Chapter 4: Wolves in Clothes Store Clothing

Fitron.

A former Mobile Mining Base turned bustling city, which in turn transformed into a massive commercial powerhouse; with its main export going stronger than ever amidst the war for Corrin: mercenaries.

And almost immediately, Sykra catches on to that kind of vibe when the first thing she sees in the neon lit streets of the city are a trio of mercs drunkenly toying around with a cutting-edge plasma rifle.

Notably, they only have one plasma rifle. Seems they can’t afford to buy two more.

She passes by the gaggle of mercs, who seem to be chattering about how they’ll annihilate the shooting range they’re apparently going to, and eventually finds herself at an intersection, where cars fly by amidst the towering lights.

Sykra looks up, seeing advertisements galore, all lit up in vibrant neon lights which pop in the darkness of night.

It’s just an intersection. One of many in this lively city. And yet, what was once seen as dull has become an opportunity in the eyes of a corporation.

Thus, through blinding lights and deafening noise, they convey and entrench the same idea they once introduced to this former mining hub ten years ago, now magnified tenfold into the senses of every passerby:

“Buy our wares! Play our games! May profits flow from the bottom to the top in a night of endless revelry!”

Truly a far cry from Fitron’s previous purpose.

Sykra looks over to the other side of the road, where a variety of people are going about their nightlife in peaceful cacophony.

Mercs partially donning their armor to flex their wealth and experience. Ordinary men and women in suits and ties going about either to drink at a bar or drink at home. Other, younger cliques, wearing more casual wear like hoodies and jeans to, run by in spades, hanging out wherever the wind takes them.

And then there’s Sykra, wearing her black and white skinsuit as if she were still on a mission. At least she has a long brown coat to cover it up, courtesy of the Good Doctor.

But still, she stands out, and it’s dangerous to have eyes on her, regardless of the location.

So the blanchette makes her decision: she will buy new clothes.

In a relatively populated street, amidst a myriad of strobing lights and fancy shops, there’s only one that managed to catch Sykra’s eye.

It still had flashing lights overhead—of course, it had to adapt to what works—but its uniqueness—its draw—is how much of a contrast the atmosphere within the shop is compared to the outside.

Below the flashing pink and blue lights of the store sign shines a simple light flowing through simple windows. Glowing, warm, yellowish; the ambient radiance pouring over the store like the sun while highlighting its wares sitting by the window, propped up on simple blank mannequins.

A stark contrast to its neighboring stores, hawking their riches and premiums under prismatic lights and gaudy golden exhibits, which to Sykra, only reinforces the idea of how homogenized all these brands have become.

At the least, this store that Sykra has come face-to-face with is simple, rustic, and… familiar.

‘Qlova’s Clothes… One of the few local brands that managed to retain its individuality.’

Sykra looks over to one of the shop’s offerings displayed by the window.

It’s a pistol.

‘Hmm. I did hear that the brand is pivoting to firearms. Didn’t think it’d actually go through, though.’

With a mental shrug, Sykra steps in front of the store’s clear doors, which welcomes her with the sound of a classic windchime before shifting open, letting her walk into a quieter, more peaceful world.

As expected of a clothes store, it’s racked with clothes.

While Sykra isn’t particularly picky with her choices of clothing, she does have one criteria: Don’t stand out.

But in a bright and vibrant city like this, the blanchette finds choosing her unassuming attire for the night particularly challenging.

For one, she can’t be too bland, or she’ll stick out against the flashing lights of the ads. And she can’t be too bright either, or she’ll stand out on those moments where there aren't any strobing lights.

She needs to strike a perfect balance… Which leads to another issue: The selection.

There are hundreds of hoodies, shirts, sweaters, the like, lined up on clotheslines for her to pick and choose from, but none are as minimalist as she would like.

Sykra reaches the end of her fifth aisle, lifting the fold of a tacky sweater in her hands before dropping it unceremoniously, letting it swing back into the clothesline.

She sighs, maybe this store just wasn’t as worth it as she thought…

‘...Huh?’

Between stacks of button-up shirts and vests, Sykra finds something… unusual.

A simple box with the name Enforcer EMM printed on its side—a well known civilian-use pistol—and it’s already torn open.

Sykra picks up the box—it’s light, practically weightless, and when she taps upon its sides she hears a hollow sound. Someone stole a pistol, but the fact that the store isn’t alerted means that either they somehow masterfully fled the scene with no one the wiser, or… they’re still here—

She hears a click around the corner, and immediately her hand shoots for the satchel by her side, zipper pinched between her fingers.

Sykra brings her stance low as she begins to creep her way towards the end of the aisle.

As she walks, she continues to hear sifting from the aisle beyond. Sifting… and stifled breathing.

She makes it to the corner and slowly peaks her head over to see… a beautiful, older woman with golden hair and prismatic blue eyes, perusing various hoodies and sweaters.

The woman notices her, and she flashes a sweet smile her way.

“Whatcha doin’ over there?” She asks the blanchette, her voice smooth and sweet like fine red wine.

Sykra doesn’t immediately drop her stance, but she does loosen her grip over the satchel zipper a little bit. “I thought I heard something suspicious over the corner. Could that be you?”

Sykra doubts it, and yet, the woman nods. “Ah— Yeah… Accidentally knocked down some stuff and had to put it back; happens to the best of us, y’know?”

“...I see.” Sykra drops her stance and approaches the blonde, traces of caution still lingering with each step.

Upon closer look, the woman looks to be somewhere in her early 30s, but that definitely didn’t stop her from dressing for style.

It’s a casual fit; a simple white hoodie with the words “Not my problem~” emblazoned on the front, and tight-fitting ripped jeans to match its carefree message. Those clothes, paired with the woman’s laxed grin and blaise gaze, all combine to create an aura of nonchalant freedom.

“So, what’s on your mind?” The blonde asks.

Sykra hums, scanning the blonde in front of her and then turning her head to the left—down the aisle where a mess has been made. A pile of clothes sit there in a messy hill of fabric, dense and immovable.

“I thought that you cleaned the mess up, Miss—?”

“Rachel,” the blonde answers, “Just call me Rachel, and to answer your question— well, I did plan on cleaning it up… till I realized just how much of a mess I made.”

“Well, that’s my other question; how did this happen?”

Rachel scratches the side of her neck sheepishly, “Eheh~ Well… I just had some trouble with the top shelf…”

“...You’re taller than me.”

“Not by much!”

Sykra shakes her head, “Well, seems like I was falsely alarmed. I will be off now.”

The blanchette begins walking away from the scene, but the feeling of the blonde’s lingering gaze presses against her back, and just before she turns the corner…

“Wait!” Rachel calls, stopping Sykra in her place.

“Why don’t we stick together!”

Sykra looks over her shoulder and tilts her head; the blonde’s eyes briefly flicker to her right before she elaborates.

“Er— Well— To go through the store quicker! I’m sure four eyes are better than two when it comes to a search, right?”

Sykra considers the blonde’s words. Objectively speaking, it is beneficial to have a companion help her search for the things she can’t, however, there’s still that open box that she found; she couldn’t find it visible on Rachel’s form, but that doesn’t eliminate the possibility that she may be armed.

But still… the offer is there. It could be a simple exchange; they both get what they desire through each other’s aid and then walk off as strangers do. It’ll only be for a bit, so it surely wouldn’t hurt… right?

“...Fine,” Sykra relents, the next words sitting on her tongue in tangy hesitancy, “I… accept your aid.”

“Awesome!” Rachel beams, skipping over to Sykra’s side and taking the lead, with her as the head of this fresh “duo”.

“C’mon, let’s shop and talk! You could be my tail if you like~”

Sykra doesn’t respond, not verbally, anyways; instead she simply takes a small step forward and stops in place, maintaining a decent distance from Rachel’s back.

“Let’s go,” the blanchette tells the blonde, whose grin is audible even through her reply,

And so they walk, but even still, Sykra can’t shake the feeling that something’s… off.

She looks over her shoulder, but sees nothing out of the ordinary. She gets one last glimpse of the messy aisle, and still it yields nothing more than the result of an accident.

Perhaps she’s just paranoid… but her instincts never lie; something must be wrong with this store—

“Hmm? Something up?” The blonde calls over, already a distance away from Sykra.

Sykra didn’t realize that she had stopped in place. She blinks, taking one last sweep of the surroundings behind her, before facing Rachel with a shake of her head. “It’s nothing.”

The blonde looks at her strangely before shrugging. “C’mon, let’s go,” she calls as she begins moving forward once again. Meanwhile, Sykra continues to tread lightly in absolute vigilance.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

As they left, unknowing to either woman, something beneath the pile of fallen clothing struggled, shaking the mound, before eventually falling silent.

“So, whatcha lookin’ for?” Rachel asks the blanchette as they walk through an aisle of scarves gloves.

“Something mediocre to cover up my current… outfit.”

“Ah, right.” The blonde snorts before looking over her shoulder to scrutinize the white-haired girl. Her expression scrunches a bit.

“Sheesh, a long brown coat over an S-Tech Skinsuit is definitely a fashion statement… Or a threat, depending on how you look at it.”

Sykra is inclined to agree. The implications of a coat partially concealing a skinsuit tailor-made for combat is quite threatening, and it’s definitely not a pleasing combination to look at. The coat’s thickness and length doesn’t compliment the suit below at all, and its brown coloration clash quite heavily with the contrasting black and whites of the suit, not to mention—

Wait…

‘Did she just mention S-Tech? How did she—’

Sykra freezes, hands jumping to her satchel when she hears the distinct sound of sharp, sliding metal just an aisle away. It sounded slow, deliberate, hungry.

“Hey, Fashion Disaster!” Rachel calls from the end of the aisle. “What’s got you hung up? C’mon, this way!” The blonde beckons, pointing left, away from where she heard that… disturbance.

‘Could she not have heard?’ Sykra glances to her right, her ears sharpened, and yet she hears nothing from the other side.

She looks towards Rachel, hand to her hip, foot tapping in impatience.

‘...It’s just a few minutes, Sykra. Just find what you need and leave; don’t get paranoid for nothing.’

The blanchette catches up to the blonde, becoming her tail once more. “Done being weird? If so then let’s get it on!”

The pair continue to walk as if nothing happened, and yet Sykra continues to have the urge to look back, but whenever she does, she finds nothing.

‘Something’s wrong— Something’s wrong with this store, but what?’

Suddenly, her head is thrown back and her face is enveloped in a soft white fabric; she’s having to peel off the article, and she looks at it in her hands with a blank expression.

It’s a white sweater with a brown teddy bear embroidered on it. There’s text below the bear, decorated in a multicolored shower of “confetti” that reads: “Have a bear-tastic day!”

“Whatcha think?” Rachel asks, hands behind her back and a smug smirk on her face.

“...Not what I’m looking for,” Sykra replies, throwing the sweater back into Rachel’s hands, whose eyes are now knit in disappointment, “Ugh, lighten up a little, will you? It was a joke.”

Sykra tilts her head, “What was the joke?”

“I— Ugh, whatever, let’s just go.”

And so the blonde marches to the next aisle— and then she suddenly turns 90 degrees halfway through and walks a completely different direction. “C’mon, I think there’s stuff over here that you might like~”

Before Sykra could reply, the blonde is already chasing after her newfound idea— apparently a couple aisle down to the right.

Sykra blinks, but follows anyways, looking over her shoulder as she does so—

…What was that?

“Rachel,” Sykra calls, causing Rachel to pause in her place and look over.

“What is it?” She asks, cocking her head sidewards.

Sykra looks back down the aisle behind her, seeing it completely deserted, save for a woman with a trolley cart now passing by. “...It’s nothing.”

Rachel stares at the blanchette weirdly, before shrugging and moving onwards.

Sykra decides to do the same. It was impossible, right? A blank faced man?

But she couldn’t be hallucinating. Why would she? She didn’t take anything extra or odd, and it’s only now that she feels on edge. So that begs the question: What’s triggering her?

“Hey.”

Sykra glances up and sees Rachel looking back at her with a concerned expression. “You seem a bit… tense. We could take a break if you want.”

“A break?” Sykra asks, and Rachel clarifies without missing a beat.

“Yeah, there’s a free coffee machine close to the counter; we can go over there if you’d like?”

Sykra looks over her shoulder; the lady with the trolley is still there, plucking out clothes from the aisle.

She doesn’t think she needs a break, but being jumpy won’t help her either, so instead…

“Sure, but I’ll sit out on the coffee. Let me just… feel the air instead.”

Rachel hums in agreement, “Sure, let’s go.”

And so the blonde continues walking… to the opposite direction of the store’s counter.

“Rachel, the counter’s over that way.”

The blonde turns to her with a grin on her face, “C’mon~ that’s no fun! Think of taking the longer route as… stopping and smelling the roses; I bet you need it, don’t you agree?”

“...If you’re just gonna waste my time then I’ll just—”

“Wait! We could compromise!” Rachel shouts just as Sykra was about to turn to the correct direction.

“Look, just follow me; it’s worth it. We could hit two birds with one stone with this! Finding you some clothing while simultaneously getting to the coffee machine! Just— Please follow my lead.”

Sykra looks to the shorter path, then back to Rachel’s path. She should take the shorter one, but Rachel has a point— if she can knock two birds with one stone then basically half the job is done.

“Okay, I’ll take your path.”

Rachel beams and skips forward, swinging her arm in a beckoning motion, “Let’s get it on then! I’m sure you won’t regret it!”

Sykra simply walks over to the excitable blonde— before stopping.

“Rachel, did you hear that?”

Rachel’s smile drops as she cocks her head, “Hmm? Hear what?”

“...No, it stopped. I thought I heard my steps being mirrored from the other side of the aisle.”

“...Missy, with all due respect, you really do need to chill out a bit.”

“Perhaps so…”

The pair continue walking, but Sykra continues to hear the sound of her footsteps doubling—this time from either side of her—while Rachel is none the wiser.

They did make it to the counter eventually, with some additional load to boot. Sykra now has a new pair of bluish grey jeans draped around her shoulder, while Rachel is holding up two pairs of fluffy sweaters, both different colors.

“Why don’t we get ourselves a basket?” Rachel suggests.

Sykra nods, and they both pick up their respective baskets from near the counter, dropping off their items soon after.

“Alright! Now that that’s over with…” Rachel lifts her basket with a slight swing and gestures over to a nearby table displaying a familiar machine, “Let’s go get some coffee!”

Rachel skips ahead, while Rachel simply walks—

Before freezing. She snaps her head to the right, squinting her eyes, but sees the aisles deserted.

She swore she could’ve—

“Oi! Come over here! I’ve got coffee!”

Sykra turns back to Rachel, two cups in her hand and patiently waiting.

Sykra takes one last glance—seeing the blank faced man again before blinking. He’s gone without a sound.

She holds a hand over her forehead, ‘What the hell…’

The blanchette takes a breath before pacing over to Rachel.

When she gets there, she stares at the two cups in Sykra’s hands and sighs. “I thought I said I didn’t want coffee?”

“You did! These are just for me~” Rachel says merrily. She sips from both cups in quick succession, letting out a relieving breath.

The blanchette shakes her head; she takes another glance down the aisles—nothing.

“Are you sure you don’t need coffee?” Rachel asks, pressing the other cup against Sykra’s space. “With all due respect, no; I will not take the coffee.”

Rachel lets out a disappointed huff, retracting the cup and taking a sip from it. “Suit yourself… I was hoping a cup would help you out with your weirdness.”

“Weirdness?” Sykra repeats, to which Rachel just shrugs, taking another sip.

“Yeah, weirdness. You’ve been weird since I met you, like a scared cat in a vet; so I was thinking taking a breather before we continue could be good for you, but maybe I was wrong—”

“Enough, I get it.”

“I’ll… just take a sip.”

Rachel smiles elatedly, “Heh, knew you’d get around to it,” and passes the cup over to Sykra.

The cup is warm to the touch, and the coffee’s steam is pouring over the blanchette’s face, reminding her of a sauna. It also smells… like normal coffee, though slightly sweetened.

Sykra stares down at the beverage’s dark brown swirl, and she thinks to herself, ‘Rachel is wrong. I’m not weird; there’s something going on in this store and I don’t know what. But… she’s right that I need to calm down. Right or not, jumping nerves does nobody good.’

And so, the blanchette hesitantly lifts the rim of the cup to her lips and takes a small sip. It tastes… normal.

She takes another sip. Then another taste… Again, normal.

She shakes her head; maybe she should have at least a bit more faith in people. Rachel has shown to be an (ignorant) civilian so far, so why check for poison—

Clang!

The sound of slamming steel almost startles the cup out of Sykra’s hands, and the young woman whips around to get a grip of the situation, finding its source.

The shop’s front has become completely barricaded—sealed by giant metal shutters which conceal the neon-lit streets from the rest of the shop.

Sykra drops the cup, spilling the coffee to the floor, and dashes for the exit.

“Hey!”

The blanchette has come face-to-face with the shutters and knocks on it—thick, very thick, the sound that echoes from it is so sturdy—unshakable.

She presses her palms against the steel wall and pushes—immovable, without a hint of giving.

Sykra turns either side of her before gripping onto her satchel, zipping clenched between her fingers.

‘I’m locked in here, and there’s only one way out… Fuck if I’m gonna have to make a ruckus then…’

A hand lands on her shoulder, and she whips around to slam her fist into whoever—

Sykra’s breath hitches as all her momentum is drained from her. Her fist in caught in their hand—in Rachel’s hand.

“Missy… You’re quite jumpy, aren’t you?”

Sykra locks eyes with Rachel, her vacant glare meeting the blonde’s pitying gaze.

She forces her arm out of Rachel’s rather weak grasp and readies another blow—before the blonde leaps back a distance, her prismatic stare not leaving the girl.

Sykra quickly unzips her satchel, finding her Armor Module in her grip, and—

“Wait,” Rachel commands, her hand outstretched and her gaze becoming a glare. “Don’t do it, you’ll be killed if you do.”

“Says who?” Sykra challenges, her grip on the Module only becoming tighter.

“Them,” Rachel motions behind her—an empty store, deserted of all customers besides them.

“If you do it here and now, they will be given express permission to kill you, as you will be seen as a threat.”

Sykra does not let go of her stance. “What are you not telling me?”

Rachel sighs, exhaustion and a hint of frustration bleeding through her breath, “A lot of things, but you have to trust me if you want to live. They’re not after you, they’re after me. So if you can just follow my lead, then maybe you could get out of this alive, alright?”

Sykra huffs, her alert gaze remaining unbroken on the blonde, “So you did know that there was somebody stalking us?”

“I— Yes, I did. I was lying to you; basically gaslighting you, but please know it was for your own good.”

The blanchette looks at Rachel’s eyes—they looked dull, but crackling with infuriation, and emerging between both is that shiny quality veiling her marine gaze and dwarfing all other emotions:

Pleading.

“Please. I’ve been good to you, so don’t make it so that you die under my watch…”

Sykra glances behind her—an iron wall greeting her gaze, then back at Rachel, whose desperation pervades her bated breath, and her friendly appearance becoming just as tattered as her facade.

Sykra weighs her options and considers Rachel’s words, however laced with lies they may be.

On one hand, her instincts have gotten her thus far, and are reliable. On the other hand, she has stumbled into a situation she knows nothing about; with lack of information, either choice could be a death sentence.

She looks up at Rachel again, the woman’s gaze becoming more impatient, frantic, as if she’s expecting something to happen, something bad.

…She could use this to her advantage; but first, a test.

Sykra suddenly thrusts her hand deeper into the satchel, making Rachel jump in place, eyes wide and hand shooting forward in instinctual despair.

Sykra pauses. Seems her suspicions are confirmed, and this scenario is feeling a whole lot more familiar.

Gripping her Module tight in her hand, she begins the interrogation.

“Tell me what’s going on, or—” Sykra pushes her hand further into the satchel, leaning forward into her stance, like a samurai preparing to draw, “—risk plasmic evisceration.”

Rachel’s expression snaps to shock—then to anger, “Now? You want to question me now?! Missy you know we’re in a hell of a lot of trouble and you want to take your time now?!”

“Who’s the one begging here? You or me?”

Rachel scoffs, eyes rolling in disbelief at the audacity on display.

“Fine, you want to know so badly? I’ll give you an answer and only one.”

Rachel shoves a hand down her hoodie’s pocket—Sykra reacts, her arm shooting out of the satchel with the Armor Module in her grasp and—

Rachel does the same, holding in her hand a black and pink Armor Module.

‘Wait… Those colors are—’

Rachel lets out a breath, and her prismatic marine eyes become piercing to the white-haiered girl. She holds the Module against her chest, and she says, “My name is Rachel, that is the truth, but you may also know me elsewhere from the mercenary world—as the rising star that keeps getting higher…”

“I am Earth Angel, and you, Missy, are marked for death from the moment we met.”