Wisps Of Shadow

Markus clicked his tongue, jabbing his cigar in my direction, “Alright, we’ve dawdled long enough! You know where all this supposedly went down, so grab some boys and go search that fucking alley ‘till you know every Lords' damned speck of dust in there.” He leaned back in his seat, taking a quick puff of smoke that didn’t smell quite like tobacco as he did.

I blinked, opening my mouth to ask how exactly I was meant to harangue a group of thugs to my service without the authority to do so, before Rokharth cut me off with a snide chuckle. "Forgetting something, are we? He’s not going to get far barking orders at men who think they outrank him, now is he?” I kept my eyes from narrowing with ease of experience as I processed his words, though from the slight (undoubtedly intentional) upward twitch of Cerikon’s lips I got the feeling I hadn’t quite managed to hide it from him.

Korin was too busy struggling not to fall asleep to comment even if she had noticed anything (and I rather doubt she did), her eyes creeping closed and her head falling back over the edge of the armrest every few seconds before she would violently jolt awake with a vaguely frightened expression. Each time she would shake her head, focus on whoever was talking for a moment, then take a long drag off a crudely rolled cigarette stuffed full of a sweet smelling purple plant, giggle to herself, then begin to drift off again. If I cared at all about her I might have been concerned, but as it was I was more worried about her potentially dropping her joint and setting the room on fire.

Markus grunted, "Toss him his uniform, then." He bit down on his cigar ever so slightly harder than necessary as he took a long drag, languidly shifting his gaze from the ancient monstrosity to my much younger self as he released a puff of smoke from his nose. "You're not an unproven rookie anymore, now you're a blooded cutthroat. As a direct subordinate of Rokharth specializing in stealth operations, despite being at the bottom of our dubiously dubbed "Smoke" forces, you outrank the average grunt." I had questions about that name and his odd remark about it, but felt Markus was likely not in the mood to discuss such things at the moment given the high likelihood of a gang war breaking out in the coming hours.

Rokharth smirked, reaching into his coat, pulling out a bundle of cloth, and tossing it at me without so much as glancing to see if he grabbed the right thing. I knew what the bundle was before I caught it, though looking at it was different with my eyes than my Paranoia; it was a simple yet surprisingly soft hooded cloak. At first glance it seemed almost black, but as my gaze drifted along it I realized it was made up of a wavy pattern of blacks and greys oscillating such that they looked almost like drifting smoke in a dark room. I ran my fingers along it, careful not to get it caught on my claws; though, I probably needn't have bothered, considering the smooth cloth flowed over my fingers like spun water.

I threw it over my shoulders, feeling its slight weight settle over me through the layers of oil and fur keeping it from touching my skin. It was clearly many sizes too large for me, though someone had taken it upon themselves to roll up the hem and sleeves to a roughly accurate fit for me and had sewn it into place with black thread. The hood hung over my head such that it covered my eyes and cast the world in shades of smokey grey. I'm sure I looked ridiculous with this clearly oversized cloak hanging around my maw, but I didn't care at all.

It was easily the most comfortable clothing I had ever worn, far surpassing even the nicest clothing I had ever owned; while the faintly glowing uniforms under my arm still felt better, I had never personally worn something as nice as what now hung over me. As I ran my fingers over the silky material I noticed even some of my flies had taken to crawling along the inside of the cloak, causing it to shift erratically around me much like the smoke it was coloured after; I could feel through them that even to their alien senses the hood felt quite nice, though their crawling around seemed more likely to be some base form of curiosity over this change to their environment than seeking comfort.

A small, gibbering corner of my mind longed to bathe in cleansing flame at the implications of my increased understanding of the hive writhing within me, but I suppressed it with a practiced ease I very much wish I never needed to develop.

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Markus smirked widely, obviously seeing my surprise at the cloak's quality. "Nice, isn't it? There's a reason my boys are so loyal." He leaned back in his seat, the plush, fur lining muting the sound of his fingers slowly drumming against the armrest, “Some think it’s better to use cheap shit and replace it as needed, but I prefer quality materials that don’t wear out easily even if they cost more.”

I nodded slowly at his words, understanding the logic but seeing through to the double meaning. A preference for quality over quantity was reasonable, but I had studied history enough to know that quantity can make up for quite a bit; although, I suppose the addition of magic and evolution could raise the power of an individual to such heights that no amount of quantity beneath a certain level of quality could surpass them. Of course, I didn’t wholly trust the unsaid implication of valuing subordinates for similar reasons; his willingness to have me housed and trained for a not insignificant time before sending me out did help his case, but the the size of this gang by itself testified that he knew the value of disposable grunts.

I knew the cloak was something of a bribe, he had more or less said as much already after all. However, I had no illusions that being on the bottom rank of this apparent espionage and assassination subfaction suddenly made me any less disposable than any other mook; I fully anticipated the possibility of being sent on a suicide mission or left for dead if I was captured.

Marcus flicked his hand at me in a vaguely shooing gesture, “Gawk at your cloak on your own time, go use your newfound authority to round up some muscle and go search that damn alley!”

I nodded sharply, “I’ll get right on it, boss.” It grated me to grant him such a title, even if only verbally. He grunted, turning away in clear dismissal and I didn’t waste a moment turning around and walking out of his office as quickly as I could without appearing to be unduly eager. I could hear Rokharth’s laughter swirling in my wake, bouncing about the same faint disruption in the stagnant air that carried my new cloak to trail slightly behind me as I walked; though, I imagine said fluttering cloak would have been somewhat more impressive were it not weighed down by the sewn up hem and sleeves.

I allowed myself to sigh as the door swung shut behind me and the sound of their resumed conversation cut off, idly watching and feeling the flies that flowed out with my breath buzz around aimlessly. With Cerikon still nearby I couldn’t be sure my emotions weren’t being monitored, but my control had been lessened greatly since my Sociopathy had been downgraded. I wasn’t used to the nervous energy that danced like sickly lightning beneath my skin, decades of muted emotions leaving me unprepared for the intensity of the icy, sludge-like anxiety churning in my guts as I trudged towards the cafeteria (where I figured grunts that weren’t busy with anything would likely be).

I had no true allies, an unknown number of enemies varying greatly in power, and the very world runs on alien systems I've only barely begun to comprehend. I felt as if I were standing before a vast ocean of impenetrably dark water, black waves concealing untold dangers and depths I couldn’t even begin to guess at with what little information I had.

I shook myself, casting the oily fear slithering through my veins into the fires of rage that simmered in the pounding of my heart as I reminded myself of why I was here. I could still feel fear dancing about like smoke through my mind, but with the raging warmth of hate crawling through me I had the will to carry on. I hated that I was once more given no proper choice but to walk forth into danger, but short of trying to cut and run (and thus risking being hunted down by Rokharth) there wasn't much I could do about a fucking gang war popping off.

Even as icy tendrils of fear wrapped around my bones from the thought of just how easily I could die in a major conflict, I couldn't keep a faint grin from crawling across my maw at the opportunity presented to me. For all I would prefer to be far away from where bullets and blades sundered flesh and air, such places were also rife with opportunity to gain power far more rapidly than in times of peace. War is Hell, but a gang war is somewhat lower stakes and generally involves less trenches and artillery; with marginally less chance of being arbitrarily blown apart out of the clear blue sky without any chance of doing anything about it, this might just be a chance to level up much quicker than I expected.

I clamp down on the tremors in my hands, trying to cool the adrenaline already starting to flow into me from the thought of the coming chaos; whether I was more excited or afraid, even I wasn’t certain.