Warmed by the vents above and cooled by the water below, 41 hummed to themselves, treating the excursion like a holiday. They deserved it, did they not? Their service with Lemure dated back to the Deluge itself.
They were trying to survive in a war where that alone was folly. They had much in common. 41, their original name not necessary, had shielded Lemure from numerous fatal blows. It was an honor to serve as leader of his number guard. Certainly no frustration over consistently being passed over by much younger members who became Constants. No, Lemure knew what he was doing, their job was too important, there was simply no one who could do it better.
With a spirited flick of the fingers, meant for no one, they thought words into their wrist, “Job done, stranger dead. No other casualties.”
They added a smiley face for good measure, drawn in themselves with nimble fingers on their flesh.
What a good day, Lemure’s most important had saved it yet again. The system worked, as it always did.
Far quicker than expected, they got a reply, the words contorting the veins in their wrist with more pain than the last. “Please confirm 22 and 35 dead.”
A wrinkle of the nose, what was this nonsense?
“They are alive. The stranger is dead. No pulse. No other casualties.” Casualties was underlined. Hopefully, now they would get off their back. Unless two trusted fighters had slipped on a rock and simultaneously kicked it, one of the Constants was being fed false information.
They didn’t know who they were currently speaking to, but it had to be a Constant, as they were the only ones outside Lemure able to question 41. How useless and strange for the master to pick six nobodies who were barely conscious when the Deluge mattered to be their superiors. They predated all of them in seniority.
This was not a vacation. They could no longer keep up the illusion. They were in the bowels of the city, walking through raw sewage and fecal matter. Dispatching the stranger lacked its former importance; now, it just seemed busy work, and 41 did not need to be kept busy.
Another message, “22 and 35 have gone out. Everyone below lifted. Confirm death of stranger.” An audible groan. What was this? “He’s dead!” they shouted, as if the person on the other end could hear them. 41 was, if nothing else, a professional, they would not let this obvious failing on the part of their “superiors” get to them. Reversing their path, they summoned their Remark and picked up speed with every turn.
Returning to the chamber, 41 found the corpse missing and two new ones in its stead. They let out a silent scream and clawed at their eyes.
This… this was their mess to clean.
With calm, unhurried hands, 41 pushed into her veins the message, “Confirmed, 22 and 35 are dead. Stranger also dead.”
They followed the bloody footsteps, confident that in only moments their message would come true.
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When the tunnel opened back up to the harsh wall of the drum, the first thing Adam Kadmon noticed was the large pillar in the center of a courtyard balcony overgrown with dying plants. It overlooked the city of GutWorth itself, giving him a much clearer view; he could see the large and overgrown port that lay directly behind it. There was a building in development that would have blocked the view of the port entirely if its left side wasn’t sloped and only half complete.
He only glanced long enough to confirm that the only obstacle left to GutWorth was a vertical one. The balcony overlooking it was built into a rocky cliff of solidified sewage waste. Strange metal walls poking through the muck made it seem like it had been the cornerstone of a great castle, solidified and overgrown over years; he could climb down with minimal effort.
He turned his attention back to the pillar. It was more accurate to call it a sculpture, as there were multiple limb-like outgrowths from the main body, all pointing rigid straight at the city. Like the pillar was turning into missiles aimed at the city, and it was frozen right before the first could detach.
There was a plaque below it. While slightly worn, he could still read that it said:
“To those who would kill us, we honor your intentions.”
There was a design carved underneath. Adam bent down further to fully make out what it was-
WHAM. With immense force, a large weapon of some kind caved through the statue. Its sharp end hooked onto the plaque, inches away from Adam’s face. He stumbled back, as the chitinous scythe ripped the plaque, and a solid foot of ground that served as the foundation, over the head of its wielder.
Before him was the lithe figure he recognized from the tunnel. The third Lemure agent. Their face the antithesis to composure.
“Hello there.” A sudden jump in the air caused a flock of floatrats on the railing to take flight. The flat end of the scythe fractured the courtyard stonework. “You’re not supposed to be alive.”
Adam took himself out and attacked 41 with a succession of twin jabs, switching his stabbing hand with each slash. 41 gave up ground, slinking to the other end of the courtyard with a feral grin on their face.
“You brute, you barbarian. You don’t even understand the graveness of your mistake.” Another jump, this time pouncing over Adam, now behind him, weapon close to his chest and about to hook him. They cocked a manicured hand at the now ruined sculpture. “That was the memorial of concession.”
Adam ducked right as 41 pulled their remark back so sharply that it sliced dust particles in two. 41 continued unfazed
“It was a consolation prize for those strong enough to be a threat, but weak enough to kill. I commissioned it myself, the artist was a wonderful woman on loan from Sloan.” The swings slowed as 41 pontificated. “When they saw the way they would be memorialized, they were tripping over themselves to be the first under my blade.”
As the swings slowed the precision grew. Dodging wasn’t cutting it anymore. Adam moved his way from one corner of the courtyard to the next, but there was only so much space. “We respect the ambition of those who want to end us. Who are we if not successful backstabbers? Lemure is famous for the people he fucked over.” 41 licked their lips, their swing struck Adams shoulder, and blood stained their pasty cheek. “We would welcome them as contemporaries if their existence didn’t necessitate our demise.”
Adam blocked one of the swings, the powerful thrust bouncing off his remark as if it was made of stone and 41’s was wood. His other hand was still shaking, he kept it behind his back. Let 41 think he was hiding a weapon and not his own weakness.
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It fell into a part of the courtyard where 41’s erratic swings had already left a hole, the large tooth end of the remark now inadvertently a makeshift plug. Adam slashed 41’s soft hands, making the taller fighter let out a sharp yelp in shock, but kept their grip as the black substance of their own Remark seemed to tighten.
Adam kicked 41 in the face, going airborne and using the full weight of his lower body to do so. Their hands yielded possession, and they hit the ground just as Adam’s prone body did the same on the other side of the remark.
There was a slight shake as the two fell. A not insubstantial part of the courtyard’s railing broke off and tumbled before rolling to a stop on the awkward slope below.
“I am only going to ask you once,” Adam said, observant of the new fragileness in the floor as he picked himself up. “I do not want to fight you, I am looking for passage to leave.” He yelled it, once more. “To leave!”
41 got up mechanically, like a doll being lifted by a practiced puppeteer. They were making a sound that Adam assumed was crying, but seeing their face, Adam realized it was them laughing through their nose.
“I do not believe you. More pertinently, I don’t care.”
41 paced the now creaking courtyard, the cracks creating new patterns in the ground, new avenues to traverse. They treated it as a new space ripe for exploration. “They’re gonna hate you for destroying our garden here, but we’ll move on, we’ll heal. I hate you for tricking me, and making two promising Remarks lost to time like peons.”
One of their eyes was bleeding. Their immaculate clothing now stained, any of the authority 41 once possessed was long gone. Their cadence was interchangeable from a panhandler rambling about how “the Grand would wash us away”.
They pointed a now bloodied hand at Adam. “You, on the other hand, will die here. And don’t even think you’ll be worthy of getting one of these.” They gestured rapidly at the remains of the sculpture, the words too cracked to read. With a wince they wiped their nose with a ghastly snort, then the laughter trailed off like a faucet. “Your corpse will beg us for a memorial, we’ll hold a seance every week, just to confirm your demise, because respect begets respect my friend, and you have and deserve none.” Their pacing was concentric circles that were getting smaller and smaller, circling around their still wedged remark. Their fear of Adam the only thing keeping them from rushing in to grab it.
Adam took a defensive position in front of their large remark and got four razor sharp nails aimed at his throat for his trouble. He grabbed the hand on the backswing, and twisted it 90 degrees. If 41 was hurt by this, they didn’t show it. Smiling through gritted teeth, they calmly punched Adam's face repeatedly with their other arm.
“You’ll die if you continue,” Adam said, holding them back like a teacher dealing with an unruly pupil. A final push seemed like it would have enough momentum to knock them off, but Adam misjudged his opponent’s weight. Losing grip of their arm, 41 wasted no time. They kneed Adam and ripped their remark out of the ground, ready to finish the job.
But 41 never got that chance.
The frantic fight they had had only moments before did not just weaken the foundation of the free standing courtyard, it had decimated it. The remark in the ground was like an arrow jutting out of a man's chest. The thing that had killed it was the only thing keeping it standing.
The loose rocks on either side fell first, and then the platform itself followed, the two people on it floating in the air for a second, and then plummeting too, limbs moving erratically as they headed towards the earth. A small grey disk took a long fall.
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In a minor cramped corner of a minor cramped eatery, Devon Near was trying to make herself as small as possible. Pretty easy to do, as she was a small malnourished girl. Even though she was 19, nearly if not fully grown, a bad life and worse lifestyle had left her skeletal and gangly. With her brown skin and dark boyish hair, she blended in easily with the clay desert of Gutworth.
In her hand she held the dream dust, that disgusting drug harvested from bones and soil that she had spent the last week collecting. Her hands were stained the same creamy red color as the dust. It was a good harvest, which didn’t make her any happier. All she would get from it was the guarantee of one less beating. The buzzer rang again.
She poked her head out.
Wham. The door slammed open as Tread, the ornery owner of the diner, walked in. He was a massive man, and by a frustrating favor that her uncle owed him, she was indebted to him, something he would often remind her of through threats of firing. She knew these were always bluffs, there was no one else desperate enough to do a job like this. Half cook, half fence for small time crooks, like the ones currently waiting outside, keeping the place occupied.
“Those two are here for you Devon, have you gone deaf?” He saw the open box, the dream dust on her fingers. His face morphed into a ferocious snarl.
It was instantaneous, she closed her eyes and angled her body to make the fall hurt less, as she knew what was about to happen.
He didn’t hit her, instead he hit the cabinet above her. Pots and pans fell down around her, covering the floor. She hid her face as if that would help, and it caused him to laugh loudly.
“I don’t care if you’re dealing drugs on my time,” Tread said, already turning around for the door. “I just care that you’re not ripping them off. Sampling the merchandise?” He paused, turning his neck around so that she could see his dark beady eyes, alive with glee. “That's pathetic, Devon. I wouldn’t expect it from anyone else.”
He closed the door gracefully, and she could hear him announce that she would be out shortly, just after she finished cleaning up after herself. Wiping tears from her eyes, she started on what would be on the long and ultimately pointless task of cleaning up after someone else’s mess. The buzzer rang again. A reminder that two members of the Legacy were waiting outside.
She turned on the stove, feeling relief once she did. There were no orders to address, no food that needed heating. But the feeling she got from putting her hand above that flame, from testing her limits… there was nothing like it.
She lived an admittedly boring and pointless life. Only moving forward due to the possibility of one day getting her revenge, but her options were limited. She’d train physically, but she didn’t know how, any of the options available were exclusive to Lemure members.
Technically she was a reserve member of the legacy, but all that meant was that she was a glorified errand girl. The stove was something she could control.
At first she found her pain tolerance was frustratingly low, but over the years it had gotten to the point that she could hold her hand for minutes without feeling any discomfort. She loved how the sense of danger increased with each passing second. She knew that if she was to lower her hand an inch, she’d be burned, and that even keeping it here would result in second or third degree burns if she held it long enough. It was that danger that was so appealing to her, a danger that she could end at any moment, or make even riskier.
She smiled, daring herself to lower her hand, oh, about a third of an inch. There we go, now that was a distance that could still make her nervous. The flames were practically licking her hand and all she felt was a comforting warmth, and yet there was a panic at the back of her head that was intoxicating.
There was a loud sound in the distance. She turned lazily to the window, and saw a massive cloud of dust beneath the Memorial of Concession, or what used to be the Memorial. As she took in the dust cloud, and put two and two together that it must have been the remains of the Memorial, all she could think was good riddance. The Memorial was a vanity stunt by Lemure Legacy after they had murdered what remained of the resistance in town.
She remembered the day they executed them on the cliff. She had been in the crowd, but she had looked away when 41, that fucker with their cheap cologne and lopsided grin, had cut the throats of the so-called willing victims. She saw the terrified looks in their eyes right before, none of them were willing, none of them wanted to die. None of them should have died. Her lip quivered at the memory, feeling a level of emotion she had assumed she had grown numb to.
What frustrated her was that she was aware of the injustice. It would be so easy if she could be like anyone else, either unable to process the cruelty, or so embedded within it you could do no other thing than embrace it.
She was neither, she was able to comprehend it in its enormity. The pointlessness of it, the casualness of it, the violence and death Lemure’s Legacy brought upon them daily, no doubt the collapse of the Memorial was ultimately Morgan’s fault. It made her sick, it made her angry, it made her livid, it made her-
FUCK. Her train of thought was interrupted by the searing pain. Wrenching her hand back, she turned the now emblazoned stove off quickly, making sure not to start a fire. That was the last thing she needed. She looked at her hand, while it stung, there were no scars, at least no new ones. Her older burn scars, from when she had been less careful and far more masochistic.
The buzzer went off again. Well, there was no point in delaying the inevitable.
2 minutes and 45 seconds, she thought, as she opened the door, letting herself enjoy a small smile. It was a new record.