A wizened yet gentlemanly man, caught in the middle of folding his laundry, started and suddenly walked across the dusty room over to his chair wherein he sat. He scribbled something on a piece of paper at his desk, the scrawling noise fine among the crowded interior. He then shifted over to a matte black typewriter. He pressed several keys in quick succession, finishing abruptly. Ma’at couldn’t tell what he had written, but that seemed like a trifle compared to the mountain of works surrounding him in crumpled notes and stacked pages.
“Ah, well if it isn’t my favorite storyteller!” he exclaimed, tilting his head upwards in an erratic motion and nearly falling out of his chair. “How I missed you, Ma’at!” The Writer threw up his hands as if to celebrate the coming of some divine miracle. “Just a moment, my dear. Sit there on that comfy seat while you wait. Just need to finish up a couple things and we can talk. Coffee? Tea?”
Just as eccentric as ever, she mused. “No, that’s alright. Do what you must, I’ll wait.”
“Ah, what an angel!” He disappeared into a backroom of sorts where his laundry was, then disappeared down another corridor that could not be seen from Ma’at’s position. The rustling of papers could be heard, many papers, which came together to create a sound like waves crashing against a riverbank. A couple times, Ma’at swore she could hear the sound of him tripping and falling over. At last, he returned with a packet of sheets crinkled and torn, tied together through a loop at the top left.
Ma’at idly tapped her foot and folded her arms, looking around the odd workroom. The Writer’s desk was large and imposing, cut from a dark oak. It reminded her of William and Lucy for an instant. Along the far walls were rows and rows of photographs and paintings framed in gold and silver. Most were landscapes, but some were portraits of people Ma’at didn’t recognize. She took a light breath. The air was stifling and musty, which only made the claustrophobic room feel more tight around her. Dusty rays of luminescence tore through the blinds of the old window behind the Writer, letting in just enough natural light to see what he was doing.
“Alright,” he smacked the packet with the back of one hand in a gesture of finality. He then picked up his quill pen again like a knight taking up his sword. “Sorry about that. Was about to tidy up before you came.”
A white lie. From what Ma’at knew of the man, it would take an invading army for him to finally pack up his things and arrange them in a pleasant fashion. A forgotten duster on his desk told her his claim wasn’t entirely untruthful, however.
“No need to lie. At this point, seeing this place neat and clean would be… uncomfortable.” A wry grin appeared on her face.
“No need to lie? I’m a writer, dear Ma’at. It’s my job to lie!” He straightened his tie and adjusted his monocle. The monocle improved the vision of his right eye, while his left eye was missing entirely. Though, one couldn’t tell at a glance. He simply held it closed at all times. “Well, of course, when it comes to true stories I only have to stretch the truth somewhat.” He looked up at Ma’at with a strange expression, perhaps filled with a bit of guilt and embarrassment. “Ah, but almost never for yours, dear. You always bring me the best ones.” He smiled.
Without a word, Ma’at reached into her pouch and lifted up the silvery ring procured from the Gunblades. She reached over the Writer’s desk and set it atop a stack of papers and books in front of him.
His eye widened and he picked it up without hesitation, inspecting it as a jeweler would inspect a rare gem. His other fingers rose to adjust the magnification of his monocle using a dial on its side. His hawk-eye grew larger and larger as the magnification grew in intensity. “Great job, great job. Perfect.” He set it back down on his desk, decreasing the magnification to look upon Ma’at again. “This is it, alright. A Gunblades ring. Did I tell you about the significance of this ring?”
Ma’at shook her head, her scruffy chin-length hair dancing around her in an orbit. “I don’t think so.”
“The Gunblades have a semi-complex hierarchy. It is very familial in its design, like many mobs and gangs, but there is one distinct difference.”
“What’s that?”
“Every boss that leads a section of the gang is given one of these,” he pointed at the ring with a wrinkled finger. “Do you know what that means?”
Ma’at thought for a moment, her eyes darting elsewhere before returning to peer into the middle-aged man’s glass-shielded iris. “It’s some kind of reward… or symbol for being a leader?”
The Writer shook his finger like a metronome and clicked his tongue. “Not quite. You’re not wrong, but you’re not entirely right either. There’s more to it than that. Leaders in the Gunblades are given access to incriminating information, while goons and the like are not privy to their dealings. Sure, they know the little things, but the bosses are given much, much more trust. Thus, if any of them are captured…”
Ma’at grew puzzled, but then realized what he was getting at before he told her himself.
The Writer picked up the ring and tapped the sigil three times, then pushed it in like a button. The sigil sprang up and outward on a tiny latch, and the ring’s innards were exposed for them both to clearly see. It began ticking, clockwork mechanisms within whirring and growing increasingly louder. “...they have a way out.”
“You mean…”
“It’s a bomb.”
“You mean I’ve been carrying a bomb around with me this entire time!?”
“Yes,” the Writer replied calmly.
“And the city… the soldier let me cut in line just so I could bring a bomb into Reville…” Ma’at’s right hand rose to her head as she fell into a comfortable blanket of disbelief.
“If it makes you feel any better, they couldn’t have known anything. Most people don’t know about the rings being suicide bombs. So don’t tell the government, y’hear? It would be really bad for me if the public found out about this from you.”
“Are you insane?”
“Ma’at, I’m a writer. Of course I’m insane.”
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick! Tock!
“Why is it still open!? Close it!” Ma’at reached over in furious desperation and closed the latch on the ring. The ticking of the mechanisms inside quieted to a solemn silence.
“Oh… whoops. Good catch, girl. That would have been bad,” the Writer said, erupting into raucous laughter.
Ma’at stared at him with a mixture of fear and anger, half of her face stuck in a nervous smile like rigor mortis freezing the face of a tired corpse.
Coughing awkwardly to diffuse the situation, the Writer put the ring back down on his desk and typed away on his typewriter some more, his fingers jumping along the keys.
“If… if all of them carry these things and know about them, then why didn’t the one I killed activate it? Could’ve blown me to hell and back and I wouldn’t have had any idea what happened.”
The Writer threw his pointer finger up and his face lit up as if to say ‘Eureka!’ “Exactly! I was thinking the same thing. Why didn’t he? Maybe he just didn’t have the spine to do it. Fear got the better of him.”
“Or… maybe he just didn’t have enough time. Or he thought he could bargain with me.”
“Hahaha,” the Writer laughed dismissively. “I doubt that. His boss would skin him alive if he made a deal with a merc. Literally. They would probably skin him alive for that. No mercy in the Gunblades. No, he must have thought he could convince you to spare him. Then, when your back was turned, he’d kill you.”
“Who knows…” Ma’at said, her voice trailing off into a whisper. There was no sense dwelling on the thought process of a dead man.
“That reminds me. Do tell me the story of the job this time, too. I’ll pay more for it, you know that.” The strange man clicked the keys some more on his typewriter, his fingers jutting up and down at the side of the polished, wooden desk.
The Sirithisian woman sighed, putting the hectic events before aside. “I’m not sure why you insist on it. I’m really not very good at this kind of thing.”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“Nonsense! You’re magnificent at it. Perhaps it is the unique way in which you recount events that inspires me so. Perhaps you are… my muse.”
“Muse?”
“Yes. My endless font of inspiration! Go on. Tell it. Tell the story and I shall listen. Do not mind the clicking and ka-chinging of the typewriter. Don’t let it distract you.”
Ma’at straightened her back and looked to the side as the past flooded back to her frontal lobe. Memories crawled their way into her neocortex.
“You may begin,” the Writer said, adjusting his monocle.
“Okay. After a dozen other jobs, four days ago I decided to follow the lead on the recent disturbance on the Reville outskirts. A group of Gunblades were spotted on August 21st, and on August 22nd there were eyewitnesses to them committing a crime.”
“What crime was that?”
“They stole from a family of farmers on the outer reaches. A family of three. Two elderly folks and their adopted child. They murdered the elderly and kidnapped the child. They also stole a wide variety of items ranging from food to a 30-C Girris lever-action rifle.”
The Writer nodded.
“I then began tracking their movements. Eventually, they realized I was on their tail and attempted to make it back to Reville and re-enter the city before I could find them. They didn’t. I rode in on another horse, which they shot and killed, but not before I sent both of my blades out to them. I cut a leg off of each of their horses, immobilizing them, and began killing all who stood in my way. I came to the last one.” Ma’at recounted the rest of the events that led her to the Writer’s office. When she finished, it was clear that her voice was somewhat hoarse and that she was fatigued. She had done more talking than she often did in a week.
The Writer typed away for several minutes, then spoke. “You said he claimed he was the ‘head’ of the Gunblades?”
Ma’at nodded.
“Interesting,” the Writer replied, pinching his goateed chin inquisitively. “Maybe he really was trying to bargain with you. The Gunblades’ head is much scarier than any underboss. That must have been what he was, however.”
“An underboss? So he was lying?”
“Seems that way to me. The Gunblades aren’t the brightest in the city, but they surely wouldn’t send their head honcho out with a handful of lackeys all alone. I just can’t see it.”
“You want me to find the true head, then?”
“Hmm… in due time. There are two other things I’m interested in. One is that wondrous fruit you described. Show it to me, please!”
Ma’at relinquished the wobbly liquid-filled fruit to the Writer with an ounce of suspicion in her heart.
“Shall we eat-”
“No.”
The Writer gasped in astonishment and looked at the mercenary as if she had said something horribly uncouth. “And why not!?”
“I already told you. The old man, William, said they have hallucinogenic properties.”
“And?”
“And… that’s it.”
“Grand. Then shall we-”
Ma’at’s hazel eyes tore into the Writer as if she were a gigantic man-eating beast bent on devouring him limb from limb. “No. I don’t particularly feel like chasing a madman down the street today. Examine it and give it back. Besides, I bought it.”
“How much?”
“Just 10 Kin.”
“A bargain, then! All the more to enjoy it while it’s fresh!”
The terrifying expression pushed him back into the realm of the sane yet again. That, and one of Ma’at’s blades slowly levitating from its sheath.
“Fine, fine. Spoilsport. It is quite marvelous. I wonder…”
“What?”
“Well, I just wondered if they were from before or after the Advent. As you know, many strange things like this began sprouting up from the earth after that. It’s certainly strange enough, but I haven’t the foreknowledge to know. My stay in Reville began a year or two afterward, and I rarely leave it.”
The Writer’s curiosity, to Ma’at’s mild annoyance, was quite infectious. For longer than she aimed to, she stared deeply into the swirling colors of the fruit, lost in thought.
“Thank you,” the Writer suddenly said, handing it back to her. She put it back into her sling pouch.
“And the second?”
“Hm?”
“What was the second thing you were interested in?”
“Ah, yes. Forgive me. Age often steals my thoughts away like some kind of psychic pickpocket. I was interested in you, dear Ma’at. How are you feeling?”
Ma’at crossed her arms. “Fine.”
“Really?” The Writer stared into her tan, dark face. Her black hair shimmered in the sunlight pouring in just as it had the night before in front of her campfire. “You seem awfully tired.”
Ma’at sighed deeply, her chest rising and falling, pushing her arms up and down along with it. “Well, yeah. I am. What about it?”
“Imagine yourself in a bleak coldness. If you don’t keep moving, you’ll freeze to death. As I told you before, you deserve a break. And I think perhaps it would benefit you to spend that break among friends.”
“Friends?” Ma’at enunciated the word as if she had never heard it before in her entire life. “What friends?”
The Writer didn’t answer her query. He ducked down at his desk, opened a drawer with an iron handle, and took something out of it. He placed it on the table before her. It was a pouch of money. “2,000 Kin for this job, the story, and small things in the past. And for the next. After that, though, I suggest finding a place of respite. Take a load off. You’ve earned it.”
“...Thanks,” she replied, looking down and taking the money sheepishly. “Maybe I will. What’s this next job, then? Finding the head, right?”
The Writer nodded with a crooked smile. “My sources tell me he’s in the city right now, as we speak. Here, take this as well.” He handed her a strange tool of unknown variety. It was metal and makeshift, seemingly junk when seen with untrained eyes. Small antennae and coils sprouted from its frame like pea pods from soil.
“What is it…?”
“A thingamajig. It’ll help you find your man. Or, at least, their hideout.”
“Right… but what is it, really?”
The Writer rolled his eyes and shook his head lightly. “Young folk these days… no respect for the whimsical. Fine. It’s an Arcane Construct of my own design. Some Technicist crap I found wound together by hopes and dreams. And magic.” He grinned devilishly. “I inserted into it my desire to find the Gunblades and their leader. Like I said, it’s a thingamajig.”
Ma’at pocketed the tool, dismissing the Writer’s eccentricity with a simple nod. Despite his urge to call it such a childish name, the item was forged from a skillful intellect. Whether he just wanted to push past the praise his work would garner or not was unknown. It was impressive craftsmanship all the same, especially for someone who wasn’t a trained magus working in a mage’s workshop every day.
“I have all the faith in the world that you can take care of this, Ma’at. The Gunblades are ruining Reville’s grand economy, and those spying bastards have chosen to do nothing about it…”
“Hm?”
“No, it’s nothing. I bid you good luck, girl. See you soon.” He waved her goodbye as she rose from her seat.
“Goodbye, Writer. I’ll be back with good news.” Ma’at left the dusty office and opened the hefty wooden door leading back out to the street. Clear, refreshing air flushed her lungs as it swung open. The busy passerby and their idle chatter returned to ring in her ear canals.
Deimos whinnied at the sight of her, shaking his head in excitement.
“Sorry, buddy. I’ll have to leave you here a bit longer. If they see you, it could be bad. They might want you back.”
Deimos blew air out of his nostrils. A twinge of sadness pierced Ma’at’s heart as she stared into his dark eyes.
She patted his snout, then turned her back and walked off further into the labyrinthine streets.
Zzzzzzzz… brrrrrrrrrr…
Something buzzed and whirred inside her bag. She revealed the Arcane Construct and stared at it much like how an explorer might gaze enigmatically at a newly discovered species. It was terribly unknown and odd to her. She wasn’t quite knowledgeable when it came to technology, especially not magical technology as advanced as it.
Zzzzzzzz… brrrrrrrrrr… zzzzzzt!
As she turned her body, the machine emitted a sound that she could only guess was an alert of some kind. Part of her wished that she’d asked the Writer just how the tool worked and how to use it, but it was too late for such a thought anyway. Maybe he was testing her. Testing her to figure it out on her own without his rambling wisdom.
She turned left and right, and in doing so, the machine grew quieter. She turned to the same direction she had before, and immediately it sounded the same electric hum it had before. A loud alert. Loud to her, anyway. As she looked around to see if anyone else was annoyed by the sound, she realized that no one had turned her way at all. Perhaps they couldn’t even hear it. Ma’at assumed it was just another product of the Writer’s mind; that it was simply infused with his secretive and reclusive nature.
She followed where it guided her, for she knew it would lead to her goal, and by extension, the Writer’s goal: the Gunblades’ hideout. Like a metal detector sniffing out gold or a sweeper for landmines, the machine whirred and buzzed, leading her deeper and deeper into the less-populated dark avenues of the city. Indigo District, home to criminals and thieves. Far from Reville’s main military eye and the eyes high in the sky leering down at them from the teetering airships above.