“Eugh,” Spike groaned as he plucked his member from his sweaty gooch.
The Ill-Favoured Five stood among dozens of bodies. Blood adorned every surface, transforming the walls, tables, and even the once pristine glasses behind the bar into macabre artifacts. Voicing his dissent, Roach leaned against a booth, cigarette in hand, and muttered, "There's no way Mute wins Kill of the Month."
Goliath countered with conviction, his arm gesturing toward the dissected waitress. "Did you not see that?"
Roach shifted his gaze to Mute, who remained silent and motionless, donning a black robe drenched in crimson. Dismissing the thought as no one messed with Mute, Roach casually waved his hand to dismiss. "No, I can't.”
Interrupting their conversation, Spike interjected, snatching the cigarette from Roach's mouth and taking a drag. Roach nonchalantly retrieved another one. "Did you bring them?" Spike queried.
Without a word, Pointy flung a bundle of leather garments in Spike's direction. Overcome with anticipation, Spike buried his face in the garments, emitting a sexual groan after a long sniff. Methodically, he proceeded to unravel and adorn himself with each piece. In a matter of moments, he had assembled his iconic attire; an entire ensemble of black, shiny leather, bristling with silver spikes. Pressing his hands firmly against his hair, he meticulously arranged his mohawk until it stood erect at a perfect angle.
Goliath turned his attention to Mute. "Did the jammers work?" he inquired.
Mute stood in a stationary position without uttering a reply.
"Good," Goliath acknowledged, nodding approvingly as if Mute had responded. "Pointy, report."
"Thirty-four casualties. The target has been eliminated. All recording systems have been scrambled. However, the exit remains uncertain," Pointy reported.
Goliath grunted. "Alright. Roach, search the target," he commanded.
"Yes, sir," Roach accepted, turning around. In the blink of an eye, his head was forcibly separated from his body. As it plummeted to the ground, Rackal Harran, their target, materialized from behind the fallen corpse, wielding a blood-stained machete. The exposed wound on his neck oozed thick, blackened blood, while his skin appeared pallid and translucent.
“HAHAHA!” Rackal laughed maniacally. “I killed an Unwanted! HAHAHAH! My soul is saved!”
Surprisingly, none of the team batted an eyelid. They just stared at him through the mist on their face. “You were right,” Goliath said calmly to Pointy, nodding his head towards Rackal Harran.
“I thought so,” Pointy mused, pouting. “Do people truly believe they can cheat death?”
“What?!” Rackal Harran shouted, becoming twitchy and pointing his bloody machete at each member.
Goliath shrugged.
“I killed a sinner - swapping mine with—” Rackal Harran gasped for air. Black blood poured out of his mouth. Rackal’s eyes slowly drifted down to a blade poking out of his chest where his heart was, then rolled into the back of his head. Now, their target was truly dead.
"Pointy was right," Roach remarked with a yawn, casually wiping the grey dagger on Rackal's lifeless body. Bending down, Roach skillfully sliced away at Rackal's designer top, revealing a series of runes arranged in a circular pattern on his back. While resembling a tattoo, the runes had seared through the skin, melting into the underlying muscles. Intricate details within the runes remained barely discernible to the human eye.
"It’s a true Mark of Undead Vengeance," Pointy murmured in disbelief, re-adjusting his glasses and lowering himself to examine the sight. “It’s professionally done. I might even say they’re an expert.”
"So he held a high position," Goliath observed, striding closer to inspect the discovery.
Pointy pushed up the sleeve of the fresh corpse, revealing a similar yet simpler and smaller mark. Though burnt down to the bone, it appeared considerably more crude than the previous one.
"Mark of the Silent," Roach figured, his disappointment evident as he clicked his teeth.
“That one is shabby,” Pointy concluded, poking at the large indents with his compound bow. “See how it sinks to the bone - a novice has done that.”
Goliath folded his arms, grinding his teeth in frustration. "It seems they're expanding their ranks. To use the Mark of Undead Vengeance and Silence on a recruiter means they’re—”
"They're creating more tiers," Pointy finished, his voice trailing off. "It's difficult to determine if this was all just a diversion. Why waste such valuable resources on him? Surely, someone of his calibre does not need to be silenced if he is a recruiter?”
As the team delved into their analysis of the body, Spike skillfully navigated around blood puddles and lifeless forms. Engaging in a scavenging spree, he rifled through pockets, snatched earrings, and plundered whatever riches the recently deceased had on their persons.
Roach methodically patted down Rackal, extracting coins and weapons until his search yielded the desired outcome - a modified phone. Adorned with the customary purple mana crystal battery, the device was augmented with an array of attached gadgets. He handed it over to Pointy, who proceeded to scrutinize its intricacies.
“Location disrupter, number changer - typical stuff - oh, Encrypted Mana Signature Lock.”
“At least Mercy will be happy,” Goliath told them. “Pity it will take them months to get through it. Pointy, I need you to cut his marks out. Roach, take a hefty blood sample - where’s your head?”
Spike appeared to the side of Goliath with Roach’s severed head. He was holding it by its short hair like a trophy. He chucked the granddad's cap towards Roach and began making out with it; his tongue licked against the bloody teeth and delved further down its open throat. Spike pulled away with blood-stained teeth, grinning at Roach. “Such soft lips,” he whispered, knowing full well Roach was meeting his eyes through the mist.
“Really” Roach questioned him, sighing in disappointment. “I need that you freak.”
“Fine, take it,” Spike huffed in disappointment, throwing it. “You ruin all the fun.”
Roach whipped out a bin bag from his duster and opened it. It fell in and he tied it to his waist. It was done so swiftly that most would presume he did it often.
“Get him sorted,” Goliath told Pointy.
“Yes, sir.”
“Mute, check the back entrance is clear,” Goliath ordered the small elf.
Mute didn’t respond but she headed for the exit. Nimbly, she hoisted herself up to a wooden beam and disappeared into the shadow of the ceiling.
“You good, Roach?” Goliath asked, folding his arms and eyeing the bin bag. “I can never get used to that.”
“I’m fine - wait, was that small talk?”
“Ish? You were doing fine. Just say what comes naturally.”
“Um—” He clicked his teeth.
“Just say yes.”
“Yes.”
"Anything exciting happen then? Has Mercy pulled that stick out ‘is arse?" Spike inquired as the team made their way out the back door of the club.
"We've been cooped up in the safe house ever since you and Pointy went under," Goliath replied, his gaze drifting upward to the ceiling above. Stretching above them was an imposing steel platform, supported by colossal pillars that seemed to defy gravity. Wooden structures clung to the framework, appearing fragile and delicate, as if a mere sneeze could send them toppling.
Mute gracefully descended from the roof, joining the team's stride without a word.
"Fuck, those guys were useless. You'd expect your average mob boss to have some vets guarding him, wouldn't you?" Goliath voiced his frustration. “Kobolds are too young to learn how to fight.”
"It's all for show now," Pointy interjected, his attention fixed on Rackal's device, which he held in his hand. "It's the image they care about, not their own safety."
The Ill-Favoured Five proceeded down a muddy street. Cramped wooden houses lined either side, their dilapidated forms standing as silent sentinels. Occasionally, a lamppost would flicker to life, casting a soft glow that illuminated their path. In this forsaken place, being alone at night meant exposing oneself to the ever-looming danger of sinners. However, they were the true sinners.
Despite the early morning hour, the Underground remained shrouded in darkness, its existence merely hinted at by feeble rays of young light that managed to penetrate from the outside. Those who enjoyed wealth and privilege in New London resided in the place above, on the lofty steel platform.
They turned a sharp corner and disappeared into shadows.
“I’m driving!” Spike announced to the rest of them.
“Crash the thing Spike and I’ll be putting you through HR again,” Goliath warned him while chucking him the keys.
Spike’s greedy fingers clutched around a rough handle and pulled at it. He grabbed a leather steering wheel and hoisted himself in. He pressed the key fob against a black box and the vehicle roared to life.
“Oh, I have missed a girl like you,” Spike moaned, carefully stroking the dashboard.
The vehicle was illuminated by its own light. It was a matt black armoured pick-up truck with every necessity a mercenary might need. Even the tyres were magic-resistant and bulletproof. It ran off a complicated system using a pyro crystal that created far more explosions than any V12 engine.
Spike put his foot on the clutch and revved it. “Still haven’t given you a name yet, sweetheart.”
“You want to wake up the Underground?” Goliath asked him after squeezing into the passenger seat and knocking his foot off the accelerator.
“Ease off, giant, I’ve been playing Princess Suck Me Off for a month. Don’t be a cunt and let me have some fun?”
Goliath breathed in through his nostrils but didn’t utter a word more. Roach pulled himself up and flicked Spike’s ear. “Let’s go, Spike, Goliath’s already called in for a debrief at the safe house. You can explain to Mercy why we’re late.”
“Fine fine, you gorgeous immortal. Can I pinch a ciggy?”
“Fucking drive, Spike,” Goliath grunted at him.
“I’m going I’m going,” Spike moaned, slamming the pick-up into reverse and putting his foot down. He skidded down the alley and put the wheels on full lock, spinning the car around to face the other direction and also taking out a peasant's front porch. Cheap and rotting wood fell onto the windscreen, causing Goliath to turn his head slowly with misted eyes of fury.
“Must you drive like an imbecile?” Pointy questioned, facing up from the modified phone.
Spike grimly smiled through the mist at Goliath like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Oops,” he remarked in a high-pitched voice.
Goliath inhaled once more through his nose and changed his focus on the road ahead.
The Ill-Favoured Five drove through the main streets of the Underground. They passed by dozens of brothels and pubs within the first few minutes. Brave peasants had even passed out on the streets while clutching cheap bottles of spirits. Soft liquor didn’t quite take the edge off of living in the Underground.
An armoured vehicle didn’t draw any eyes at all. Many of the kingpins and gang leaders drove around in them and no one would want to start any trouble. Eyes faced the muddy streets or the ceiling above whenever they passed conscious and sober citizens.
“Hop on the H95 Southbound,” Goliath told him, glancing at his phone.
“Aye, sir,” Spike mocked, slamming the handbrake on as he took a corner.
“This is incredible,” Pointy announced as he studied the piece of skin in a plastic bag. “The details on this mark are practically unheard of even for us. Whoever did this must be talented, far past anything the Servants of the Seven Spheres could achieve.”
“The question is: is it outsourced?” Roach pondered. He opened a lighter and electricity flickered at the opening. He was about to press it into the cigarette but Spike clicked his fingers. “Go fuck yourself, Spike. I let you off the last time.”
Spike’s fingers clenched into a fist and his middle one stuck up.
“But who?” Pointy asked rhetorically. “Outsourcing a Mark of Undead Vengence would catch eyes and ears. And not to mention the danger it has of working with the Children of Discordia.”
“So it’s internal,” Goliath muttered. “Who’s funding them? Pointy, what would it cost to make that mark?”
“Impossible to give the exact amount but it would require a hefty offering to buy time from Yelia. The binding metal used would also have to be top-tier. I can’t discern any smells either so its traces have been removed. Can you smell anything, Mute?”
Mute didn’t respond - she was staring out the window, taking in the sights of the Underground.
“It’s better than I imagined then,” Pointy muttered to himself, taking Mute’s answer into account.
“The rabbit hole goes deeper,” Roach sighed while exhaling the smoke into a vent at the top.
Goliath shrugged, attempting to get comfy in the small seat. “We’re not paid to figure this shit out.”
“But it is rather fun,” Pointy countered, pressing his glasses into the plastic bag. “I wonder if there’s more that I can study?”
“What about the Silence?” Roach questioned. “Don’t slavers like to use a signature?”
“None. None at all. It’s simple and done purely for efficiency. Something as unique as the Mark of Undead Vengence should be easy to trace as I assume only a handful of people can inscribe them.”
“Here,” Goliath told Spike, tapping the thick glass with his fingers towards a paved road.
Morning sun burst into the pick-up truck, shining brightly onto the misted faces of its passengers.
“Alright. I’m transmuting,” Goliath told them. Opening the glovebox revealed a control panel with an array of buttons and switches. He fingered one and pushed it into action.
Starting from the bonnet, a line of silver sparks grew out and over the windscreen, turning the matt black finish into one with rusty blue paint. The engine became quieter and the suspension squeezed with every dip in the muddy road. Thick glasses became thin and dirty and the tyres became worn and old. Although they couldn’t see, a large decal was printed on the side, ‘Brixton-Ondom Sewage Treatment Specialists’.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Spike cried crocodile tears and whimpered, “So long, sweetheart.”
Goliath sighed through his nose and shook his head.
“NOOOOOOO!” Spike screamed overdramatically.
Goliath smacked the back of his head and the eccentric bard went silent to stabilise his mohawk. He swerved around a drunk in the middle of the street and straightened up the new pick-up truck on flat asphalt roads.
As they drove over a hill in the road, the Outers of New London came into view. The Outers housed the working-to-middle class. It was the remains of the old city before the Great Merge but built up again in the same Victorian Architecture style. However, buildings from Lumina also sprouted up in between. They were built of stone, wood, mud and clay, unlike the classic red and white bricks England once used. Almost all the buildings had eight stories or more, and almost all had wooden shacks built on the roofs, giving Landlords their pocket money.
As they approached the highway, a sprawling network of roads unfurled before them, stretching across the entire cityscape. Some sections of the highway intertwined amidst towering buildings, creating a mesmerizing sight as their car weaved through the urban labyrinth. Other segments of the road descended into underground tunnels, offering a unique perspective of the new-age metropolis. It was still early so the traffic was mild, and owning a car for pleasure in New London was seen as a privilege.
Above the highways, an elevated system of transportation known as the Top Trains whisked by on sleek rails. These hanging carts glided through the city, carrying the majority of New London’s population. They were fairly cheap, rusted beyond belief and creaked constantly.
“Masks off,” Goliath ordered them.
At the same time, each of the Ill-Favoured Five pinched the mist on their face and pulled it off. The mist was sucked into a plain white handkerchief that fell over their fingers.
“I’ve missed sunlight,” Spike said, yawning and sticking his head out the window, staring directly at the sun.
“You’ve still got mascara on,” Roach told him.
Spike jammed his knee against the steering wheel and grabbed the rear-view mirror to gaze at himself. He had a slim face with kind hazel eyes. His eyebrows weren’t pushy and his skin was surprisingly soft. His feminine face contrasted with the terrible attitude and tattoos covering his body.
“How do you know what that is?” Spike questioned with furrowed eyebrows. “Do you like to dress up as a girl?”
Roach ignored him.
“Were the vitamin D pills not sufficient? You look pale,” Pointy told Spike without taking his eyes off the skin.
“Wait, they weren’t dick pills?”
“Why would I give you penis pills?”
“‘Cause I thought you wanted me to have a good night. I blew threw them all before the job. Why would you call them Vitamin D?”
“It’s a nutrient that your body produces from sunlight,” Pointy sighed in disappointment.
“Then fucking tell me that,” Spike moaned, pressing his head against the steering wheel.
“I’m going to end this conversation here.”
“Mute, cloak off,” Goliath ordered, looking over his shoulder at her.
The small elf unfastened the clasps of her cloak, unveiling a glimpse of her attire. Beneath the cloak's protective embrace, a sleek ensemble of brown leather armour adorned her form. A snug, grey long-sleeved top hugged her slender frame, providing an additional layer of comfort and protection. Her lower half was clad in practical brown cargo trousers, allowing for ease of movement in any situation. Completing her outfit, a pair of nimble black trainers graced her feet.
Across her forehead, a pristine white bandage was meticulously wrapped, forming a layered pattern that encircled her head four times. This clever arrangement accommodated her pointed ears, allowing them to protrude gracefully while ensuring the bandage offered the necessary support and protection.
“Thanks. We’re just a couple of guys on a job if anyone asks. We’re heading to the orphanage down at Emming Hill to fix a weird taste in the water.”
The battered pick-up truck rumbled along a desolate slip road, leading its occupants into the heart of a semi-abandoned industrial lot. The once-smooth asphalt had succumbed to time's relentless assault, now bearing the scars of numerous cracks and treacherous potholes. Nature, undeterred by neglect, had claimed its territory, with resilient weeds defiantly sprouting from the crevices in the weathered pavement.
“Head through the back roads into Brixton-Ondom,” Goliath ordered him.
“You guys been staying in Brixton? It’s a fucking shithole,” Spike commented.
“I said the same thing to Mercy,” Goliath replied, rubbing his sore eyes. “Budget cuts.”
Spike started laughing. “I don’t feel as bad now.”
After a long and winding route, snubbing any likely trackers, the pick-up truck rolled down a busy street. Despite being paved, the road was transformed into a yet-bustling marketplace as numerous wooden stalls jutted out into the thoroughfare, leaving little room for manoeuvring.
“Fuck me, Spike, slow down,” Goliath told him.
“I’d be doing a favour to the king hittin’ cunts down here.”
Goliath ignored him. “Take a left.”
Spike manoeuvred the vehicle down a cramped alleyway, flanked by towering buildings that desperately needed a renovation. The road, shrouded in the early morning's muted hues, awaited the touch of the sun's rays.
“Garage on the right. Green doors,” Goliath instructed.
“Aye, sir,” Spike replied.
With a haunting creak, the imposing garage doors descended, sealing the team within the building. Spike killed the engine, plunging the space into an eerie silence momentarily broken by the flickering of office lights. It was a small warehouse made of concrete and wood with mould growing in every crevice. Despite this, the space was impeccably clean as it could be. Even the sheets on the bunk beds at one side were ironed and pristine. An array of monitors and headphones was stationed in the centre with wires running through various machines.
“Cor, this place is a shithole. I bet Mercy used the rest of the budget for a hair transplant.”
"I assure you, I did not," a voice resonated from the depths of the warehouse, its tone filled with conviction.
Instantly recognizing the voice, Goliath bellowed, "Masks now!" A sense of urgency permeated his command, and the members of the group swiftly retrieved white handkerchiefs from their pockets, covering their faces. With their features now obscured behind a veil of mist, they collectively directed their attention towards the back of the warehouse, their eyes fixed on the source of the voice.
Offering an apology for his oversight, Goliath stepped forward and addressed the figure, his voice laced with sincerity, "My apologies, sir. I didn’t think you’d get here that quick."
"Not to worry," reassured the voice. The words, delivered with an excellent command of the English language, carried a distinct Slavic accent. As the diminutive figure emerged, it prompted the Ill-Favoured-Five to straighten their stances. Like their counterparts, this individual possessed a face veiled in mist, albeit of a darker hue, tinged with black. Clad in their customary attire, their only notable feature was a shiny bald patch atop their head, framed by short, curled black hair that had begun to embrace hints of grey.
“It was just a joke, sir,” Spike spluttered out his apology.
“Usually a joke at someone’s expense should be done in front of them. If it doesn’t, it shows cowardice.”
“Yes, sir,” Spike nodded, glad at getting off easily.
“Now gather round and show what you’ve got?” Mercy asked, walking to the table in the centre.
“It’s gotten strange, sir,” Goliath told him, taking the plastic bag from Pointy. He walked over to the table, accompanied by his team and placed it down in front of him.
“Mark of Undead Vengeance. For a recruiter?” Mercy queried.
“Precisely my response, sir,” Pointy agreed. “As well as this, and this, Mark of the Silent.”
“We can get into the phone with time,” Mercy stated, picking up the piece of skin. “Did you get anything else?”
“No, sir,” Goliath told him. “A month of surveillance and nothing. We couldn’t trace his calls of course and there were no notes or meetings that were of any use. I do not understand why.”
Mercy clicked his teeth and placed his hands on the table. “Dummy.”
“Do you think, sir? Why waste—” Pointy tried to say.
“I do not know. If he was a recruiter, he would have shown some signs of communicating with those in the Underground. What clothes was he wearing?”
“A leopard print shirt and white chinos,” Roach answered.
“No. That’s not what I meant.”
“Faveloir Elfrond,” Spike answered, perfectly matching the ancient-like accent needed to say the brand. “He also had a pair of drakon-skin loafers and a lot of gold shit.” He threw down the jewellery he had snatched off the corpse. “I thought it was odd.”
“What do you mean?” Goliath asked.
“A Faveloir Elfronf shirt is worth 7 gold. His shoes would be about - two to eleven gold depending on the brand. A guy like that wouldn’t buy expensive items for the sake of it - there are plenty knock offs in the Underground. We didn’t see him do any business either. He was sitting in that club day in and day out. And those girls weren’t cheap too; they were Clarkson’s girls, a gold a night.”
“An expensive dummy,” Mercy concluded. “This is a plan in action. Long-term with every head of the hydra snipped. Good job, anyway. You did exactly as instructed. Any expenses, damages or injuries to report?”
“Not much, sir,” Roach responded, holding up the bin bag.
“Good.”
Mercy looked into the metal table and didn’t say anything for a solid minute. The team didn’t want to interrupt him.
Finally, he spoke. “Take two days off. I do not want to keep you on these jobs for too long. Fresh Fodders could do this. Spike, I need you to talk to the Dagian and bring the team. There will be a coin for him at base. Find out anything you can about them. I’ll be moving you to a specialist protection detail after that.”
“Yes, sir, may I ask who?”Goliath asked, rubbing his forearms.
“Elora Evergrand, first daughter of Ivan Evergrand,” Mercy replied.
“Really, sir?” Roach questioned. “Her?”
“Indeed, Roach.”
“Who’s Elora Evergrand?” Goliath questioned.
“Imagine sex on legs with a whole lot of fire and I’m not talking about chlamydia,” Spike explained with sincerity. “She’s not here is she?” The eccentric bard looked around with worry in his eyes.
“No,” Mercy told him straight. “She has just come back on a media trip from Urum to ease tensions between Eurella and Sandrum. She’s an unofficial ambassador for Eurella, and the people of Urum love her. We believe the Children of Discordia are going after her. Her father insists we do not get involved but if they get their hands on her it will spill trouble for both countries. And by our new arrangement with the king, that issue falls on us.”
“The Franz Ferdinand of Lum-Terra,” Pointy muttered his thoughts.
“Precisely, Pointy,” Mercy acknowledged. “She’s travelling down to Pettywell on the eighth and teleportation cannot reach that far. I shouldn’t go too much into detail as we are still in the planning stage. Just know and be ready for a call.”
“Yes, sir!” the team shouted except for Moute.
“I will be off. Your pay will be in the bank at base. Split the tips, Spike.”
“Aww fuck, really? Why’d you have to remind them, sir?” he moaned.
The team could tell Mercy was grinning under the mist. The small man nodded his head in respect, took the skin and phone and headed for the exit.
Once the door closed, Goliath took off the mist and nodded to the metal table, motioning Spike to ‘split the tips’.
Spike took his mist off and rolled his eyes. “Fuck you all. Not you, Mute.”
Mute didn’t reply.
Spike dumped out all the loot he had snatched onto the metal table and the team began to sift through it.
“Mercy seemed to be in a good mood,” Roach noticed, sifting through the earrings. “ I’m surprised he didn’t put you through HR for saying that shit.”
Spike scratched his head and chattered his teeth. “Yeah, not one of my best moments. I need to shut my mouth sometimes.”
“No. All the time,” Goliath corrected, chuckling after.
“May I take the Rolex?” Pointy asked the team politely, pushing his glasses up his face.
“That’s gotta be fake,” Spike dismissed. “Take it.”
Roach side-eyed the watch and with only a glance at the face, said, “It’s real.”
“Thank you,” Pointy replied with a smile and a nod, placing it inside his tux pocket.
Goliath had found some rings that barely fitted on his pinky fingers. Roach took the coins and some earrings. Spike gravitated towards the chains while Mute was ogling at the daggers and guns.
“We all done?” Goliath asked.
“I think we’re good,” Roach confirmed.
“Fodders are cleaning this place up. Spike, can you get a date with the Dagian?” Goliath asked of him, throwing a jumper over himself.
“I think he’s just got back from somewhere but I’ll ask for a favour,” Spike replied. He then opened his hand out onto the table in Roach’s direction. “Ciggy?”
Roach reached into his duster while maintaining a hardened gaze at Spike. Flicking it over with ease, Spike caught it effortlessly between his lips. Retrieving a matchstick from his pocket, he instinctively moved to strike it against his belt.
However, before the spark could be generated, Goliath's hand swiftly intervened, seizing Spike's wrist in a firm grip. “No fire,” Goliath told him, nodding to Pointy. “How many times have I got to tell you?”
“Ah, shit, my bad, Pointy,” Spike genuinely apologised. “You got a light, Roach?”
“Here, I have a spare,” Roach told him, chucking it.
Spike clicked his teeth and winked while lighting it with electricity. “Cheers,” he said after exhaling.
“I don’t know about you guys but I could go for a drink,” Goliath told them, “what was that whiskey you served, Pointy?”
“This you mean,” Pointy proposed, reaching into his tux pocket and bringing out a glass bottle. “I found it in the basement; 1984, procured in Switzerland - I don’t believe they knew it was down there. I also acquired some tropical-tasting gin and these glasses.”
“You didn’t split them, did you?” Roach questioned with an eyebrow raised
“I—”
“Are we going for a drink or not?” Goliath asked them. “Save that for a rainy day, Pointy.”
“I’m always up for alcohol, especially at seven in the morning,” Spike replied, eyeing the time on his phone.
Mute didn’t respond but Goliath knew she was in. Pointy and Spike nodded but Roach shook his head regretably. “I got shit to do guys, have one on me,” he said, pinging a silver coin to Goliath.
“You sure?”
“Very, sir,” Roach said, adamant.
Before Roach could take his leave, there was a rattling knock at the fire exit door. Quickly, grey mist appeared on their faces and the team sprang into action. Pointy ran over to a set of computer screens with real-time footage of the outside. “Hooded figure at the fire exit. Small - unknown - treat hostile,” he said rapidly, flicking through all the videos.
Goliath pushed golden knuckledusters to the bottom of his fingers while Mute clambered on top of a bunk bed and hoisted herself onto the ceiling beam, her light body barely making it creak. Spike, fed up with his month-long job, puffed at his cigarette.
“Roach, you’re up,” Goliath whispered to him.
“Always am,” Roach sighed, taking his mask off and heading to the fire exit. There was another rattle on the door, this one far more aggravated.
“I know you’re in there!” a familiar voice shouted through the door.
Roach couldn’t quite put his finger on the voice. His hand reached into his duster and pulled out one of his revolvers. Holding it discretely behind him, he opened the door.
“Hi, Roach!” a squeaky voice yelled.
“Ozark?” Roach wondered with open eyes. “The fuck are you doing here?!” He grabbed the small hooded figure by the back of the neck who could barely protest and dragged them into the centre of the warehouse. With disappointment evident in his body language, Roach unhooded them.
It was a small girl with two antennae coming out of her forehead. Her eyes were large and bug-like, and she had a stupid grin plastered on her face. Wild hair sprouted off her head, some parts straight, others curly and the rest burnt off. She had food stains all around her mouth and down her jumper - no doubt from the clipped mandibles protruding from her cheeks.
“False alarm,” Pointy sighed in relief.
Goliath stormed over with veins popping out his forehead. “What the fuck are you doing here?! How did you get here?! WHY ARE YOU HERE?!”
Ozark ran behind Roach and gripped his duster. “Help me, Roach!”
“How did you even find us, Ozark?” Roach questioned, grabbing one of her antennae and pulling her out in front of Goliath. The large man’s stature made the girl smaller than she already was.
“I just followed Mercy,” she told them, looking at the ground and circling a tiny foot.
“Like Mercy can be followed,” Spike tutted from the table, taking a long drag of his cigarette after.
“Ok ok ok,” she said, taking a step back from Goliath and Roach. Mute dropped down behind her sending her diagonally. “I hacked the servers and found out your location.”
“Ok,” Pointy said. “Firstly, how? Secondly, you’re not even allowed out of the base.”
“You want me to answer both?” she questioned, looking at the ceiling in thought.
“Yes, Ozark, I asked you two questions.”
“Well—” she took a deep breath in, “I’m currently blackmailing my superior so she won’t say anything when I’m gone—” she leaned towards Roach and whispered behind her hand, “She’s a real B-I-T-C-H. And she likes kiddies. I stole her login key and bypassed the limit of her clearance from Senior Researcher to Head Researcher. Then I found your location.” She smiled brightly at each of them.
Goliath, overwhelmed with disappointment, rubbed his weary eyes in silence.
“How did you get out? You know you’re not allowed out?” Roach questioned, more intrigued than angry.
“Hmmm,” she thought, tapping her chin. “That one’s a secret! A special secret!”
“I don’t give a shit, Ozark,” Goliath said bluntly, rubbing his temples. “If Mercy found out you were here you’d be thrown into a hole. You’re already on probation for what you did at Boseman’s promotion ceremony.”
“But he doesn’t need to find out. Right? Right guys?” she pleaded, clutching her hands together by her chest.
Roach exhaled. “I suppose he doesn’t. Why are you here?”
“You remember the deal we made? You give me body parts and I’ll upgrade your revolvers - I’m surprised they’re still firing - and revolvers are like soooooo 2030s.”
Spike laughed and a snot bubble shot out. He clutched at his face, knocking the cigarette out of his mouth and turned his head away from the team. With slight embarrassment, he wiped his nose dry and picked the cigarette up from the floor.
“Fuck sake, Ozark, I thought you were joking,” Roach said, scratching his head. “And I didn’t agree to it.”
“No. You said: YeaH, SUre, WhatEVer,” she loosely recalled, nodding her head all over the place with her antennae following.
“I don’t think I said it like that.”
“Ha! But you still said it! So, have you got any for me?” she asked, her eyes enlarging and her lips turning downwards.
“I was going to burn this but I suppose it would be a waste now,” Roach mumbled.
“Only a head. Wait, it’s your head! Oh, I’m so taking that!” she exclaimed, gleaming, jumping for joy like a five-year-old. “Will you keep to your word?”
Roach looked at Goliath for his input and help, finding the man only raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “It’s your head, Roach,” he offered, wanting nothing to do with the situation at hand.
Ozark snatched the bin bag. “And your revolvers as I promised.”
Roach pouted as his hands trembled while retrieving them. Ozark swiftly snatched them too, reassuringly shouting, "They'll be ready soon!" She tightly hugged Roach, then skipped towards the exit with her antennae bouncing from side to side.
“I need them done quickly!” he shouted after her.
“Yeah, SUre, What E—” The door slammed shut before Ozark could finish.
“Hold on, Roach,” Spike said, sitting up, “she took your guns and your head in less than a minute, and you just stood there?”
“What the fuck was I supposed to do?” Roach responded with a hint of anger in his voice.
“Say no?” Spike offered, laughing.
“Last time I said no she pestered me for half a year.”
“I actually admire her,” Pointy interjected, offering his controversial opinion. “Her genius - not the crazy part; there’s a reason why she’s not allowed out. Though, somehow the two come hand in hand.”
“We all remember Boseman’s promotion ceremony,” Goliath recalled.
The entire team except for Mute shivered as the event flashed across their eyes.
“Alright, I’ll see you guys later,” Roach said after coming out of the nightmare, waving a hand.
“Expect a call,” Goliath told him.
“I always do,” he muttered, taking his leave out the fire exit door.