Logan was bored and sleepless - pondering what his beloved companions were doing out in the swamp and whether his often misunderstood Pa had unleashed the extents of his extravagance upon them yet. He shuddered at the thought of Luna’s rage upon his return, but that would still be a ways off, by the looks of this investigation.
He had several ideas as to how to proceed - everything ranging from skulking in the shadows to follow the inhabitants around, to beating the tavern-boy to a pulp for ruining his dinners, but eventually landed on simply laying back on the bed to read what he had handy - the mission’s papers stolen from Smile’s travel-pack.
As much as he loved to devour literature, he hadn’t the mind of an inquisitorial agent - he simply hadn’t the making for connecting dots between missing weather panes and murders in the streets, but he did enjoy reading about the town’s history.
It was as he devoured what was essentially a footnote in a report on the migration status in the region, that he came upon something that rubbed him the wrong way. There, black-on-white, it stated that the town’s main export had been the corn and grain from those vast fields, but that it in the latter two years had shifted to export of bovine meats. With such a transition, the town had seen a substantial increase in income, as meat was a valuable commodity in the area, but… if that was the case… where were the cows? He hadn’t seen a single one riding into the town - all he’d seen were those massive fields of produce.
“And why’d you serve me burnt, rotten meat then, you little shit…” Logan grumbled as he rose - proud to have found something to occupy him for the evening.
He jealously eyed Smile’s discarded coat and mask, wishing that he’d know how it’d feel to walk around in the open without worrying someone might call the town guard and have him shot on the spot for his teeth and his eye. Sure, he was not beauty by any measure - nothing at all like Smile. But he would’ve passed for a regular human had it not been for his disfigurements. As he wandered out into the hallway, he briefly entertained a life as a recluse with his Luna and their Abraham - living it up in Anza without masks and without the fear of being singled out for his appearance. But, as he knew, that life was not for him. He had needs - urges that superseded the need for drink, food and sex. The feeling at the back of his mind - tickling his eager trigger-finger was all he needed know to remember his incessant urge to rid the world of the Monstrum. Abraham and Luna were no different - they, too, knew that the Cause was the only way in which they could exist.
“G-Ghast!” He was brought out of his musings by the shout from across the tavern. He had walked down the stairs at that point and turned to his right to see that every patron of the tavern had turned to stare at him with all manner of expressions. From the old smiles of reverence to the young, upturned brows of rebellion. The lively music had stopped and in the resulting silence, he wouldn’t be hard-pressed to hear the drop of a pin.
He was about to raise a dismissive hand and wave them back to their work, when an elderly man rose from his set to clap his chest and croak: “H-Hail to the warriors of the Purge, Ghast!” There was obviously some tension in the room, as another man rose to point accusingly at Logan and stuttered in turn: “G-go back to the Citadel, you m-murderer!”
One-by-one, it seemed every man and woman in the joint rose to proclaim their own polarized stance; be they foolishly reverent or disbelieving of the Government propaganda. Nonetheless, he was left standing there until a young, broad-shouldered man from the table closest to him threw a thick, heavy, empty glass towards Logan’s head.
Naturally, he sidestepped the glass, only for it to crash into the head of another, equally enraged gentleman.
It was as if someone had poured lamp-fuel in the fireplace on a hot day. In the blink of an eye, the tavern had erupted into chaos - cutlery, glasses, plates and cups filled the air between punches, headbuts and spurts of blood.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
It had been years since he last partook in a bar-fight.
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As much as Logan wished to join in the beating, he imagined Smile would be less-than-pleased if the entire town stopped speaking to them for his decision to kill a man in what was essentially their home for the time being. Therefore, he did his best not to kill and struck the poor, disillusioned patrons with reserved blows as he made his way for the back - rolling over the counter to go into the kitchen in the back.
He shut the door hastily behind him and straightened his coat, concluding that the town had internal discussions to work through before he could meet them as a uniform front - perhaps this would facilitate talks between the parties… or perhaps not. He shrugged and glanced about the kitchen to find that it was a mix-match of some wood-fuelled cookeries and some electrical components - an odd choice for a commercial-grade kitchen, especially when the food was of such low quality. Or at least he thought it was, but the smell was unmistakable - food was cooking on the stoves. To verify, he wandered across the wooden floor to raise the lid of a pot to see a dense stew with bits of yellow, brown and red simmer and rest.
Hungry as he was, he dipped a gloved finger into the fatty waters and raised it to his mouth to savor the savory explosion of flavors. Thyme, rose, flavor-enhancing powder and-... he furrowed his brow at an unexpected taste. To verify, he repeated the procedure only to find that any doubts he had washed away. The meat in the stew was, undoubtedly, that of the Monstrum - not bad-quality meat, but it raised the question of where it had come from and how the purveyor - nothing more than a boy, had gotten his hands on it.
The door to the kitchen swung silently open to the bent and rusted barrel of a shotgun aimed at the black form’s back. A young man held the tremoring, sawed-off beast of a weapon in a clumsy right hand trained on the Ghast.
“Drop it, son.” A voice sounded from behind the young man, followed by the unmistakable click of a service-revolver.
As opposed to the boy’s, Captain Jarek’s hand was steady, despite the trickling of sweat from his brow. The youth kept his gun raised at the slowly turning form and Logan raised his arms slowly before cocking his head at the curious display.
“F-fucking Citadel pigs - we’re not g-gonna roll over to you. The L-Life M-Mother provides!” His entire body jerked as he pressed the trigger, letting loose a breath of fiery pellets from the mouth of his weapon.
In the same instant, the young man’s forehead erupted to spew forth the Captain’s bullet along with an instantaneous gushing of gore. Logan leaned into his right leg and avoided Jarek’s projectile - had he only been as fortunate when it came to the shotgun pellets.
Most had struck the inventory of the kitchen, but more than a few of the metal orbs had pierced his skin and fleshed and embedded themselves in his thigh.
Still, with more pressing matters at hand, he rose back up again in time to see the young man collapse to the floor.
The Captain’s eyes were cold and unmoved by the blatant act of defense and he did not even stop to look at his kill, not even as he kicked the shotgun under the nearby table.
“Commander, were you struck?” The question answered itself as the blood trickling down his leg began to gather around his foot. As expected of the monstrous Ghast, he shrugged and said: “Yes, I think I was. Not to worry, I’ll be fine. Thank you for coming to my assistance - even if we got off on the wrong foot.” The Captain stepped over the dead body and holstered his gun at his hip with a court nod - still refusing to look at the Ghast.
“Honestly, I considered letting him shoot you again. But knowing what you are… I’m guessing you’d just get back up again.” He wiped his bare scalp free of perspiration and drew a long breath.
“That bad, huh? I’ll have you know that I have a romantic partner and that whatever your daughter’s accused me of, I assure you it’s not what you think.” The Captain remained unamused and rested his hand atop the butt of his revolver. To him, it seemed insane that this was the same Commander from that ill-forgotten day. In fact, the light-heartedness of this dark form was an affront to the Captain. For countless days and nights, he had dreamed of that nightmarish battle - the dark words he had whispered into his ears… now, it seemed the monster could not remember his name… not even his face.
The Captain bit back the bile and shook his head. “No. We met in battle… the Eastern Pass.” Still gripping his thigh, the Ghast briefly glanced at the ceiling before shrugging. “Sorry. My career might not have been long, but it’s been eventful. What did we kill?” Shouting from the tavern stole away the Captain’s attention for a moment. “We’ll talk after. I’ll go get a priest for your wound.”
“No, I should be fine before you tidy things up in there.” When he turned, he held up one of the small, blood-soaked metal balls between his thumb and index finger - confirming that this was, in fact, the monster of the battle of Eastern Pass.
“Bravelle have mercy on my soul…” The Captain muttered as he stepped back into the tavern to dispense peace.