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Act 2 Chapter 2: Devil In Neon

Act 2 Chapter 2: Devil In Neon

Devil In Neon

The first thing that hit Shakk when he started to come around was the stench. Rubbing alcohol, wet dog, cheap latex gloves. Something was off - Shakk had never seen these walls before.

This wallpaper is fucking ugly. Whoever picked this shit needs help. His hand drifted to his waist instinctively - and after a moment of grasping the air, he remembered. He thrashed to the side and went for his knife. Missing as well. Then he heard it. Whispers. He took a moment to gauge his surroundings. The room was cramped and small, but impeccably clean. Everything had a vague beige tinge. Stacks of medical and cleaning supplies littered every surface. It was like waking up in a landfill for healthcare products. He looked for where the whispers were coming from and realized they weren’t whispers at all. Voices were drifting into his room from outside his door. He pulled himself off his bed as silently as possible - like a viper on the jungle floor. But when he put his weight on his feet, his legs buckled. His vision blurred from the shock his body was in - he felt his head start to swim again. The muscles of his body were screaming at him. Every cell tempted him to give up and pass out right there on the cold tile floor. Can’t go like this…

He slammed his teeth down into his tongue. Blood flooded his mouth - and stained his teeth. Pain - sweet, sweet pain. It reverberated through his mind and wrenched him from the state of drunken weakness his injuries had lulled him into. An old trick the mercenary corps taught soldiers. That way, if they ended up wounded, their employers had some assurance there was a protocol in place. Something to ensure they were squeezing every last drop of effectiveness out of their warriors - before they ended up corpse meat. The copper taste of his own blood summoned a memory. His third day in basic, when they taught him to do this. Lacerating his own flesh with his teeth until the instructors were happy. Other cadets spitting crimson waste, and if they got too overzealous, the occasional chunk of flesh. He hated that he had to remember those parts of his life. He was young. So young…

His mind re-centered, he swallowed his blood and pushed himself to his feet. He was still unsteady. Now he could feel the raw ache of his wounds. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror; a hulk of dark skin, bruised and swollen. The paper gown he’d been placed in strained against his frame. He squared up behind the door. The noises differentiated themselves. He counted four overall - only one female. Maybe they’re armed… Shakk shook the thought from his head. That was the gamble he’d have to take.

Shakk flung the door open with his full weight. Sure enough, his count was right. One of the individuals had made the mistake of putting his back to the door and had taken the brunt of the surprise attack. He went tumbling head over foot to the ground. Shakk didn’t pay any mind to the woman - she had medical scrubs on. Infinitely less likely to be an armed combatant dressed like a medic. Shakk stepped forward and threw a body shot at one of the men left standing. When his target doubled over in pain, letting out a low moan, Shakk grabbed his head. He was about to bring his knee to the man’s face when he felt a fist connect with his jaw. His head snapped back - he stumbled for a moment before regaining his composure. But only for a moment.

Mano on mano now, motherfucker.

He put his hands up in a guard. Readied his stance. The last man rushed him and Shakk threw a jab. To his surprise, his leg buckled, and he dropped to one knee. Then all hell broke loose. His opponent seized the opportunity to begin beating him - and then his second opponent joined in. Once his first adversary had recovered enough, he joined in to get his licks in, too.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO A MAN WHO IS HALFWAY ON GODS DOOR STEP YOU FUCKING IDIOTS?”

Shakk hadn't heard a scream like that since his drill instructor. The room went still - Shakk finally had a moment to recognize who he was attacking. Case Appa, Jon, Nat… What’s going on? What about the mission? When was the last time the command established contact on coms? Where was his holo? Where was his pistol? His eyes darted from one man to the next. Fuck, he thought, this all went to shit. The men got to their feet and dusted themselves off.

“Sorry man, I didn't know it was y’all.”

Jon laughed and turned to Case.

“What did I tell you? He’s a rabid fuckin’ dog.”

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Jon smiled and extended his hand. Shakk gave him a nod and took it.

“How much do you remember?”

“I remember not getting my shit - and you motherfuckers being real fucking loud.”

“Uhuh, and go on.”

“Then I got shot. Kinda does a number on your short-term recall.”

Case and Nat went into hysterics at the response, which Shakk chalked up to an ignorance of how gravely serious he was.

“You promised you would do me a favor if we got you out alive. As you can see, fortunately, or unfortunately, I came through on my end. Time to step up, big dog.”

Shakk looked at the sinister smile across Jon’s face. He didn't like it. Something reeked of snake oil - Jon reminded him of the son of a general, whom he once watched assume command of a battalion, only to lead it straight into the jaws of hell. Something about Jon’s grin reminded him of the corpse piles.

“I never said anything like that.”

Jon reached into his pocket and pulled out a small holo.

“Playback recording 9, yesterday, 12:34 AM.”

The device whirred for a moment before the sound mutated into a human voice.

“Hey, you're awake. So, um, we could’ve left you to die - cause it’s really not our problem… but you looked like you could use some help. So why not help? But to be fair, I expect to be compensated for this at some point. So how about this - I get you out of here alive, and you do something for me in return?” There was a slight pause in the message. Then a second voice - a ragged, croaking groan Shakk could barely recognize as he answered.

“Deal.”

Shakk looked up in disbelief at the man kneeling next to him. His face was twisted into a demented gloat. He’s having fun. He likes watching me struggle. Shakk felt rage boiling inside of him, but he swallowed it.

“So what will it be?” asked Jon. “Will you honor your word, or is there no honor amongst thieves anymore?” Jon held out his hand.

Shakk stared at the outstretched palm. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. That had only happened twice in his life - the first time being his probate campaign, the first time he killed a man. The second was the first time he stared down the barrel of a Thunderclass hover tank. He knew this feeling, and it never left him. It hung around his soul like a rancid cancer.

This feeling was the embrace of the devil.

Shakk reached for Jon’s hand.

“Can your bullshit wait, Jon? He needs rest.” Shakk turned. A small woman clad head to toe in blue scrubs was in front of him. She had dark hair, and sharp eyes. Jon smiled.

“You and your fucking charity cases. Fine, we can talk later.” Shakk gave the men a nod as they departed. The woman waited for the door to slam behind them before she spoke.

“I’m sure you’re tired. Long night, from the looks of it. Oh! I forgot you don’t know me yet. I’m Clarissa.”

“Shakk.”

“Nice to meet you, Shakk.”

Clarissa seemed like good people. The kind determined to see the work she had done to the end. He liked folks like that - they don't reek of ulterior motives. He had known this woman for all of ten minutes, but he already liked her company.

“Likewise.”

“Now… What's your real name?” Shakk’s nostrils flared, and his fists balled reflexively.

“I gave you my name.”

“Not that bullshit you tell your contacts - your real name.”

Shakk paused and thought for a moment. Every atom in his body was screaming at him to shut his mouth. Don’t talk - never give for free what should be, at minimum, bought. But something told him this was different. These people - they saved him. Sure, on some level, out of selfishness. But does that really matter, when they still put themselves in harm's way? Maybe, just maybe, they could be… friends.

Shakk had never had a friend before.

“Shakk. Shakk of Vizslas.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Shakk of Vizslas. I’m going to give you a stim - should help your body heal faster.”

“Thank you, Clarissa -”

“Call me Riss or Rissa. Everyone calls me that. Get some rest, and no more fighting in my clinic, okay? You’ll break shit.”

The light from the hallway dimmed and the heavy door closed. Shakk lay with his thoughts, trying to push the pain out of his mind now that the adrenaline fog had begun to clear. When's the last time he thanked someone? Or was near someone genuine? His eyes got heavier, the light started to fade. He closed his eyes. Thinking right now hurts too much. It was better to deal with what he could while he could -

Anything else bullets could solve.