“I’m going to die,” thinks Marlowe as Garros dangles the bag of pallabrites in front of his face while Garros’s face is twisted into a wicked grin.
Garros tugs at the bag string to flick it up and snatches it out of the air. He opens it and takes out one of the pallabrites and holds it up to a candle.
“It’s exactly like Larry, gods bless him, said. No shine to them, too cloudy to even see through.”
He turns his head to Marlowe and says, “Care to enlighten me, Lord Strathmore?”
Marlowe remains frozen in fear, his eyes wide and staring straight ahead.
Garros sighs and says, “I don’t believe someone of your position would randomly be flaunting some creation they made to home invaders. Why not show it to your fellow lords and ladies, mm?”
He splays his arms wide and continues, “You achieved your goal, then! So tell me what this is about, Marlowe.”
“Well I…” Marlowe carefully replies, “I’m not sure anymore…”
“What, am I not good enough? I’m the best you’re getting down in this shit hole.”
Garros pulls a small table and chair from the side of the room in front of Marlowe and sits down. He puts the bag of pallabrites on the table and shoves it towards Marlowe.
“There,” Garros says, “Let’s make a deal.”
Marlowe puts his hands on the table and cups the bag in them, to which Garros softly snickers.
“You tell me what they’re about, and you can run off,” Garros says, “I’ll even throw in an escort for you. One better than Larry.”
Marlowe looks down for a second then back up and says, “Okay… But I think, if you don’t mind, to show you would be better, don’t you think? You’ll be surprised, I am sure.”
“Be my guest,” Garros replies.
Marlowe looks Garros straight in the eyes and holds out half the pallabrites for him to grab.
“Take these and stand up,” Marlowe says.
Garros does as Marlowe says.
“I think you’re good at throwing, aren’t you, Garros?”
“Yes,” he replies, “hit some lad in the back of the head while he was running away some 20 meters off, ha!”
Marlowe laughs awkwardly, “Okay, well, hold all of the pallabrites in your hand and toss them against the wall.”
“And what’s supposed to happen?”
“Something you will never suspect.”
Garros lurches down and holds Marlowe by his collar and hisses, “Don’t fuck with me, kid. I’ve been nothing but a generous host to you in my own damn house. If you do anything funny, know you will never walk without looking over your shoulder. You understand me?”
Marlowe nods slowly.
“I’m glad we do,” Garros says as he stands up and pats Marlowe on the head, “Here we go.”
Marlowe’s jaw clenches as Garros holds the pallabrites in a firm grip and begins winding up. Marlowe discreetly steps back. The pallabrites unleash from Garros’s hand with a grunt and the crystals fly through the air like grapeshot. Before they hit the wall, Marlowe turns on his heel and accelerates for a sprint towards the door through which Larry was taken out of.
As soon as Marlowe turns, the pallabrites impact the wall and burst into flame in quick succession, lighting up the room in a flash. The flames flow up into the dry wooden walls and supports, catching fire from the intense burst of heat.
Garros stands in awe for a moment and says under his breath, “You little…”
As he turns around he shouts, “Oi! Get that little shit! And put out this fucking fire!”
Marlowe reaches the door, swings it open, and lunges through it. He feels like time slows down, the adrenaline pumping through his system.
A guard reaches for his knife to his right, and a room ahead with several doors. Blood stains, Larry’s blood stains, on the floor leading to the door on the left. Disposing of bodies. Not an exit. Middle door, slightly larger than the door on the right, and has a big lock on it. Possibly the exit.
Marlowe manages to take several strides into the room, and the guard engages him. With nimble hands, he takes out a pallabrite from his pocket and throws it at the floor. The fire erupts behind the guard as he charges forward. Before Marlowe could get another pallabrite, the guard jabs forward, hitting Marlowe in his forearm as he reactively defends himself and falls to the floor. Sharply and quickly breathing through his teeth, Marlowe scuttles backwards while the guard moves closer while grinning ear to ear.
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“The boss would like to see ya, kiddo,” he snickers as he flicks his hand in the palm of his hand.
The creaking of floorboards approach them, as if the wooden structure groans in pain.
“First, you betray my trust,” Garrus says as he steps closer, “then you put my house on fire. New deal, kid: you give me what I want, then teach you what it’s like to fuck with us, and whenever they feel like it, make some cash off your parents up in Elysium. Maybe I’ll send them little bits of you. They’ll want you back, after all. What do you think?”
Marlowe keeps his hand behind him, clutching several pallabrite, as Garrus lowers himself to Marlowe.
“But first…” he continues.
Garros smashes his fist into Marlowes face, dropping him completely to the floor. The taste of metal touches his mouth and the guard snickers behind Garros.
“Let me introduce you a little to one of our customs, since you seem so eager to deal with us.” Garrus says, holding his hand out to the guard.
The guard puts his bloodied knife into Garros’s hand, and Garros continues, “You see, we have different punishments for those who oppose us. Rat us out? Slice your mouth open. Steal from us? Cut off your hands. Desert us? Turn you into a cripple. You get the gist, poetic justice. You’re a clever kid.”
He holds the knife between himself and Marlowe and inspects it.
“But one of my favorites is where we got our name from,” he continues. “Shiv’s Edge. What do you think happens, mm?”
Marlowe grits his teeth and clenches the pair of pallabrites in his hand. Cold sweat drips from his forehead and he feels his left forearm shaking and getting wet from the stab. It’s now or never.
“Raaaaah!, he screams and swings his right hand clenching the pallabrites forwards to Garros’s chest. Moments before his hand connects, his arm is whacked sideways. Quickly, Garros follows up on his counter and grasps Marlowe’s wrist, pulling him up until his knees barely touch the ground.
“Pathetic,” he hissed, “I’ve been down here longer than a day, you little shit. I was going to take you alive, but… Fuck the money, while you lot may think of us as honorless trash, nobody burns down my fucking house! Nobody!”
He takes a deep breath and calmly says, “Say your prayers.”
Marlowe looks up and half-feigns struggling and whispers, “I’ll tell you… how to make them…”
“Huh, you’ll tell me what now?” Garros sneers as he leans in.
“How to make them…”, Marlowe says again, “ignite.”
Marlowe releases one of the pallabrites and catches it with his other hand. With all the strength he has left in his wounded arm, he smoothly swings his arm in a circular motion and slams the pallabrite into the one remaining in his other hand.
Flames erupt from his hands right next to Garros’s head. Sharp pains, like hundreds of pins and needles, cover Marlowe’s hands and arms. He managed to turn his face away from the fire, but half of his face remained exposed to the heat, and it was like looking directly into a smoldering oven. Immediately after, his wrist is let go and he drops to the floor, covering his arms with his body with his clothes to suffocate the smoldering sleeves.
Garros’s head is aflame, his hair instantly burnt off for the most part, screaming in agony. The knife he holds clatters on the ground as he swipes his face and scalp as if he tries to pull his skin off. The guard behind him tries to pull off Garros’s clothes and his own to cover his boss.
The lock on the door behind Marlowe emits the sound of keys being jammed into it, and shortly after the door swings open. A pair of guards enter the room in a rush.
“What the… Boss?!” one of them exclaims as he runs over to Garros.
“Water, I’ll get water!” the other one says with a shake in his voice and runs back out.
Sunlight hits Marlowe’s eyes through the doorway. A chance. It’s now or never.
Using the blood of his wound, Marlowe manages to extinguish the flames on his hand, the rest quickly following. He glances at the door behind him.
He sets his hand down to push himself up, but the stabbing pain of his peeling palm stops him with a wince. He changes to lean on his knuckles instead, and while still in biting pain, manages to get himself up.
His legs and feet are mostly unaffected, running is not a problem, and so he runs out of the blazing house. Briefly looking back, he sees Garros lying on the floor, his eyes piercing through Marlowe on the backdrop of a collapsing, blazing wooden structure.
As he runs out onto the muddy street, a small crowd is gathered. Some of them are shouting for help, others look in shock, and the rest are running to get something to extinguish the fire.
Marlowe looks around in panic, he has to get out of here. Away from Garros and his guards, far away. His hands and arms tremble from the trauma inflicted upon them, with only adrenaline keeping the rest of his body steady and his mind conscious.
He spots a dark alleyway, a path to slip away from the crowd. He rushes forward, weaving between the crowd. While his eyes slightly adjust to the darkness, he continues his charge ahead. The stagnant air is thick with excrement and rot, and the ground below turned to mud due to the lack of sunlight. Between his aching lungs and ratty environment, Marlowe struggles to keep what measly food he ate down.
Left, right, left again, straight ahead. Marlowe finds himself in the labyrinth of the underbelly, unable to find landmarks to orientate himself. Walls of patchwork lumber, brick and fabric block all views of the sky. Strangers looking through their barricaded windows, and passing residents stare for an uncomfortable moment too long.
It feels like 10 minutes have passed since Marlowe started running and his labored breathing is raspy and shallow.
“Ugh,” he coughed as he slowed down and slouched over. Now that he’s not focused on running, his mind automatically changed focus to his burning lungs and fast-beating heart. His head throbs, he feels lightheaded, and the pain of the burns he suffered are catching up to him. Luckily, the intense burn slowed his bleeding wound slightly through cauterization, or he’d have passed out a while ago.
Between his hacking coughs, he hears footsteps coming closer. Hasty footsteps. He turns to the source.
“Wait,” a boy about his age says with a worried look on his face. Right behind him follows a large man.
“Are you…”, Marlowe hesitates, “You’re the ones, cough, from the sewers?”
The man nods and says, “Algar, and this is Hayes. Found out who it was that took you and planned to get you out, but uh,” he gestures vaguely to Marlowe, “somehow you’ve done it yourself.”
“We need to help him,” Hayes says with urgency in his tone, “quickly!”
As Hayes is speaking, Marlowe feels his lightheadedness increase. He starts swaying on his feet and falls backwards, his vision turning dark within seconds.
“Whoa there,” Algar says as he catches Marlowe, “Come, Hayes. We need to be fast.”
Hayes already started running back home before Algar could finish his sentence. He scoffs with a smile and follows, holding Marlowe in his arms.