Chapter 11 The Fat Man Rots

Roach was sprinting from the closest Top Train station. The call was serious, he just didn’t know how serious. He had ditched his tux jacket on the way and stolen a long, waterproof coat—he still needed to hide who he was and where he had came from. As he entered the Grey Zone near Battersea Power Station, he threw the mist on his face. Armed with only the small knife from his shin, he approached.

It was carnage. Corpses were plentiful and none of them were intact. Some were rotten down to their bone while others were burnt to a crisp, frozen solid or ripped apart by magical bullets. Upbeat music was still playing inside, along with the flashing lights. Faintly, gunshots could be heard.

Nearer to the grand entrance, Roach found a cloaked, Fodder rank bent down behind a turned-over car, reloading a magical rifle. Crouch-running, he moved towards him. “Alias: Roach, what’s the situation?” he asked in a whisper.

“Alias: Scrunch, Children of Discordia,” the misted face replied, cocking the rifle. His voice was timid and fear was present. “They’re still fighting inside.”

“Is the leader in there?” Roach hurriedly questioned.

Scrunch shook his head, pointing to the rotten bodies out front. “I watched him do that.”

“Did you get a look at him? Do you know where he was heading?”

Scrunch shook their head, disappointed at displeasing a superior.

“Fuck!” Roach grunted loudly. “Give me the gun!” Scrunch didn’t have a choice as it was ripped from their grip.

Roach, still in polished, smart shoes, entered the building with a twitchy finger. Hurrying under the archway into the Labyrinth of Love, he noticed a far greater deal of fresh corpses, with most being the Bookkeeper's merchandise and patrons; they were scattered between bullet-ridden poker tables. A stench of decay and gunpowder lingered in the air and the odd catchphrases sounded out from the slot machines.

Roach moved forward, stepping over the bodies. Up ahead, in the next section of the labyrinth, he could hear where all the commotion was coming from. Upon entering, he found a calamitous sight of misted faces engaging the Children of Discordia. One of those misted faces was his teammate.

“ROACH!” Goliath screamed as he flung a corpse in his direction.

“Where is he?”

“The leader? Gone, packed up his shit and left. Spike is upstairs. I can’t get to him!” He suddenly came under heavy fire and brought his wrists up to shield his eyes. Roach dove for cover, quickly springing up again to exchange gunfire.

“Is he dead?!” Roach shouted over to Goliath.

Goliath dropped on all fours behind a poker table, bringing out a phone from his pocket. The screen displayed Spike’s vital signs and his location. “He’s not injured at all—it’s his heart, it's dropping fast!”

“Shit,” Roach grunted, knowing exactly the infliction caused. “We need to get to him now.”

“Is he going to die?” Goliath asked, worried.

“I just need to get to him!” Roach responded. “Where is he?”

“Tenth floor, where we were, remember?!” Goliath bellowed back.

“Roger, sir, give me a distraction!”

Putting the phone back in his pocket, Goliath lifted the bottom of the poker table, finding it to be surprisingly heavy even for him. “I’m gonna lob it. On my mark!”

“Understood!”

The poker table lifted off the floor and was raised high in the air. It drew fire perhaps too well, and Goliath’s body was battered with bullets. Roach darted out from his cover, b-lining it for the staircase. A magical bullet connected with his shoulder, completely disintegrating it. He slumped to the ground with smoke rising off him, bleeding out.

“Shit,” Goliath cursed, lobbing the poker table towards the Children of Discordia. He rushed over to the dying Roach, covering his body with his own.

With a working hand, Roach grabbed Goliath’s shoulder, shouting, “Throw me!”

Without hesitation, Goliath gripped Roach’s coat and launched him like a spear at the staircase. His head collided with the door, ripping it off its hinges, and breaking every bone in his body.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” a misted face shouted out.

“It’s Roach!” Goliath bellowed back.

The misted face nodded in understanding. “Draw fire, we got Boseman coming in a second.”

“When?”

From above, in the skylight, a sound wave travelled down, shattering the glass ceiling. Heavy boots landed on broken glass in the centre of the fighting, and a pissed-off half-orc was in them. Stretching his hands behind him, he brought them forward at an incredible pace, slamming them together, and sending a shockwave at the Children of Discordia. It was so powerful it even upturned the flooring.

Roach’s bones clicked back into position, and he shot upright. He was through. He hiked up the stairs three at a time, stepping over bodies and pools of dried blood. A stronger scent of decay hit his nose - he was close. At the top of the staircase, he arrived at a set of double doors and barged his way inside.

Immediately, his eyes were drawn to the corpse of the Bookkeeper. All his internal organs had been rotted down to dust, leaving his skeleton behind with his unique skin lying against it. He didn’t stare long. “Spike!” he called. “Spike!” No answer.

In the corner of the room, he found a portion of the wall had come away and a barefoot was sticking out. He charged inside, gun at the ready. There, he found his teammate sprawled out, with eyes of white and an open mouth. “Shit,” Roach muttered, bending down, taking his jacket off. He grabbed Spike’s jaw and with his other hand felt his chest; his heart rate was slow and irregular.

After checking one last time there were no more threats, Roach pulled the knife from his shin and took a deep breath in. On the exhale, he sliced his own throat up.

A teenager sat on the edge of the sand, gazing at the Gold Sea before him. Long, well-kept, black locks draped on either side of his head. His skin was blank and his feminine eyes told a story of innocence. The only thing neglecting his youthful appearance was his hands; calluses covered them, along with scars and stress fractures that showed through his skin.

Roach appeared in a forest painted black and white with a thick canopy above. His eyes darted to every tree. Though they all appeared the same, they weren’t to him. He knew each one was an entrance and an exit. For every second in the real world, it was a minute here.

Spotting the tree he was looking for, he bolted for it, running straight through it. He emerged in a luscious forest with a lake before him. It looked to be from a national park in old America. Just before the water's edge, there was a picnic blanket set out with a spread of cheese and a bottle of wine. There was the woman without a face standing with an elderly gentleman next to her. Sensing his presence, she turned around. “Solomon? What are you doing here?”

“Not now,” Roach replied, sprinting between them and diving into the lake.

He found himself at the top of a skyscraper with powerful winds striking him. As he looked below, there was no bottom to the building, only an endless, stretching frame. He spun around, and his eyes landed on a fire exit door.

The teenager stared up at the bright sun, finding the warmth of it pleasing. He had missed the Gold Sea and the blue skies above it. He debated going in.

“Stop!” a voice bellowed behind him.

The teenager’s head snapped to it.

“Spike, do not go in that water,” Roach warned, stopping a few metres before him.

“Why?” the teenager questioned. His accent wasn’t Cockney, nor was it rough. He spoke wonderful English like a private schoolboy. “And who are you? Why are you calling me Spike?”

“I’m . . . don’t worry about me for now. Whatever you do, do NOT go in the water,” Roach warned once more.

The teenager chuckled, shaking his head. “But it’s the Gold Sea; not too hot, not too cold. It feels like it's been ages since I’ve been here. Where exactly am I? I don’t remember anything,” he muttered, turning his attention to the water once more.

“I’ll explain to you, but promise me, you won’t go in?” Roach pleaded.

“I mean, sure,” he replied.

Carefully, but ready to pounce on him at any moment, Roach made his way next to him, sitting down a few feet away, with the water just reaching his boots. He took a deep breath, and explained, “Your soul has been damaged.”

“Pardon?”

“You were attacked by someone who cast Soul Shatter on you,” Roach explained further. “You’re a merc on a job. I’m your teammate. I’m next to you in the real world.”

“Really? I’m a mercenary? How come I don’t remember anything?” the teenager inquired, resting his head on his knees.

“When Soul Shatter hit you, it fragmented your soul, and as a failsafe, it reverted you to a younger form, where Sephora can’t judge or guide you properly into the Land Beyond. I know it doesn’t make sense. Truly, I do, but pieces of your soul are inside that sea.”

“The Gold Sea,” he corrected, appearing almost angry.

Roach nodded. “The Gold Sea.”

“So, why can’t I go and get them?”

“Because if you try, it will take centuries, I’ve tried it and was lucky to get out. Your body will die before your mind returns.”

“Your soul is shattered too?”

Roach breathed in deeply. Exhaling, he said, “Fuck it, it's not like you’re going to remember this anyway. My soul has been crushed into a thousand pieces. I’ve spent years here trying to find them. I am permanently bound to this place and I can only access the real world through a deal I made.”

“So you’re pretty fu—screwed up then? And this place doesn’t seem so bad.”

“Never make a deal with the devil,” Roach told him, “even if it's exactly what you want. This place is called the Land Between. It’s full of dreams, broken and full, and your most precious and hurtful memories.”

He nodded in understanding but responded out-of-pocket with, “So who am I again? Have I had sex yet?”

“You’re Spike, our bard, and yeah,” Roach muttered, half-smirking, “lots.”

“Sick,” he responded, enthused, “do you know if my dad’s dead?”

Roach paused for a second, hesitating to reply. The team had agreed at the end of their Stage 3 training that they would not pry into the past of each other. If they wanted to share, however, it was up to them, but this wasn’t Spike.

“I uh . . . I hate him, or I think I do. Do you know him?” he questioned, cocking his head at Roach.

“I don’t—we don’t talk about our past, mate.”

The teenager laid back on the sand with his hands behind his head. “Can I leave this place?”

Roach nodded, staring at the horizon. He pulled a cigarette from his tux pocket, offering Spike one in the process. He declined. Roach was taken aback but lit it, taking a long drag afterwards.

“How can I leave this place then? And why couldn’t you?”

Roach cleared his throat. “I was sent here every day for two hours for a whole year. Each time, my soul was siphoned off, broken and spread across every dream and memory possible. My soul fractured to a point where I feel absolutely nothing, and the reason why I’m not just a shell in the real world is because of the deal I made. Yours, though, yours should be whole enough to function when you leave.”

“But?”

“You won’t feel like yourself. You’ll be agitated and angry—you’re those things anyway, but the things that made you feel joy won’t be the same. Over time, it can heal, but when you come back, things won’t feel right. You understand?”

“I guess,” the teenager sighed.

“Why the sea, Spike?” Roach questioned, going against the agreement.

“This isn’t just any sea, it’s the Gold Sea. Not too cold, not too hot. It’s called the Gold Sea because of all the trade ships at the bottom. When the slavers used to travel to Urum to sell their cargo, they would travel to Strokkun to spend their coin. It’s dangerous though—also a sacred place for people like me. It’s home to—” He hung his head.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Roach said, extinguishing his half-smoked cigarette. “Alright then, you ready to leave this place?”

“Just—” He gazed out. “Give me a second.”

“Sure.”

Roach joined him in silence. However, from the corner of his eye, he saw a spot of water begin to bubble, and tar rising to the surface. “Time’s up, Spike,” Roach told him, standing up and grabbing the back of his collar.

“What, why?”

Roach directed him into the centre of the island, facing away from the bubbling water. “You play the guitar. Imagine it.”

“Uh, sure.” A guitar appeared in his hand, void of any magic or illusion. It wasn’t his guitar, but an old electric one, with the name ‘Ray Flower’ signed at the bottom. “Holy - this is sick!”

“You know how to play, don’t you?” Roach hastily asked, eyeing behind him.

“I think,” Spike mumbled, playing a note.

“Keep going,” Roach instructed, agitated.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing. You have to trust me. Play the guitar.”

“I can’t get the hang of it.”

“Spike, you know you never know when to shut the fuck up in the real world. I hate you for it. But there’s one thing you can do, and you do it well, is playing the guitar. You rinse the absolute fuck out of it. So. Play. The. Guitar,” he said through gritted teeth.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

The teenager was frightened by his tone. Regardless, he began to play a song that he didn’t know. His fingers moved without a thought - it felt natural, and soon, he began to shred. His face scrunched up. His head bobbed. His back curved.

“That’s it!” Roach exclaimed, eyeing the threat behind him.

A pillar of tar, rock and magma, shot out of the water with purple smoke billowing off.

White particulates were emitted from Spike, floating upwards towards the sky. More quickly joined, and Spike’s personality shone through more. “Fuckin’ yeah!” he shouted as tattoos began to cover his body. In a brilliant flash of iridescent particulares, his body dispersed.

“Oh darn, what a disappointment, he didn’t even witness my entrance,” an otherworldly voice spoke all around. It was feminine, tinged with a teasing and unruly tone.

Roach inhaled through his nose and planted his feet firmly into the sand. “He wasn’t yours, Yelia.”

From the rock pillar in the sea, blood, tar and magma seeped out of the top, followed by a large hand with long, obsidian-coated nails. The hand gripped the top of the pillar and pulled the rest of itself up. Though the naked figure appeared human, it most definitely was not. It was a woman with a thick, muscular body, grey skin and ribbed, twisting horns protruding from the top of her head. Runes covered her waist, stretching to her legs and up to her bare chest. Her height alone dwarfed Roach, and her presence was overwhelming, but he remained unfazed.

“A girl can’t have a little fun, can she?” she asked, her voice now projecting like a human.

“This is your doing,” Roach said to her with a scowl on his face.

“Oh, Solomon, your rage does light a fire in me. Such determination and protectiveness, it’s almost fabricated in a tale,” she teased. “What did he say, not too hot, not too cold?”

“It’s almost done,” Roach told her, calming himself. “I’ve found him, you’ll have me then.”

“Will I now? What if I’m not done? What if you’re not done?” she proposed, giggling behind her hand, contrasting her unladylike appearance. Her face suddenly switched up, turning into a scowl upon noticing Roach’s own.

“That’s not our deal, Yelia,” Roach countered, tensing his jaw.

“Deals,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Why do make people deals? Revenge, greed, love—I felt a flutter in that hollow shell you call a soul earlier. I hope my dear Solomon isn’t having second thoughts about eternity with me?”

Roach stayed silent.

Yelia sighed and turned around, looking across the Gold Sea. “I’m sure your fragments are here somewhere. Maybe that part of your soul which is responsible for love? Would you like me to fish it out?”

Spike gasped awake, his white eyes returning normal. Goliath clutched his head like a toddler and shook him. “Spike… Spike, you’re awake.” Standing over the two was Mercy, and in the other room, there were a dozen misted faces.

The eccentric bard wheezed weakly.

Mercy, annoyed at having been woken up in the early morning, said, “Unfortunately, you survived, Spike.”

“Respectfully, sir,” Spike groaned, showing a middle finger to his superior.

“Are you in need of medical assistance?” Mercy asked, his tone frustrated.

“No cuts or bruises, sir,” Goliath responded instead. “I think he’s fine.”

“Then get your arses up - don’t make a mockery of me,” Mercy instructed. “Why is he not waking up? Why is he not healing?”

“I don’t know, sir, I found them both like this,” Goliath replied, looking up at his superior.

Mercy clicked his teeth, bending down next to Roach’s body. “If he has somehow sacrificed his life for you, Spike, that would be the most awful deal in history,” Mercy told him.

“Better me than him,” Spike coughed. He tucked his elbows into his chest and rolled gently into Goliath’s sweet, muscular embrace. “Is the Dagian dead?”

“The Bookkeeper is gone,” Goliath told him.

“Fuck,” he murmured with little strength.

“Our deal is final, Yelia,” Roach told her.

“But what if I don’t want you to pass into the Land Beyond with me? I know the demons do - especially the succubus - oh your soul would be a feast for them. I do wonder what your place will look like,” Yelia responded as she turned around to face him. “Does my body not excite you anymore, Solomon?”

“It never did. I know what’s under there,” Roach said.

She sighed and then smiled. “Alright, Solomon, I’ll see you next when our deal is done. Remember, you have to be the one to kill them. And if you don’t, then you will have to kill whoever does. Otherwise, passage to the Land Beyond is out of the question.”

“I know the fucking deal,” Roach spat.

Suddenly, behind him, he felt a powerful gust of air. He looked over his shoulder and saw the woman with hair covering her face. She was still wearing a white gown with no shoes, and her wings were fully extended. Gracefully landing down, she put herself between the two, facing Yelia.

“My sweet niece, Sephora,” Yelia said with a twisted smile. “No one has died here, darling, you are not wanted.”

“Interfering with souls is against the rules of the First Gods since the Deviant Act,” the woman known as Sephora told her.

“Please,” she huffed, laughing after, “do you think the Three Moons care? The last time they cared was when the First King challenged their rule; even the Mortal God didn’t do that.”

“Your Deviants ruthlessly murdered the First King, Yelia,” Sephora reminded her.

“Careful what you say about my Deviants, there’s one standing right behind—”

“I’m not your deviant,” Roach interrupted. “No wonder yours were the first hunted down and killed after.”

“Tough being a Deviant, isn’t it?” Yelia challenged. “You’re not even a proper one—a Blessed at that. Hm—hahaha . . . I marked a boy with no mana, no mentionable skills or even a high-standing family—”

“A boy with more will than even the First King,” Sephora cut off. “Don’t lie and say you didn’t see it.”

“Perhaps I did, even then, niece, he came to me and not you, didn’t he?”

Sephora flapped her wings, sending pebbles and seaweed towards her aunt. Yelia held up her right wrist against her eyes. “Attacking a First God—”

“Is justifiable when oneself or territory is threatened—”

“This is not your territory, niece,” Yelia talked over. “This is my brother’s; he just gave pity to someone like you, who used him—”

“I did not use him, he chose me to prevent you from snatching souls not ready to die, swaying them like you tried today. Leave, Yelia, Solomon will fulfil his deal.”

Yelia looked the unusual winged woman up and down. “Fine. But never raise your wings against me ever again, or I shall send thousands to an early death.”

Sephora remained still and quiet but didn’t lower her wings.

“Goodbye, Solomon, I hope to see you soon,” Yelia jested, offering a smirk and a wink. Blood seeped out of the platform and Yelia stepped into it. Slowly, she sank with it.

“That was dangerous,” Serpohra told him. “Swaying a soul—”

“I fucking know,” Roach interrupted. “I couldn’t sit there and watch him get lost.”

“How long has he been gone?” Mercy questioned.

“I’ve been here for six minutes,” Goliath answered, glancing at his phone.

“Roll him over,” Mercy instructed. “Take his shirt off.”

Goliath ripped it with his bare hands and flipped him on his front. “What are you doing—”

“Quiet,” Mercy told him, looking at the skull on his back. It was moving - shifting its jaw from side to side as it swam around his back in two dimensions.

“What the fuck—”

“Shh!” Mercy hushed. “Silence.” Slowly, he extended out his finger and gently placed it into one of the eye holes. The skull appeared agitated and spun itself around, and with a quick bite, slashed Mercy’s finger. He retracted it quickly, placing it in his mouth to suck the blood.

Goliath moved backwards but did not take his eyes off it.

“Something is going on,” Mercy said to him. “When the skull moves, Roach isn’t present here, it is protecting him.”

Suddenly, Roach’s severed throat stitched itself back together and he flipped onto his front, seeing Mercy and Goliath standing over him. “Is he alive?” Roach asked calmly, resting his eyes.

“Barely,” Spike croaked.

Mercy extended his hand and Roach clasped it. The small man was surprisingly strong and yanked him to his feet.

“Who the fuck did this?!” Roach cursed as he looked at his tux.

“Put it on your expenses,” Mercy told him.

“Fuck sake,” Roach groaned, looking at his exposed chest. “Is it clear?”

“Yes,” Mercy replied, getting up and walking back into the main room.

Goliath picked up Spike in a princess carry, and he and Roach followed Mercy. It was filled with misted faces. In the centre, they were looking at the skeleton sitting in a leather chair. Spike creaked an eye open and looked at his fallen friend.

“It was that chinky cunt,” Spike cursed. “I saw him—the guy with the mask.”

“Sir,” Boseman interrupted, entering the room.“Battersea Power Station is locked down. We have twenty-six liabilities; some are loose royals and most of them live in the Overground. Rest are dead, sir, roughly 293 of them.”

“Thank you, Boseman. How many of ours are?” Mercy questioned.

“One Raptor and four Fodder—good numbers against 100 of them.”

“Quite right, Boseman, quite right. The Children of Discordia are nothing but cheap guns. Make sure you remove our dead first and wipe all CCTV. The liabilities; threaten them, and if that doesn’t work, request funds. Careful with the ones you know whose families support us. We don’t want a PR blunder.”

“Yes, sir. Is that Spike?” Boseman asked.

“Fuck off, Boseman,” Spike croaked as he gripped Goliath like a baby. “I almost died you cunt.”

“Sir!” a familiar voice shouted at the stairwell. In the doorway, Pointy with a misted face emerged in his tuxedo with a bow across his back. “I came as soon as I could.”

“The fight is over, Pointy, go home,” Mercy instructed.

Pointy exhaled. “Right, sir.” He turned around and began walking down when he stopped and turned around. He paused and begun gently caressing his ears.

“What is it?” Goliath questioned him, knowing Pointy well.

“There are there are thirteen heartbeats in this room when there are only twelve of us present,” Pointy remarked, re-adjusting his steamy glasses. His words were a little slurred—perhaps red wine was the culprit.

“Spill, Pointy,” Mercy told him, getting tired of the situation.

Pointy pulled his bow from his back and scrutinised the room. Pulling the string back and holding it, he aimed it to where no one stood. A translucent arrow formed at the hilt and he was about to let it loose when a scream sounded out. Where Pointy was aiming, a naked woman slumped in a corner revealed herself. It was the Sun Seeker, the woman with golden skin.

Mercy looked to Roach who took the initiative. He stormed over to her, grabbed her wrist and pushed her head into the grey carpet. Spike was too tired and unbothered to say anything to save her.

“Yhatala rhut!” the woman cried in her own language.

“English!” Roach shouted.

“Rhut! Attaya Yhatala rhut!”

“English, bitch!” Roach barked.

“I no see nothing!” the woman begged in broken English.

“Out with it, women,” Mercy encouraged.

“But you’re just going to kill me,” she wept, this time in far better English.

Mercy knocked his head to the side, and to which Roach yanked back her hair, exposing her jugular. He brought the blade he slit his own throat with up to her fearful eyes.

“Pretty little thing, ain’t she?” Boseman noted.

“She’s a member of the Sun Seeker race,” Pointy explained, his words still slurred. “Natural invisibility. No wonder she survived.”

Mercy crouched down to her level and stared at her through his mist. “Tell me what happened,” he instructed quietly and calmly. “Although the Unwanted aren’t very trustworthy, I am, and I shall free you if you tell me what happened.”

The woman scrunched her face up and spat at his mist.

“I like her,” Boseman commented.

“Now, golden skin,” Mercy said, once again with surprising calmness, “you’ve insulted me. The only thing you have which is valuable to me is inside your head. It’s either you tell me now, or this gentleman here will pluck your brain out piece by piece, making time move very slowly.”

Her breath quickened and her eyes darted around the room. Even from across continents, she knew who they were. “He wanted the building plans for the wall and something else on the Northern side. The Bookkeeper refused,” she responded, looking to the floor. “He killed everyone.”

“Anything else?” Mercy asked.

“He said it was a waste,” she replied, side-eyeing the body of the Bookkeeper.

“Of a Dagian,” Pointy explained.

Mercy nodded slowly. “You have good spirit, but poor will. Boseman, get some Fodder up here. Put through her through Stage 2 training. It might teach her something about respect.”

“You said I was free!” the women screamed, thrashing about in Roach’s grip.

“Never trust an Unwanted, young lady,” Mercy replied.

Boseman kicked her chin and the woman dropped onto the floor unconscious. He whistled, and some fresh Fodder came bounding up the stairs in a hurry.

“Yes, sir!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Easy on the eagerness, guys. No one likes a brown nose,” Boseman told them.

“Yes, sir!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Fucking useless cunts. Get her back to base. Give her to the Instructors.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Her ability will be useful,” Mercy commented as her limp body was dragged out of the room. He turned his attention back to the Bookkeeper. “I thought Dagians were immortal.”

“Their skin is, sir,” Pointy told him, “clearly not the insides. Don’t touch it . . . tt’s riddled with curses and it’s an insult to the False Gods.”

“How much of that do you believe?” Mercy asked him, eyeing the runes on the skin.

“There’s a reason the leader left it,” Pointy explained. “Regardless of the abilities it holds, a Dagian’s skin alone is priceless. I’ve never heard of it being sold at auction.”

Mercy was silent for a minute. “Is there anyone in charge left? Having a grip on the Underground will be useful.”

“Vrüm,” Spike croaked.

Their conversation was interrupted by a commotion coming from the stairway. “Let go of me! Let go of me! Where is the Bookkeeper?!” Bound, and with a bag over his head, Vrüm was carried inside and dropped at Mercy’s feet. “I requested the Unwanted! I did not request to be treated like a prisoner!”

The bag was pulled off his head. Vrüm’s eyes drifted to the misted faces around him, then slowly down to the Bookkeeper’s corpse. “No,” he mumbled, his mouth dropping open and his eyes growing wide. “No,” he cried, lowering his head to the floor, careful not to touch it. “No no no no no.”

As the half-goblin wept in the centre of the room, the Unwanted stared at him, emotionless. The staff of the Bookkeeper treated him like an omnibenevolent god; the Bookkeeper was not just a pimp—he took in those at the bottom of society much like the Unwanted did. And he cared for the city. He cared for its wellbeing. Vrüm was the most loyal and most trusted of staff, yet here he was, bawling his eyes over the man he revered.

“We are sorry for your loss,” Mercy said after a minute had passed, tone-deaf. “The cleanup effort is now in effect. We will send you an invoice for our services, or you may pay with information or a share in your business. Unwanted, we are leaving now. Fodders are on clean up.”

The misted faces left. Spike could only glance at Vrüm in his pit of despair as he was carried away by Goliath.

In the Greyzone, with Battersea Power Station in the distance, the team were walking back to the nearest Top Train station. It was pitch black out, and the team, without Mute, was walking with only a flashlight.

“Where were you two?” Goliath asked them, nodding at their attire. “The tuxedos.”

“I was . . .I was gambling,” Roach lied.

“I was at a wine-tasting event,” Pointy also lied.

“Didn’t take you for a gambler, Roach,” Goliath remarked. It was the only thing he knew about the man. “Thought you were a tight bastard.”

“It helps to blow off steam,” Roach carried on.

“Wait, somethings coming,” Pointy told them, feeling the tops of his ears. “It’s like a . . . kitchen.”

“I think you’re pissed, Pointy,” Goliath grunted with a chuckle.

“I’ve only had three glasses of red,” Pointy muttered in reply. He heard it again. “No, it's coming. You’ll hear it any second. Through that alleyway.” Stopping, he pointed into the darkness.

Sure enough, it sounded like a kitchen was jogging towards them.

“We got any guns on us?” Roach asked the team. “I had to give that one back.”

“No need,” Pointy sighed.

Goliath aimed the flashlight at the alleyway, seeing a small figure wearing a gleaming suit of medieval armour, wielding a spear twice the size of them. Protruding from the top of the helm were two antennae.

The figure stopped a few metres away from them. “Reporting for duty, sir!” Ozark yelled, breathless, her tone rife with passion.

Roach rubbed his brow, turning away.

“Is that Ozark?” Spike questioned, half-conscious. He dropped out of Goliath’s muscular embrace onto the concrete ground and began to crawl towards her. “Ozark! Thank goodness you’re here!” he called to her in a chivalrous tone.

“I got the call! Where’s the enemy, sir?!” Ozark shouted, spinning around in a circle, wildly waving her spear that almost toppled her.

“Ozark, what are you doing here?” Goliath questioned with disappointment.

“I got a message,” Ozark responded innocently, bringing out a pink, glittery phone from her helmet and showing them. “See? It says I.R.U. Immediate Rape Unit.”

“The people in there, they need raping, Ozark!” Spike shouted with what little energy he had. “Hurry!”

“It stands for Immediate Response Unit,” Pointy corrected.

“Is that even your phone?” Roach questioned, taking a long drag of his cigarette afterwards.

“Yes . . . oh, oh wait, it’s not.” Ozark lifted the helm, revealing a puzzled face. “I’m not supposed to be here, am I?”

“No, Ozark, you’re not,” Goliath grunted.

Ozark paused for a second, looking at her surroundings. Suddenly, she turned on the spot and ran from where she came, clanging like a kitchen during an earthquake.

“Who’s phone was that?” Goliath asked the air in front of him.

“We would be better off not knowing,” Pointy concluded.