Bamo threw a crumpled piece of parchment at Akemi’s head, and she groaned, eyes adjusting to the blaring light of day.

“Hey, Miss. Sleeps-For-Ten-Hours. We’ve arrived at Kerbos.”

Kerbos. The only neutral city in-between Grimguard and the fjord. Neutral cities, as Bamo explained to her, had a bit of a misleading title. While villain-led cities like Grimguard tended to be quite orderly, a consequence of iron-fist villainous dictatorship, neutral cities were gang-ridden crimetopias; hero factions fought against villainous ones in a constant power struggle, where money often mattered more than one’s level.

For Akemi, this meant there were enough villains lurking around that she wouldn’t stand out on some Hero Squire's [Detect Villainy] radar. It was a realization she immediately appreciated as she navigated through the streets, her shoulders slumped low as she passed beggars with runes etched into their hands, puppeteering floating mannequins. Children would watch the spectacle and occasionally toss coins.

The further she delved in the city, the more she noticed this phenomenon—people with runes tattooed into their skin. Guys in muscle tanktops with black-inked circles running up their arms; girls with dots and arrows on the nape of their neck. It was hard to find someone with a bare piece of skin.

“What’s with the runes?” Akemi whispered to Bamo as they walked to the nearest dinner spot. It was a run-down store with only one table, but Akemi preferred that. Less listeners.

“Never seen rune tattoos before?”

“Clearly.”

They sat across from each other as Bamo waved down the waiter. The lighting in the tiny store was dim, just a single lamp, and due to the table’s position by the kitchen, the place was unreasonably loud; dishes were constantly being rinsed, knives were rutting against cutting boards. For a place with such little in-door seating, they seemed to do a lot of take-out orders.

“If you have a rune tattooed on you,” Bamo began quietly, and a man with a motorcycle helmet entered; he had ridden up to the shop on some sort of magically-enhanced bicycle. “It saves you the bother of drawing it, a big time-saver, since the lines have to be perfect. Also, if you encounter an identical rune, you can automatically disable it by pressing your tattoo to it. Lots of thieves have Locking runes tattooed on their hands for that reason.”

The chef, a mirthling in a heavily-stained apron, heaved a take-out container onto the bar, and the motorcyclist took it into his inventory. A young, human woman simultaneously turned the corner out of the bustling kitchen and approached their table, sweat beads dotting her face.

“Gods, I’m going to die from heatstroke back there.” She effortlessly drew a notepad from her inventory, and it materialized in her hands. “What do you want?”

Naba U’zaki | Level 11 Waitress / Pit Fighter

Naba’s blonde hair was matted to her face, and her muscled arms were slick with sweat, but Akemi still found her startlingly attractive. She had a perfect, crisp jawline, and a whole host of runes tattooed around her neck like a choker.

She snapped two fingers in front of Akemi’s face.

“I said, what do you want? This isn’t a stop-and-stare arrangement. If that’s your thing, the Meat District is just a few blocks away,” she said, then rolled her eyes. She turned to Bamo. “Bat. You look sentient, at least compared to your dinner partner. You got your order ready yet?”

Bamo nervously nodded. “Two chimichangas, please.”

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“Double-fried or triple-fried?”

“Triple.”

“You’re a Pit Fighter?” Akemi interjected with a laugh, ignoring Naba’s repeated slights. She recalled that class from her very first day on Kodra. It was one of the low-level villain classes.

“No, actually,” she responded dryly. When Akemi gave her a confused look, she continued. “I’m none of your damn business. Now, four chimichangas, coming right up. You’ve lost your chance to order, so you’re getting the same as your bat friend. I hope you like it greasy.”

Naba stalked back into the heatwave that was the kitchen.

“Jeez.” Akemi’s eyebrows rose, and she perched her chin on her hands. “She’s a little intense. Reminds me of someone else we know.”

“Pyre is way less rude.”

Akemi laughed. “To you, maybe.”

“Yeah, because I don’t ask for it.”

“Yeah yeah. Now, about those runes,” she said, humming. “You said thieves get Locking runes tattooed on their hands, yeah? I don’t get that. I mean, I get why thieves do it, but if most thieves do that, wouldn’t most advanced Locking runes be rendered useless? If everyone can just get a skeleton key tattooed on the palm of their hand, why use protective runes at all?”

“Because very few runic artists can actually draw the advanced ones. And the ones that can don’t come cheap,” Bamo said, reaching for a toothpick. He aimed it for his teeth, picking out what was left of the archer’s bow. “Advanced runes are extremely detailed, and the lines have to be perfectly precise. So not only do you have to memorize them to perfection, you also have to have extremely controlled muscle movement in your hands.”

Naba skirted around the corner again, her shirt now stained with grease. She dropped the two platters on their table with a mixture of grace and disgust. Four chimichangas, deep-fried to the nines and sitting in small pools of oil, glistened in front of them. Three slabs of butter and a few brussel sprouts were provided on the side.

“Happy eating,” she offered sardonically.

“Thank you,” Bamo said, bowing his head. Naba laughed.

“My pleasure. I don’t get to see your kind so often,” she said. “Not too many chimeras in the ring. They don’t want to risk getting their teeth knocked out, I suppose. Wusses.”

“So you are a pit fighter,” Akemi interrupted, trying her best to smile politely. It probably looked as unnatural as it felt, because Naba gave her a vaguely freaked out glare.

“Well, if you’re going to keep asking like an idiot, then duh. Did you not see the posters?”

Naba gestured to a tall piece of paper on the wall behind Akemi. It featured the exaggerated faces of two sweaty, bruised competitors holding up gloved fists: one being Naba, and the other a man with straight, jet-black hair and a white blindfold over his eyes.

The poster read Bronze League Championship Fight: Naba U’zaki vs. Ruie Vokasha.

Akemi’s eyes widened. That man. He was the target for her guild quest.

Is he some sort of big-name pit fighter…?

Since Naba’s level was eleven, she doubted his was much higher than that. And while level eleven was still quite a bit higher than hers, if she could manage a surprise attack…

Excitement coursed through Akemi at the prospect of taking him down.

But I shouldn’t get distracted. I have no idea of knowing how quickly Nocturne is going to figure out I led him astray. I have to get to the fjord.

As if reading her mind, Bamo tapped one of his claws to the edge of her plate, piercing through one of her forgotten chimichangas. He had already cleared his own plate, somehow.

“Can we go? The poster says the fight’s tonight,” he pleaded quietly, maintaining eye contact with her as he shoved the rubbery cylinder of dough into his mouth. “We were planning to stay the night anyway. It could be fun.”

“Since when were you such a fight fanatic?” Akemi said, narrowing her eyes.

“I have hobbies,” Bamo said defensively. “Not that you ever ask me about them.”

The door jingled, and another take-out driver came in. Naba sighed.

“If you come, you better be cheering for my side,” she said, glaring at Akemi. Then she looked down at the long burn mark on her arm and grimaced. “Also, if you want to get that ugly thing looked at, I’ve got a good street medic if you’re desperate. Name’s Toto, right around the corner. If you tell him I sent you, he’ll give me a discount on getting my jaw fixed after the match.”

The driver rang the small bell at the counter impatiently, and Naba waved her fist at him.

“Oh simmer the hell down, I’m coming!”

As the waitress stalked off, Akemi’s eyes returned to find Bamo staring at her, smiling wide like a child on his birthday.

“Can we go?” he said, batting his eyelashes. “Please?”

Akemi pressed a napkin to her lips, and swiped off the egregious amount of grease staining them. She pushed her plate toward Bamo, gesturing for him to finish her leftovers.

“Fine,” she said, then gazed out the window. A blinking, green and yellow sign further down the street read Toto’s Fixer Uppers. “But you’re paying for this meal, it was fucking terrible.”