Blondie… Whose coat you appear to be wearing.”

Piper lets out a rattling laugh as she turns around to face the woman, fangs bared by her grin. “Good one, B, good one. And here I thought you didn’t know how to tell any jokes— right, corpses stand back up and start setting fires.” She pantomimes wiping a tear from one eye, then laughs again. “Don’t be disrespectful of the dead. Back at HQ they were pretty sure he’d bit it trying to save a local party of concerned civilians from that nasty Wyrm they had flying around. Bless the fool’s heart, he went out a hero.”

“Corpses actually can do that, as I learned earlier, under the right circumstances. Have you heard of a Notus before?”

Piper shrugs. “I dunno, daddy once told me about ‘em as a reason not to play with fire. Never met one, pretty sure they’re fake.”

Meat clears their throat as they approach, and Piper has neither the time or the restraint to keep herself from making a face at the sight of them as they walk over to Brie, saying, “I’m getting tired.”

“No you are not,” Brie replies, “I remember that you do not actually get tired like someone still living.”

“Okay, I’m getting tired of this. We should be heading out to Pickman’s Hope to go kick that wolf’s ass.” Their jaw clacks as they shut it hard, and then both their and Brie’s heads turn toward Piper.

She’s smiling now, at least. Not on the inside, but she’s smiling outwardly. “Real nice to meet you, uh, guy.”

“Meat.”

Piper’s smile twitches, threatening to fall. “Yeah, I said that, nice to meet you.”

“No, my name’s Meat and I’m not a guy.”

Brie turns to look toward Meat. “I thought you were still undecided?”

They shrug. “I’ve settled into it again. I think I was like this before the fire anyways. Memories are still fuzzy, though. Who was your pal?”

“Was?” Brie turns to look toward Piper again— and she’s not there. “Oh. I had questions for her.”

Meat rubs the top of their skull. “And you didn’t answer mine. You got a girlfriend you aren’t telling us about?”

“One, I would not date her if she were the last eligible bachelorette on the planet. Two, not one either of you two would know; she lives north of Honeysett.”

“The blonde woman in the tac-jacket or your girlfriend?”

“My girlfriend, Meat. The blonde woman in the tactical coat is not my girlfriend and she does not live north of Honeysett. That woman is or was a foreman at the same site that I met Roxanne at, the one where she got attacked by Blondie. The big wolf monster?” Brie clicks her pen rhythmically, following the tune of their footsteps.

“You didn’t mention anything about a girlfriend, Ms. Brie,” comes a new old voice, who falls into step beside the other two. Roxanne grins. “Color me impressed, dear. Enough about the dog we’re hunting though, you should catch us up to speed about why you were conversing with that Shepherd employee.”

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

    Piper gently places the presents into the trunk of the car just beside the Quilting Club box before locking said trunk and settling into the driver’s seat again. An entire second of silence passes after she’s shut the door when she begins screaming and throwing her fists against the dashboard.

It’s a harsh, visceral sound escaping her throat that rolls into a high hiss as claws begin to poke dangerously at the tips of her gloves’ fingers, warning her to stop her tantrum before she ruins her clothes with an unwilling transformation. It gets bad enough that she can feel her hate dripping from her fangs in a literal, liquid form, and the soft sound of a single droplet of venom touching her coat is enough to force her to calm back down.

She grips the wheel as though she could wring its neck as the changes subside again, and after a moment she leans out the window to spit the remaining venom out into the dirt. This is a problem, she realizes. This is most definitely a problem.

He’s supposed to be dead. He’s supposed to be dead because if he isn’t, then a lot of things are going to pretty quickly go from being great to being problems too. The car’s one thing, the weapon, the job, the wife, everything’s about to go sideways at best. What was it that the square had said, though?

He’s a Notus. Stupid old stories about corpses coming back to life and lighting things on fire. Right, of course, okay— she can work with this.

That means she’s at least keeping the job. If he died, as one needs to in order to become a Notus, then from a contract standpoint his is null, he’d have to be reinstated by top brass and the amount of time that’d take would give her at least a week to figure out how to kill him again. As for Janet, the problem’s less with Janet and more with Blondie.

“She traded in for the new model,” she says to herself. “Not going to ditch me for a flaming corpse. Okay. Okay.” She rolls her shoulders, snaps her jaws, looks herself over in the mirror. No tears this time. She’s getting better.

Another name added to the list. Jules, Lucille, and now Blondie. She can handle them.

Time to go pick up those two numbskulls and hope they can at least act competently enough to lead her to the five before that awkward weirdo and her corpse.

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

A steady stream of cash has always flowed through the center of Pickman’s Hope. Before the Shepherd Gemstone takeover, the mining and spelunking business gave the town sufficient funds to build up its city centre into something great— one with multi-level, affordable apartment buildings, an outdoor venue for performers to earn a little extra cash, and a bustling plaza where traveling vendors could come to peddle whatever wares they might be selling. The money traveled up and down the streets, too, with especially successful shops decorating their roads and the neighboring buildings to match what they were selling.

Gutter’s Glade, as it was known, was never large enough to become a city, and it never seemed to want to be. Outside the town center, buildings were mostly residential and built with local materials, each one a labour of love for the inhabitant in question. Construction was done around trees of particular size and age, and the shade was much appreciated on those warmer autumn days.

But, while the money did not stop flowing while Shepherd Gemstone was in control, the people certainly did. Shops that once thrived were forced to shut down, as their product was now in corporate hands. Certain roads in the town center became desolate as shopfronts, carts, and residential buildings were abandoned outright. The surrounding residences began the slow strangling process of being taken over by nature once again, since there were no longer folks to help balance things out. Sure, the cash was still there, product was being moved out of the hills at an incredible rate— but only drops of it went to the town.

Nowadays, the town of Pickman’s Hope, in all its autumnal glory, is in the process of waking up from its dormancy. The money is back in the hands of the people, and reconstruction has begun. Those abandoned streets have been cleaned and fixed, buildings being repurposed and sold to those wanting to start their own businesses. The venue in the center of town occasionally gets a band or a play again, which many of the citizens mark their calendars for. And while their population isn’t what it used to be, the sense of neighborly love more than makes up for the distance between homes. It may be a shadow of what it once was, but Pickman’s Hope is recovering steadily, and it wears its history like a badge of honour.

After driving around town for a minute, Olive and Cherry eventually walk into the Mechanic’s Guild Storefront. The only door they can find is a sheet of corrugated metal controlled by a chain— and though it’s marked as “ENTRANCE” in big, welded letters, it can be hard to tell whether it’s a door for cars or a door for people, with these places.

    Once inside, Cherry realizes very quickly that this place is a trap designed to keep him there for as long as humanly possible. The building itself is an old storehouse, which means that they’ll have a surplus of the parts he wants, and it’ll have been stacked all the way to the roof. Parts of all kinds; performance pieces from the manufacturers in the Great Bayou across the Dividends, legally-questionable parts from New Bird, the new racing capital of the world. Custom parts too; Cherry could tell by the sound of saws, soldering irons, flying sparks, and metallic hissing echoing through the building. It smells intensely like grease, motor oil, biofuel, and ozone. To him, like his favourite version of home.

It’s a trap that pertained directly toward his main interest, no, his fixation (he fondly remembers his fathers having to pull him away from his car to have a talk about getting a real job), and it’s almost too much for him to take in again.

While Cherry stands there ogling, Olive waves a feathered hand in front of his face. “Yoohoo, Cherry. You gonna answer me or what?”   

He blinks. “Oh, sorry. What, uh, was the question again?”

“Are you sure they sell bio at these places? Looks like they just keep metal bits on the shelves.”

“It’s illegal to stock it in a customer self-serve section,” Cherry replies, “since it’s so dangerous. Well, most of the time it’ll be illegal. I’ve been told it’s illegal, but I don’t know who could stop them if they did anyways. They probably keep it behind the desk, though. Don’t worry.”

“Oh. It burn easy?”

“Very. It’s genius, really. I’ve seen high-quality bio combust when someone stomped on a puddle of it in the asphalt.”

“Oh,” Olive rubs her head. “Yeah, I’d see why they’d put it in the back, then.”

“Makes sense, right? Now,” he starts, explicitly moving away from the front counter. “Before we do that, I’ve got something I wanna look for. I bet a town like this would have it stocked, but I don’t wanna be the guy who walks up to the counter asking for something before looking, you know?”

The Owl raises an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah. What’re you lookin’ for?”

    Earlier in the day, after they had arrived at Pickman’s Hope and parked the truck, Cherry was getting into learning how it was put together. And boy, was it a glorious patch-job. Hardly anything was stock anymore, and anything that was had been recently replaced. Some very, very big replacements, too. Nearly brand-new stock transmission, which explained how butter-smooth it felt shifting gears. The suspension was the oldest thing in it, and though it was Blizzard Blitz-brand, which was known for its good dirt-and-stone performance, it had seen a little too much love over the years and could use a nice retirement. Cherry made a mental note at the time to mention to Judith that he’d found the reason why some bumps in the road felt worse than others.

But, one of the most enticing things Cherry found while exploring was the presence of a compartment, accessible by the driver’s side of the interior, which looked as though it would perfectly cradle a can of nitrous oxide. Now, while he had never gotten the chance to use the stuff himself, since it was banned at many of the meets he would attend for its tendency to send racers flying off the tracks and into trees, just the thought of being able to use the boost juice was far too tempting to let up. There was a brand he had in mind, too—

“Look for the word ‘Pounder,’ Olive,” Cherry says, as they come to a section in Isle 6.

Her face scrunches up. “Pounder?”

“The name’s a little weird, I know. Trust me.”

The Owl turns the name over in her head one more time, then gets to browsing the shelves. Momentarily, of course, since the shelves are quite big and any given selection of nitrous oxide canisters is bound to be small. She picks up one of the metal canisters, painted off-white and labeled with a sticker. “Pounder Nitrous,” it says, underneath a stylized icon of a tall canister between two tires. “Lasts longer than any other brand, or your money back!”

“Why the cock an’ balls?” she chuckles.

“I think it has something to do with the owner’s name. Maybe they figured it’d be funny to lean into it. Or something. Maybe,” Cherry replies, scouring his section of the shelf.

“It is pretty funny.”

“Wait, did you find some?”

“Yep.”

The Mechanic whips around, beaming. “Holy shit, great! That’s really good, wow!”

“You still haven’t told me what it’s for.”

“You stick it in your car and it makes it go faster. C’mon, we’ve gotta get to checkout!”

“Next you’re gonna tell me the paint job could make it go faster. Cock and balls makes it quicker?” she asks, genuinely confused.

“No, no! It’s just a branding thing, the stuff gets gassed into the engine and it makes it burn fuel quicker, making the car go faster!”

“How in the world’s that work?”

“I’ll show you if you want, but later! When we’re back with the others!”

“If you say so, Cherry.”

    They approach an empty front counter to the sound of an angle grinder around the corner. And despite there being a bell for them to ring for that exact scenario, it takes a couple before someone pokes their welding masked-head out, slaps their greasy gloves onto a table, and begins to jog over.

“Sorry about that, folks! What can I do ya’ for?” the employee says, slicking back a sweaty head of black hair.

Cherry hesitates for a moment despite his excitement, as the man behind the counter has turned out to be far more attractive than he was prepared to deal with. He’s taller than both him and Olive, clocking in around 6’2”. He’s toned underneath his work shirt and apron. And his face, though hardened and pocked with scars from flying sparks, is young and sharp, with a cheekbone-jawline combo you could cut gemstones with. If one were to guess, he wasn’t Spawned, rather the baby of a Basic Human and some sort of Orc. And to Cherry, he might’ve been even more attractive than the nitrous in his hands. Maybe.

In the silence that broke between the three of them, Olive clears her throat to break Cherry’s trance.

“Yeah, uh, sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “We’re buying this. And a few gallons of bio, too.”

“Sounds good!” the clerk responds, cracking the Mechanic a smile. “Ahh, the ol’ can of cock and balls,” he comments upon seeing the canister.

“That’s what I said!” Olive chimes in.

“We usually don’t get people lookin’ for this stuff. You got something that can take it?”

Cherry nods. “Uh, yeah. We kinda, uh, stumbled into a truck. Has all these mods, bought it from a guy down in Fusillade. Turned out to have nitrous compatibility built in, who would’ve guessed.”

“You might wanna consider installing some handlebars in the back then, if you’re plannin’ on using it for transport!,” the clerk laughs. “Wouldn’t want your pals flying out when you hit the gas!”

Olive laughs as well— but Cherry, in his anxiety, just smiles and nods.

After punching a few numbers into the cash register, the clerk holds up a finger. “I’ll be right back with your bio. Don’t go anywhere, ok?”

Olive grunts as she adjusts the jug of bio they’d bought on her shoulder.

“So,” she starts, “you liked what you saw?”

“Yeah,” Cherry responds, holding his arms out to the sky. “God, I missed this.”

“The cock an’ balls an’ the hot clerks? Or the clouds?”

“The former. I missed it so much.”

“Hah!” she squawks more than laughs. “There’s no way that you got around thanks to cars. No way.”

“You’re right, I didn’t. But there’s something about them that just… attracts hot people. You know?”

“I always thought that people who’d work on cars’d be all gross. Workin’ with all that grime an’ grease all the time.”

“That’s the look, though,” he replies. “It’s great, right?”

She motions to her feathers. “You think I’d wanna get down with someone all nasty like that? Have you seen what happens to birds who get muddy, Cherry?”

“Fair point. It’s not for everyone.” He turns to her, pointing a finger as they walk. “But it’s hard to see why not! You saw that guy, right?”

“I did.”

“And you didn’t feel some butterflies?”

“No sir.”

Cherry squints.

“Nope!” Olive replies, throwing up her free arm. “I didn’t find him attractive, Cherry.”

“You’re not screwing with me?”

“You were the only one wantin’ to hop his nitrous in the room, buddy.”

“Okay. Fine, okay,” he says, giving up. “The cock and balls jokes end once we’re at the car, okay?”

She squawks again, nearly dropping the jug of biofuel. “No promises!”

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-cherry #b&tsm-olive #b&tsm-piper #b&tsm-brie #b&tsm-roxanne #b&tsm-meat #b&tsm-jules #b&tsm-lucille

[empty-masks]

Book Four, Chapter Two

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

“As your first act as hero of Fusillade,” Roxanne starts, guiding Meat toward the heavily burned but still intact Clothier’s shop. “We should get you something fireproof to wear.”

“My clothes were fireproof,” they respond.

“Not fireproof enough, clearly. Let’s ask whether there’s a specialist around. We can’t have you running around in nothing but a poncho, honey.”

Meat looks down at their body. Fit, but flat, mostly. Features don’t tend to stick around after being badly charred. “Why not?”

“Society, Meat. Clothing invites civility, familiarity. People will think you’re a Devil if you’re not wearing clothes.” She opens the door to the Clothier’s for them. “And don’t say that they’re right. You saved an entire town yesterday, and Monsters only do that on accident. Get your butt inside, please.”

    The shop itself had been mostly unharmed by the skirmish, with only the front windows suffering from some melted draft sealant and the brick looking a little more charred than usual. Most of the valuable product in the store was semi-fireproof anyways, so the main issue became apparent as soon as the pair walked in; staffing. Getting people to come to work a day after a disaster is hard enough, but when it’s a disaster that has a good chance of directly affecting the families and homes of everyone you employ, you had better be ready to do everything yourself.

And that’s exactly what the Clothier is having to do. His legs bound from station to station, mostly from the cash register to the fitting rooms, as people of all walks come to restock on cheap, temporary wear. It could be called a madhouse, if it weren’t for the fact that nobody’s mad or even particularly annoyed, just concerned for the health of the Clothier, who’s cherry-red in the face and significantly winded by the time Meat and Roxanne walk in.

When they walk in, too, the seas part for them. People gawk at Meat, which is something they were only just getting used to. But this time, it wasn’t for their appearance, no. It was for their accomplishments. They were the person that kept the other thing from burning down the town. They were the person that helped out the fire brigade once the other thing had left, they cleared the flames with a wave of their hands! And the other one, that fox lady with the peg leg, she was there too with the paramedics!

Meat is no longer something that goes thud in the night, they’re a town mascot! And though the positive light is encouraging, they can’t help but feel a little condescended toward when the Clothier, upon seeing them at the front door, shoos away his current customer and invites them over.

“Is there something you need, anything at all?” he pants, holding up a finger to the waiting customer. “You look like you could use something new, something fresh, all on the house of course, you saved my life and my livelihood, gosh it’s hot in here!” Roxanne cuts to the chase. “We’re flattered, but may you point us in the direction of some stronger fireproofing? Your poncho held up, but as you can see the rest didn’t.”

“Oh, well, you win some you lose some, of course, but let’s see, I know of a handful of fabric-makers in town who specialize in such a thing, I shall have their addresses and a recommendation for you in a moment, do not fret,” the Clothier says.

In a panicked motion, he stuffs the prior customer’s change into the paper bag containing their order, throws it over Meat and Roxannes’ heads, and ducks under the counter, scrambling for something to write with, and write on.

 For a few moments, light cursing can be heard as things are knocked over, dropped onto the floor, and whipped around before the Clothier shows his head again. Now that the components are in his hands, he starts, “Okay, here you are, wonderful, beautiful. The first of my colleagues is a spinner named Kinsley, she runs a beautiful, fantastic studio on Curio Road, so long as it’s still there, and she should have some finished pieces for you to choose from, and the second is named Merrick, who I love very dearly as one of my closest friends and business associates, as he supplies many of the fabrics you see here today, excepting his more specialty fabrics, which you can find in his wonderful studio off Warbler Boulevard, again, assuming those streets still exist after the destruction.”

He hands the slip of paper to Meat, continuing, “Send them my regards, and my apologies for not being able to aid with potential cleanup, as my shop has swamped me with work thanks to the extraneous situations my employees are in, and that once this is all over, we shall get lunch together sometime to catch up. Thank you for visiting, next customer please!”

 As the bell of the Clothier shop’s door rings behind them, they stop to look at one another.

“Poor guy,” Meat says.

“Oh, it’s just one day of busywork. I feel worse for his customers, to be frank. Can you imagine what he’s like when he’s not overworked to hell and back?”

“He seemed pretty scared when we last saw him.”

“Well, that’s because he was quite practically a hostage.”

“We were the ones captured.”

“Good point,” Roxanne chuckles, “Perhaps he didn’t want blood on the nice velvet floors back there.”

“I don’t think I have blood,” Meat responds.

“Well I do, and I say that we start on getting you some proper clothes.”

Roxanne looks down at the slip of paper, which shows the two addresses written in handwriting that could’ve been quite pretty, had it not been for the speed at which the pen was moving. Some of the points at which there would be decorative lines seem to have blended together with the main body of the text, which reminds Roxanne of when she’d make those bundles of sticky egg noodles back in way-back-when. “Is there someone you’d like to see first?”

“Is there one that’s closer?”

“There certainly is.”

Meat shrugs. “Let’s do that one, then.”

“Merrick’s shop it is, then.”

    After the complete bust that was Merrick’s store left them feeling worse for wear and slightly violated by the man’s voracious, desperate, all-consuming need to sell them something, anything at all, the pair find themselves in the dressing room of Kinsley’s studio. The owner of which, revealed to not be named Kinsely but rather Samantha by birth in a brief conversation, is much more lax. When the pair had first walked in, she had set up a chair next to a hole that had been burnt through the building, and was drinking a glass of some yellow, crushed-fruit juice lazily.

Most of the windows in the shop have been blown out, including those in the dressing room that Meat and Roxanne now stood in, but Kinsley had graciously taken the time to sweep up the broken glass into a remote corner before they entered.

And now that they were able to take in their options, Meat realizes that this is an incredibly different store from the Clothier’s outlet.

Everything was fit to be loose and flowing, with bright, contrasting colours and floral patterns galore. Neutral colours hardly seemed to exist unless they were melded into a piece’s palette, and the colour grey in particular didn’t seem to exist at all in the pieces they were presented with. And they were presented with a lot.

Roxanne couldn’t help but laugh as Meat rejected piece after piece. No shawls, since they restricted vision slightly, because Meat didn’t like the patterns, and because there’s an approximately zero percent chance of their skull-head getting sunburnt. No skirts or dresses, since they have a tendency to balloon up in the presence of hot air, which defeats the purpose of wearing anything to begin with. No scarves, no hats, no long-sleeve shirts, no long-sleeve pants. In fact, after about half an hour straight of trying on clothes, Kinsely knocks on the door to check in, asking whether they need anything in particular.

Exasperated, Meat says, “Yeah, do you have anything plain?”

After a few moments of silence, the Weaver responds, “I’ll be right back.”

Roxanne and Meat wait five minutes for another knock at the door, after which a pair of black canvas pants, red stripes down the sides of the legs, are held out for them to take.

“I found these in my apartment. I think I used to wear them before I owned this place. Still plenty fireproof,” Kinsley says.

Meat slips them on. Comfortable, waist-banded at the bottom, and matches with their poncho. “We’ll take them.”

    As the pair walks out into the open again, Roxanne asks, “Are you sure you didn’t want that sunflower-patterned dress? I think it would’ve paired great with your dragon-scale top. You would’ve looked absolutely adorable.”

“Dresses don’t work for me,” they respond, shaking out their legs.

“Whatever suits your tastes, dear.” She stretches out her arms, cracks her knuckles, and pulls her wallet out of her pocket. “How many crossbow bolts do you suppose a few hundred Tilt will get me?”

Meat cocks their head. “Why do you need them?”

“We are hunting a wolf, Meat.” “Oh.” They scratch their skull. “I’d say a dozen, maybe. I don’t remember the prices around here.”

“Any suppliers come to mind?”

“Mostly Carnevale-owned. Unless things have changed.” “Then I’ll go with Brie later today. Let’s get some food in us in the meantime.”

“I don’t eat, Roxanne.”

“More for me, then,” she says, leading them down the road.

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

“Azariah’s taking a while.”

“He’ll be fine, Leon. This place is practically his back yard, or some sentimental crap like that. What was it that he called it before?” Judith, her arms folded against the diner table, lets out a low huff.

“Gutter’s Glade. Before our time, back before it kicked Shepherd to the curb.” Leon rubs the back of his neck, directing his eyes down to the plates between the two of them. Upon his is a small bowl of soup, a local affair floating chunks of some kind of white meat in a disquietingly thick and almost syrupy broth, alongside bits of vegetable which were cut small enough that only color could hint at their true identity. Each spoonful takes effort to separate from the rest of the near gelatinous meal, which is only getting harder to spoon out as it cools.

Judith, meanwhile, has been picking at a local delicacy also; upon her plate is a small mountain of fried honey-potato peels, heavily spiced. Where most around her are taking to such food with their fingers, Judith is occasionally skewering a peel or three on a rather dull looking fork and sometimes popping them into her mouth. More often she’s simply poking at them to give an air of actual hunger, but she isn’t hungry, she’s nervous.

They’re both sitting together in a booth at a local diner and saloon that looks like it’s seen shinier, more active days, but that would be hard to believe considering that it’s actually rather bustling in there at the moment. Not twenty minutes ago many of the local businesses in Pickman’s Hope have gone either on break or have let their workers out for the day, and while there are several other places in town to get a heavy drink and a heavier meal, the Bleeding Scab also has several table-games to play, an area for gambling off to the side, and upstairs there were rooms to rent— by the hour— that just so happened to have folks that would come in and make sure you enjoyed that hour.

So, they’re surrounded by a large contingent of blue collars from different occupations, all of whom enjoyed the following pastimes: drinking, gambling, and sex. Being loud is a good number four, and Judith and Leon are counting on that to keep their conversations quiet while they wait for Azariah to return with the friend he’d claimed would help them.

Leon leans back in his seat, allowing his spoon to settle in the soup-gel. “You think that guy is even still here? For all he knows, his pal could be dead. We should be getting ready to lie low again.”

“Look,” Judith starts, setting her fork down to set her hand on top of one of Leon’s, “I’m happy to complain about this, from how shit that soup looks to how crap these potato peels taste, but let’s not start worrying yet.” It’s a lie, she’s already worrying, but it’d be worse if he starts too. At least if one of them isn’t nervous about everything happening there’s potential for the other to calm down, if they’re both freaking out they might as well just run.

“Ok.” Leon sighs. “Then let’s talk about the food, since I need something to distract myself. I think I could use my soup to grout bricks together.”

“Hah.” Judith smiles slightly. “Seems to me like they went and decided to give you a bowl of fertilizer with some old white meat tossed in.”

“It doesn’t taste bad, though. It’s nice once you get past the first couple bites.”

“You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if they smack a couple packets of gelatin into the pot before serving. I’ve never seen a soup do that in my life.” She laughs.

Leon laughs too as he glances around. “Considering where we are,” he starts, testing to see if he can tip his bowl without the soup moving. “I’d say the gravity-defying food is normal. I think I hear somebody getting conceived upstairs.”

Judith snorts. “You said he joked about sleeping around?”

“Yeah. I didn’t believe him until he took us here. It’d be funnier if I didn’t know already.”

“Guess so. There’s something about that concept that fucks me up, though. Imagining Azariah as a young person now is like painting a swashbuckler over a cracked, wrinkled old canvas. He talks all this big shit about fighting assholes, sticking it to the man, and now? Hooking up with the folks he beats up. There’s gotta be some pathology there, right.” Judith’s tone turns to one of genuine musing. “Something something prey instinct, something something crossing wires. It’d be easier if he were just into feet.”

The Orc nearly chokes on his spoon. “Christ, warn me next time you’re gonna make a joke like that. If I died here I’d be put in the soup.”

Judith’s smile grows just enough that it reaches her eyes, adding a slight scrunch at each corner. “Not once they find out you’ve got rocks in your bones.”

Leon chuckles. “You sure? Meat’s meat, I bet I’d taste alright once you’ve given me a wash.”

The world’s a little quieter, at least in this booth. Her hand on his, her eyes on him, that smile, he’s obligated. It’s time to break the news, before this gets any worse for him. It needs to happen before anything can happen to them.

“Hey Judith,” he starts, the effort necessary to keep his voice level plain in his tone, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Judith blinks, and very suddenly she feels as though there’s an animal in a cage screaming in the back of her head. Her heart rate’s rising, she can feel the beat in her ears, and everything’s feeling a lot warmer around her. Nervous is bad. She doesn’t want to turn into a wolf monster right now, not when it seems so close. Or maybe it wasn’t that, there could be a million different things Leon might want to say to her, that he’s waited to tell her while they’re alone, eating together, without the others nearby. There are so many options for what that could be.

“I don’t know how to say this, but I’ll try anyway. You dealt with a lot of shit before we left. After that, we spent a lot of time together, and well…” His mouth opens and shuts without words for a brief time, and it refuses to come out. The drill exploded because of my fuckup, he wants to say, but it refuses.

She can feel her fangs getting a little too sharp for comfort, and she has to stop herself from biting her lip. They’re fangs now, her eyes are very, very green and she can feel every muscle in her body tensing like if he says one more goddamned thing she is going to start howling and tossing tables out of sheer adrenaline. “Leon—”

“‘Scuse me, you two, but uh,” interrupts a fellow in a heavy jumpsuit, the top tied around his waist, leaving him in a tank top. He’s a big man, some kind of avian like Olive but his feathers are white and his eyes are so black they might as well be all pupils. “Me and my pals were wondering if we might ask y’all a question?”

Behind the barn owl are several similarly built people, some Golems, a couple Anthros, and even some Orcs. One of them, a woman made of stone, leans over. “Bill, look, she’s missin’ a hand.”

One of the orc men behind them also speaks up, saying, “And he’s got no tusks! They match the description, Bill, holy cow, these’re them!”

Leon is anxious now. Bad enough someone recognizes Judith, but now they’re recognizing him. “Plenty of orcs lose their tusks,” he says, defensively. “We’re just trying to have something to eat.” His gaze travels to Judith.

She’s not having a good time, not in the slightest. He can feel that her nails have become claws because her hand is still on one of his and it feels like she’s starting to dig in. The group surrounding doesn’t step back, in fact Bill, the barn owl, actually steps closer.

“You match. A one-handed woman and a tuskless orc, and if what we’ve heard is to be believed, y’all came in with a hare. Which makes you Leon, and that makes her Judith. You know, it takes a lot of nerve to kill a foreman with an easily traceable weapon.”

“What?” Judith blinks, snapping out of her spiral. She’d heard the news, but there’s something about someone laying it out for her that’s exceedingly odd to hear.

“Yeah. Not to mention it was a big guy like they talked about in the reports. Looked him in the eye, put the barrel against his wolfy snout and blew him away like he was nothing.” Bill rises to an inordinate height, chest puffed out, before he raises a wing and turns to the entire diner. “A round for everybody, on me! We’ve got heroes in the house tonight, folks!”

Judith and Leon blink and let their jaws hang open just slightly, one as though he had something to say and the other out of simple shock. Without hesitation the entire place roared as the servers began carrying out large glasses of beer to each table. Several of the people behind Bill, a couple of the orcs and one of the golems, actually began singing some local drinking song and stomping their feet as though in celebration.

“Wait, who—” Judith starts, but is again interrupted as Bill picks her up alongside several of the other workers.

“AND THE BITCH DID IT WITH ONE HAND!” Screams the stone woman.

“YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT SHE DID IT WITH ONE HAND!” Calls Bill.

Judith’s in the air, and now she’s not entirely scared but somewhat nervous at least, though she understands now she isn’t in any danger. She looks back toward the table, a look of pleading on her features for Leon to do something, but as her eyes find his seat she realizes— Leon’s not there.

She frowns, then looks toward the ceiling with a resigned sigh. Of course he’d run off. Of course.

She suffers through about another minute of being hoisted into the air by a platform of rough, calloused hands before the door to the diner opened, shut, and some deep baritone calls out, “And this is how you young’uns treat a lady when she arrives in our town?”

Not a moment sooner is Judith placed back on her feet and brushed off by that same set of hands that had been carrying her around barely seconds ago. As she settles onto her feet again, she realizes she’s been placed not back in her booth but directly in front of the voice, or at least its owner.

Beside him is Azariah, who’s grinning like an idiot with his hands in his pockets. The man himself is nearly as wide as he is tall, built like a brick fortress; he’s strong looking not in the way that someone with washboard abs is strong looking but a functional strong, like a bear or a bull, where it’s not cut. He’s a wolfhound, tall with a long, blunted muzzle and ears that flop to either side, all covered in graying fur that, at one point, had likely been a much darker gray, but had always been gray regardless. Around the end of his maw the fur’s longer, closer to silver, and almost styled into something that might be considered a small beard.

His upper body’s clad in a dress shirt with fine embroidery at the shoulders and cuffs, the imagery of animal skulls and yellow roses. The shirt itself, of course, is a light blue. Around his neck is a bolo tie, into which is set a smoothed out quartz stone, simple and white.

The man’s got a pair of denim shorts on, made to accommodate his digitigrade legs that terminate in dully clawed paws covered in the same fur as his head and hands. On his belt are two details that stand out to Judith. A belt buckle large enough to cover a normal man’s fist and then some in shining steel, with the words “STRAY DOG” emblazoned upon it— and between the two words, a wolf’s skull engraving, and then attached to his belt is a holster, in which resides what appears to her is one deeply cared for sawed-off shotgun.

“Your kid know it’s impolite to stare?” He asks with a chuckle, turning toward Azariah.

“She’s not my kid, Sam.”

“She might as well be, all the effort y’all put in to getting these young’uns up here.” The wolfhound turns to Judith again, then, and offers a toothy smile before getting one large arm around her shoulders. “Welcome to Pickman’s Hope, Judith. Now, Billy…”

The barn owl nods, and bows his head. “Sorry, Uncle Parrish. We were just happy to see ‘em.”

“Uncle?” Azariah laughs. “Sam, you don’t have any siblings!”

“I’m everybody’s uncle in this town, just like you’re everybody’s grandpa. Just remember, Bill, that folks gone through a lot by the time they get here— let ‘em rest before you go and start chanting about how they went and killed some corpo.”

“Sorry, Uncle Parrish.”

“Don’t be, y’all are good people. The round’s on me, send the check over to my place.”

Judith shifts uncomfortably as the people surrounding return to their merriment, her green eyes scanning the room in hopes of finding Leon again. When she still doesn’t see him, she lets out a low sigh, which prompts the man to pat her on the shoulder.

After that the three walk out, and Azariah says, “This is the man I was goin’ to see, Judith. Though, back in my day he was skinnier and didn’t wear any fancy embroidered shirts.”

“Name’s Sam, Samson Parrish, most pleased to meet you Judith. Now, don’t let them spoil you on this fine town. Pickman’s Hope’s a good place filled with good people, they’re just a little rough around the edges and a bit enthusiastic. Billy’s a good kid, just comes on strong. Hasn’t been in an actual fight with the corporate types before, thinks it’s all fun and games and guts and glory. We know different though, ain’t that right Azariah? Ain’t easy killing somebody.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask about that. You really believe that shit up here? I didn’t kill anyone that night.” Judith looks up to Samson, who by this point has pulled his hands back to fold them behind himself, occasionally raising them to wave to passers by who typically return the greeting with one of their own.

“Really now? Well, I wouldn’t put Shepherd past makin’ somethin’ up and pinnin’ it on some poor runaways to drive up the bounty. Know we’re here for you if you want to talk about it, though. This’s the place to help dispel those kinds’a rumours. Why, I remember the first time I pulled the trigger on somebody trying to kill me—”

“Sam, this ain’t the time.” Azariah nudges him with an elbow. “Judith, where’s Leon? Didn’t I explicitly tell you both not to leave the Bleedin’ Scab?”

“Oh, Leon.” She crosses her arms. “When the crowd picked me up and started chanting he disappeared. How reliable.”

Samson’s nose twitches and he licks his chops. “He get the goop?”

“Yeah?”

“Right behind us.”

With that, Azariah and Judith both turn on a dime, and behind them they see Leon, expression having sunk down some. “Sorry.”

Judith throws her arms up and lets out a frustrated snarl before turning and starting to walk again, only to stop a few steps away. “Where are we going? I want to stomp there.”

“I’m bringing y’all to my place, Ms. Judith, once we pick up your lil’ friends. Where’d you say those two were?”

Azariah straightens a bit. “Olive and Cherry are down at the mechanics’ guild or union or whatever the hell it’s called, gettin’ some stuff for the truck or somethin’ like that— and I’m quickly realizin’ that might’ve been a bad idea. We should go get them now.”

“You think?” Judith and Leon both snap, but rather than look at Azariah, Judith looks at Leon, who looks at the ground.

Samson laughs heartily, walking behind the three. “You’ve got a great eye for pals, Azariah. You know, on the way this reminds me of somethin’ from back when this place was called Gutter’s Glade…”

Chapter End.

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[ Table of Contents ]

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

#empty-mask #b&tsm #writing #oc #fantasy #adventure #serialized fiction #b&tsm-judith #b&tsm-leon #b&tsm-azariah #b&tsm-brie #b&tsm-roxanne #b&tsm-meat

[empty-masks]

Book Five, Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Couldn’t Brie just shoot them?”

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

“And nobody else can help?”

Everyone else in the truck bed shrugs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But that’s gonna kill them—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Three End.

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[ Table of Contents ]

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

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

[empty-masks]

Book Three, Chapter Eleven

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Why’s it matter?”

    “Doesn’t it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There a problem?” Meat asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “How so?”

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

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

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

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

    “Are you Leslie?” Meat asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “I knew that,” Mickey says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter End.

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

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