A hulking mass clad in cloak and shadow lurked at the edge of a small, dilapidated fountain in a small square of the Oh’Pee. Perhaps calling it a fountain was giving it too much credit, for it possessed no statue in the middle spewing arcs of water, nor any contraption pumping and building pressure to send jets of liquid into the air –though it had, once upon a time. Back then it had been pretty, too.
Smooth slabs of grey stone arranged in a circle, with a low border to keep the water in. Pure water, so clear you might mistake it for being absent. Continuously, a complicated mechanism of pumps and pipes arched a stream of water upwards, letting it bloom outwards like a flower to then rain back down. For all the ingenious engineering and long hours of construction, it failed to impress all but the youngest of children. Nothing like what could be found in the Comm’See, but at least it livened the place up a little. An attempt to breathe some beauty into the less grimy parts of the Oh’Pee.
Futile, and mostly for show. That much became apparent when the plumbing broke down only a few short years after the fountain’s installation. Or perhaps the pristine and delicate ornaments of the higher tiers couldn’t handle the atmosphere of the Oh’Pee. Either way, before too long the mechanisms refused to spout water in graceful arcs, first only sputtering tiny piss-streams in every direction but up, and then nothing at all.
Now you could simply call it a basin, and you’d be right. An old, ugly one at that. Stones cracked and chipped, speckled with patches of moss. Water black and grimy, capable of killing any ox –or suicidal drunk—lacking enough sense and survival instinct to dare take a swallow. Below the surface had grown a tapestry of algae, flourishing like never before. In Saun the stale stink of all its gathered and accumulated filth hung thick and heavy in the air throughout the whole square, oppressive like a poison cloud.
Yet despite all that, the residents of the Oh’Pee took to the fountain –notably after it lost its luster—like flies to shit. Perhaps it was out of spite, determined to show the stiff-necked, weak-spined, copper-pinching penpushers of the Tower they preferred what the Oh’Pee produced over unwanted and gaudy –by contrast, not objectivity—gifts. Or maybe out of a sense of pride that the Oh’Pee itself disapproved of the fountain’s previous appearance. Or it could be that its location was at a central thoroughfare, and it quickly became a landmark too integral to the décor to dislike wholeheartedly.
The figure sitting on the edge of the basin muttered under its breath, almost as if in deep conversation with someone else. There were pauses and questions, brief affirmations and denials. Lengthy explanations, requiring multiple breaths. There were long stretches of silence, but also thoughtful replies. However, the hulking figure had no-one accompanying them, no-one to talk to but themselves, so surely they simply gave voice to their thoughts.
Water sloshed against the basin’s edges, rippling with waves like a calm ocean, despite not feeling the influence of tides, and the absence of wind’s playful breath. Standing water wasn’t supposed to flow or splash. But it did not care for facts and logic or natural order, and burbled away in anxious anticipation, mimicking the emotions roiling within the cloaked giant.
After all the patient lurking, the sneaking about and laying as low as possible, the time of retribution had arrived. Daggett would finally pay his dues.
Rokas clasped his hands and rubbed them together slow, the grains of soil and pieces of gravel stuck to his skin scraping together, scratching an itch. Very little emotion showed on his face, but for those who knew him –even just a little bit—the small motions with which he fidgeted spoke volumes. Though even for the people most capable of reading him it would be difficult to say with certainty what emotion dominated the maelstrom raging inside.
Water plopped, two ripples colliding and sending a heavy droplet upwards. Rokas glanced up from his hands, from the tiny pebble he pushed from his palm to the back of his hand. It left no trail, showed no glimpse of skin.
Out from a shadow-filled alleyway to his left, Milaq the Shanker appeared, hand on his blade and swagger in his step. His soft leather boots barely making a sound as he padded across the small square, even in the quiet of night. Despite projecting a calm and casual demeanor, Rokas noticed a tension in the man’s shoulders and the set of his jaw, and an intensity peeking out from his eyes.
“You’re late, Milaq the Shanker.”
A scowl appeared immediately, irritation written in the furrows of his brow. “I’m perfectly on time,” he bit.
“On time is too late.”
“On time is on time. That’s why it’s called on time, not too fucking late.”
Rokas gave a shrug, rose from the edge of the basin and rolled his shoulders forward to loosen up a little. “I don’t expect a scorpion with no sense of punctuality to understand.”
“No sense of punctuality? What’s the point of pickin’ a time if--” Milaq began, though he stopped himself halfway, swallowing his words before they could spill from his lips. Shook his head, forced out a deep sigh, and decided the conversation was below him. “Forget it, let’s just go.”
He trudged off, turning sharp. Rokas glanced over his shoulder at the placid water in the basin, considered spitting into it for luck, as customary when passing by. But the giant wasn't one for superstition, harmless or not, and did not enjoy the thought of his fate being dictated by expelling saliva into a ruined and disease-ridden fountain. Besides, with or without being spit on, water would protect him regardless.
So he focused his vision on the back of Milaq the Shanker, and followed. The murky black water bubbled and rippled and waved. Asked him to come visit again. Rokas simply waved back.
* * *
They traversed the streets and alleys of the Oh’Pee, Milaq leading the way, though Rokas was well aware of how to reach their destination. If, in his anxious impatience, Rokas desired to push Milaq aside and go on ahead, he certainly could. However, he much preferred to keep the smaller man within his sight, even with the elements keeping an eye out.
It took about ten minutes for the pair of them to lay eyes on the Snapped Thread’s front side. As many buildings in this part of town, the tailor shop boasted a modest size and didn’t particularly stand out. The brickwork was plain and identical to its neighbors’. If not for the signboard and the mannequins in front of the ground floor windows, you could easily mistake it for a simple residence.
Rokas began to head for the door, but Milaq stopped him with a hand to the chest. “We’re goin’ through the back,” he said, inclining his head down the road. “This way.”
He lead them around the block, which seemed a little more out of sight. The width of the streets diminished to alleyways just about large enough for Rokas’s shoulders to fit. It stunk of cat piss and stale garbage. A man dressed in a thug’s almost-armor sat slumped against one wall, snoring loud. One hand still clutched a tankard, though he held it sideways and the drink it had once contained had already been absorbed by the packed dirt of the road. On his chin and shirt clung crusts of dried vomit.
“Seems like Daggett’s men are enjoyin’ the party,” Milaq noted, “if they’re all in similar states as this one, we might be in fer an easier time than expected.” He clicked his tongue, sounding frustrated.
“There’s still Arun,” Rokas reminded, “I doubt he’ll let himself get carried away like this.”
“If he participates at all,” Milaq nodded, thoughtful. Some of the tautness in his back, shoulder and neck evaporated. “Well, guess we’ll get a feel of the situation soon enough.”
Indeed they did. Trading one alley for another, again and again, they found themselves exactly where they needed to be. From the back, the Snapped Thread did not distinguish itself from its neighboring buildings in any way. It was one of the many, just another wall with a door. However, from inside emanated the sounds of drunk men making merry. Loud voices, thick with excitement. Cheers and hollering and laughter. Even some tone-deaf singing –or was one of Daggett’s thugs torturing a rather unfortunate cat?
Wasting no time, Milaq stepped up to the door and knocked, impatiently tapping a foot as seconds ticked away. Rokas could practically hear him count down the seconds, already preparing a knuckle to rap on the wood again. Mental timer reaching zero, Milaq brought his hand down on the door once more, halfway through the motion making a fist instead, banging loud and hard. Then he stepped back, arms crossed and foot tapping.
But the door remained closed. Milaq’s expression journeyed through several stages of impatience and slight annoyance to straight up irritation. Brows plummeting, mouth drawn, a twitch appearing below his eye.
“Want me to kick it open?”
Though he didn’t turn his head, only swiveling his eyes sideways at Rokas diagonally behind him, Milaq’s glare contained a lethal dose of poison. “Don’t bother, they’ll let us in soon enough.” His voice was kept an intentional monotone, all edges filed off.
Rokas shrugged. “It’s just that it’s taking a while, and it’d be faster to kick it in rather than wait.”
Milaq’s nostrils flared. “I said. They will. Let us. In. Soon. Enough!” he hissed through clenched teeth, dominant hand subconsciously reaching for the hilt of his knife. Wind and earth issued warnings even a non-defier would have a hard time missing.
Under his hood, Rokas narrowed his eyes and considered the advantages and disadvantages of offing Milaq right then and there. Entirely unsurprising, the balance wasn’t skewed in Milaq’s favor. Perhaps the Shanker realized he was quickly becoming redundant and disposable, for he moved his hand away from his blade and smashed a fist on the door instead, louder than before.
“I swear Behnolt better be letting me in b’fore I have t’ knock again, or I’ll pull his intestines out and choke ‘im with ‘em,” he mumbled.
This time someone finally did answer the door. In the frame stood a young man, barely in his twenties, with a mop of black hair and a boyish face. Milaq showed enormous restraint, letting the boy rattle for a bit rather than stabbing him the moment he appeared.
Still, he had little patience for the inane rambling of an unimportant mook. “Charlie. ‘S Behnolt not present?”
“Behnolt? He’s inside?” came the reply. Milaq nodded to himself as if coming to an agreement. Charlie squinted into the darkness, staring at the cloaked and hooded figure of Rokas, looming behind Milaq. “Who’s your friend?”
The question earned him a knife to the gut, though presumably he’d have suffered the same fate even if he’d remained silent. Milaq’s shoulders seemed to relax a little, built up tension leaving his body. Flexing his neck to either side, he took a deep, contented breath in and carved a bloody crevasse in the boy’s flesh. Exhaling slow, he flicked the blood off his blade as Charlie stumbled backwards into the room, hands clutching the growing red patch on his torn shirt, eyes wide and unbelieving, lips parting and closing like a fish on land.
Then he stumbled, legs not moving as they should, hitting the floorboards with a meaty thud. Laughter echoed through the room, the sudden and boisterous sound of men mocking a lightweight who’d drained too many beers and found that perhaps they’ve overestimated their ability to hold their liquor.
But Charlie did not move, did not make any attempts to crawl back to his feet. Then they spotted the puddle of blood pooling around him, leaking from underneath his still body, seeping into the boards, encroaching on the merriment and revelry. Saw Milaq the Shanker step over the dying boy, bloody knife in hand, not bothering to hide he’d just done his moniker justice.
And so their sense of humor quickly evaporated, replaced with anger, confusion, and a healthy amount of fear and trepidation. They scrambled to their feet, quick yet clumsy –agility addled by liquor—and looked as if they’d all charge Milaq simultaneously. Beat him into a pulp with fists and chairs and pewter mugs. The few who carried a knife on their person unsheathed their weapons. The air was thick with aggression, pulled taut by tension.
Then Rokas folded himself through the doorframe, filling the entirety of it, having to stoop and bend and sidle to enter the room. He rose to his full height once inside, head brushing against the ceiling. A huge figure obscured by hood and cloak, casting a long shadow over the entire chamber. Eclipsing Milaq the Shanker and his knife, sheer size alone causing the thugs to reevaluate the situation they found themselves tangled up in. And again when Rokas shrugged off his cape, let it fall to the floor, allow the sight of his Mutations to introduce himself.
And thus came an end to a night of revelry, becoming a mere prologue to the beginnings of one filled violence.
