The sniveling coward obeyed without question. A fine quality for any follower. Even better, the man was of warrior age and had a rock solid physique. He could be a superb technician, if molded right, though such a thought may be premature. Terran had yet to see his smithing skills.
As per Terran’s orders, the central counter in Derik’s shop had been converted to a makeshift operating table. Terran waited there in silence. Aside from the occasional glare, Derik needed no encouragement. The blacksmith hobbled from one drawer to the next, muttering to himself as he gathered any stray hunk of metal he possessed. Progress was slow due to the man’s new limp. Each step made him wince in pain. His bandages often came undone. The man would pray feverishly to the gods (Plural, Terran noticed. Odd.) while fixing them. Perhaps Terran had been too harsh with that grabbing maneuver. It gave a bad first impression. Not to mention how his suffering was causing delays untold.
No, this was not his fault. It was never his fault. How was Terran supposed to know how fragile this coward was? Derik was muscular. He should have been able to take it. Then again, his claws were literal knives. Terran had underestimated himself. That was the true problem here which, in his mind, was not really a problem at all.
And Derik, for his part, could be more organized. Tools hung from the ceiling with no rhyme or reason to their location. His shop’s metal was shoved into random drawers instead of being arranged by type or color or texture. Worse yet, he had to run to each shelf because none of the metal was all to close. It didn’t help that this workshop was a deathtrap. A floating shelf was attached to the highest part of the wall. It housed nothing of use, save ofr some nicknacks and framed portraits. Useless things which could fall under even the slightest of breezes and ruin works in progress. Terran growled. In his day, this mess would never have lasted a month. His men would be here to ensure safety compliance. What had this world come to?
With time, the blacksmith did manage to assemble a good pile of metal patches. Rusted and new, iron and copper. There was much variety. The specifics for the patches wouldn’t matter. They just had to be metal. Terran’s form was already so rusted. Any patch would be an improvement.
“Meow!”
A small feline leapt up to the operating table. Its fur was charcoal black, save for a white patch around its left eye. The cat rubbed its head against Terran’s side. “Button!” Derik shriked, stopping his search in a drawer. He sat up right, hitting his head against the counter. Derik sprinted over, injury forgotten. “No! It’s not safe.”
“It is perfectly safe,” Terran said. “I shall not harm an animal.” He went to pet the cat, but his claws scared it off. The skittish thing hurried along before he could get near. Of course it ran. Terran sighed. Another pleasure of life had been lost. He kept still to hide his disappointment. Seeming attached to an animal made him look soft, and he could not look soft in front of someone he had just terrified. “Yes, enough with the cat. Let us get started with the procedure.”
Derik stood on uneasy legs. He did not advance. He muttered fast words. It seemed something was on his mind, but fear kept him from saying it aloud. Terran grumbled. “Speak!”
“Don't you need to remove the armor?” he asked. “I mean, you want me to cover the holes. But if you don’t remove it, the patches will just be fused right into your skin.” It looked like the blacksmith wanted to say more obvious things, but he wisely stopped himself before Terran could get annoyed.
“The armor stays on,” Terran said. “Pain’s an old friend. I can bear it.”
Derik managed a stiff nod, but held his now clammy hand to his mouth. He stumbled back to the rear of the room to fetch a strange device. It was a bronze hose with a rubber grip. Flame sputtered out at the tip when the blacksmith pressed on it. Derik matched a metallic shard up with a putrid hole that exposed Terran’s knee. He placed it on, shivering with disgust, which Terran thought was rude. He didn’t say anything though. He wanted this done. The blacksmith began to weld.
A burning sensation began, followed by an unnatural stab as the metal fused with flesh. The Dark Lord gripped his hands around the table, breaking through the counter’s edges as he howled with pain. Derik shook, falling back. “Stay strong,” Terran ordered. “Just work. Do not mind me.”
He raised a hand, intending to show his claws in a threatening gesture, but it came off as clumsy due to his trembling arm. The message was clear though. Derik got back to welding. He traced along the patch. A pinching sensation started as metal fused with flesh. It burned. Pain soon engulfed his whole leg.The limb felt like it was being dunked in lava. Terran howled with pain.
Tools hit the ground. Derik ignored them. He stayed stoic the entire time. When the work was done, he ran to an open drawer where he gagged in disgust. Terran winced as the pain died down. The blazing heat lingered, but it was duller than before. More concentrated. It was still bad — any ordinary man would be a delirious mess by now. But Terran was no ordinary man. He rotated his knee. Though the welding line glowed a searing orange, the patch was on there tight. Bending it hurt, but movement did not seem impeded. “Impressive,” Terran said. “Let us begin the next patch.”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Derik went towards the door. Terran outstretched his clawed hand. “What are you doing?”
“G-getting the door.”
“Don’t think you can get away,” Terran said. He brought a claw close to Derik’s throat. “You may be operating on me, but I can still end you any moment I desire. Running is futile.”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Diveky Police,” some man called out. “Open up.”
At the mention of the word police Derik paled. He tried to get past Terran, despite his outstretched hand. “I-I have to get this,” he said, scratching his head. “It’ll be suspicious if I don’t. They’ll force themselves in.”
“Force themselves in?” Terran asked. “Who are these police anyhow?”
“The, uhm, local guard.”
Terran nodded. The local guard. Control of the guard was necessary to control the kingdom. Knowing these people was vital. “Talk to them,” Terran said. “But do not let them in. Do not let them see me either. The public must not know of me until I am ready. If he sees, it will be the end of you both. Do you understand?”
Derik gulped, then ran for the door. Terran lowered himself to the floor such that he was behind the operating counter. It was difficult to do so without bending his flaming knee, but Terran had been through rougher ordeals in the past. He watched from the side, ready to strike if the need arose.
The door opened such that Terran could not see the police. “Noise complaint,” a deep voice said. “Someone called in. Something about a person yelling, as if they were in intense pain.”
“Oh that. Derik glanced around his workshop. The sweating fool looked guilty, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong. Terran cursed to himself. The fool! He was making everything worse. Derik stammered, “That was… my cat. Yeah my cat. In heat, you see. Been driving me all up the wall.”
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“Could I see this cat?”
“Of course,” Derik said. “Button! Oh, Button!” He called out for the feline, cooing and patting his knees in what Terran initially mistook for a crazed dance. Such a pathetic display. Terran really couldn’t be seen here now.
Despite Derik’s best efforts, the cat did not show. He smiled. “He’s just shy.”
“He?”
“She,” Derik said. “I meant she.”
“You think I can have a brief look around?”
“Oh.” Derik swallowed. “Sure thing.”
The policeman stepped inside. He wore no armor, just a simple cloth shirt. On his belt was one of those L shaped projectile launchers. A strange uniform, though it made sense. Metal armor could only do so much against those things. Still, to think he’d stroll in with no security. No backup. This man was just begging to be snuck upon.
The officer’s age betrayed him in the good light. His eyes looked clouded. His face was wrinkled, and his movements were sluggish. Derik meandered closely behind, stiff but sweaty. His nerves were in vain. If the need arose, Terran could gut this guy and save them all the trouble. The officer said, “So how long have you had the cat?”
“About a year.”
“She hasn’t gone in heat before?”
“N-no,” Derik said. “First time…”
The policeman stopped feet away from the main counter. Terran could see the man’s worn boots, just around the corner. Terran lifted his hand, prepared to strike, but the officer turned away at the last second. He focused instead on the pile of scraps by another counter. “Got a lot of metal. What are you working on?”
“An order for a client,” Derik said. He fell back on the wall, sighing with obvious relief. “Its in the early phases now so it doesn’t look like much. I can show you the contract if you’d like.”
“No need,” the policeman said. He did not face Derik, but went through the metal in the bag. “I’m sure the order’s legit. It’s just that with all the smuggling… Well, you know how it is. Crazy times ammirite?”
Derik nodded. “Crazy times.”
The policeman continued Terran’s way. His boots once again came within slashing distance. He was about to round the corner. He was going to see Terran. That could not be. It would not be.
The Dark Lord brought his claws out. He was about to slash the officer’s ankles when a small box on his belt started vibrating. “Got a 6-0-2. Three men found in the sewers. One dead, two injured. Suspected mafia. Calling any officers in the Historical District to the scene.”
The policeman picked up the box. “This is Officer Masur. I’m on my way.” With that he rushed for the exit, nodding to Derik as he passed. “Thanks for letting me have a look around. I’ll get out of your hair now.”
The policeman shut the door behind him. Derik locked it, then sighed with relief as he collapsed to the floor. “Oh,” he said. “That…that could have been bad…”
Terran hoisted himself back up to the counter. He sat up tall, and then he lied down. But Terran overestimated his Gifted strength. His boots slammed against the granite, cracking the countertop. The ground shook. A framed portrait fell from a higher shelf. Derik caught it right before it landed. He put the portrait on one of the counters, then hobbled away.
The portrait was monochrome, though its detail was sublime. It showed a pretty woman. Young. She had her arm wrapped around a clean shaven Derik. Her hair was a light gray. Blond, maybe. The detail in her face was superb. Terran could not even see the paint strokes. Even the few wrinkles on her fair skin were distinct. Painting this must’ve taken an eternity. Terran asked, “Who is she?”
“No one,” Derik said. “She’s no one.” He gave a half smile, but was sweating profusely. That confirmed it. She was someone.
“Is this Ema?”
Derik jolted back, as if he had just been stabbed. “H-how do you know about her?”
“Do not take me for some fool,” Terran said. “I am perceptive, even in this form. Besides, her name was printed on a similar portrait upstairs. You have a few of those around your house. That either shows immense devotion or great narcissism.” It was most likely the latter. In his prior life, Terran had commissioned only five self portraits, easily half what Derik had. This commoner could do with some humility.
“Sh-she’s no one,” Derik said. He grabbed the portrait, then stared at it with a smile. He stayed like this for several seconds, seeming lost in a chance. Better senses soon took hold, and Derik stood tall to put the portrait back on the shelf. He shook his head. “No one.”
“Is she living?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Is she living?” Terran said, turning with a creak. He shuffled along the counter until he was mere feet away from Derik. “Answer me… honestly.”
Derik stayed quiet. Was this a refusal? The gall. Perhaps there was more to this coward. But then he fell back as soon as Terran brought his claws out. Terran hadn’t even threatened anyone yet. This man was that much of a coward. “She is alive,” Derik said between panicked gasps. “But that shouldn’t mean anything to you… right?”
“Possibly,” Terran said, before looking away to give the illusion that he was deep in thought of larger plans. In all likelihood, the girl would mean nothing but it paid to be vague. The potential for blackmail here could be great. “But let us forget the maiden for now. There are other, far more pressing matters.”
“R-right,” Derik said, for once seeming eager to return to business. Before returning to the operating table, Derik picked up a white rag though looked poised to drop it just as fast. He shuffled towards Terran. “I-if you don’t mind, I-I’d like to make it so that-”
“OUT WITH IT!”
“Right.” Derik whipped the sweat off his brow. It seemed to be coming in droves now. “C-Could you keep your mouth closed when we do the next patch?”
“Why?”
“It’s just,” Derik started. “There’s the noise… and the police. Cat’s a guy, uhm, so that heat explanation won’t hold. And, well,” He rambled pathetically like this for another half minute. Terran raised his hand. The oaf shut up.
“Very well,” Terran said. He snatched the rag from Derik. “I will keep myself quiet. But because I want to. Not because you asked. Now, let’s get back to it. I take it you want it to be done as much as I do.”
The work continued.
The welding torch only got hotter. The pinch from the patches only hurt more. His hollow veins were filled with magma. Terran dug his fingers into the countertop. The edges chipped away. That release provided no relief. The torment just went on… and on… and on. Despite this, Terran dared not scream — he did not even grunt. His years of strife had made Terran very good at masking pain. All he had to do was bite down his lip. He never screamed, even while his own body felt as if it were being cooked alive.
The agony was almost unbearable, but this one was temporary. Within the hour, Derik finished welding the final patch onto Terran’s armor and flesh. He backed away, and stifled a gag. “Th-that’s it,” he said. “We’re done.”
Terran lifted one leg, then the other. He hopped off the counter, then paced around. Movement was stiffer, and his sides ached at each miniscule movement. Glowing streaks criss crossed his body; his flesh still burned at these points. But his armor was covered. Terran could still move. The patches would cool. Given time, he would adapt as he always did.
Terran approached the blacksmith (Needing to slouch so that he didn’t hit his head on the tools hung above) and backed him straight into a wall. Then he reached out his hand. Derik cringed. Terran frowned, “You still do handshakes, correct?”
“Y-yeah,” Derik said. He met Terran’s hand, and cringed when he completed the shake. Some small piece of bone chipped away from Terran’s fingers. Derik brought his hand back. “I can fix that. Restore your fingers if you want.”
“No,” Terran said. “The claws remain.” It was impractical, but the bony claws were a clear image. A signifier of his power. He could slash one into ribbons which, at this stage, was a far better skill than common dexterity. Once Terran ruled again, his assistants would do menial tasks for him. Derik, for his part, did not belabor the point. In fact, he seemed ready for Terran to move on. Perhaps it was for the best. Terran had overstayed his welcome anyhow. He couldn’t grow dependent.
Breathing in, Terran refocused his vinye to his legs. They glowed a dim red. Now bolstered, he walked as well as he had in his prior life. It was time to go outside and see what the city had to offer. “Do not tell anyone about our meeting,” Terran said, approaching the exit. “Most likely, our paths shall never cross again. But if I require your services, you will be ready. Understand?”
Derik kept staring at the floor. “I understand. But what are you going to do now?”
Terran stopped just shy of the door. He smiled beneath his helmet. “Isn’t it obvious?” He asked. “I shall take back what’s mine!”