Howard watched in disbelief as the giant, stoic figure of Ira Ironhand clomped his way out from behind the bar of the Immortal to greet him and Lizabeth.
“Lizzy!” he shouted, wrapping her up in a hug that could bend metal. Lizabeth, though picked up off her feet, returned the hug a bit stiffly, not able to move her arms much.
“Hi, Ira,” she replied through labored breathing. He set her down gently on the dirty floor, turning to the patrons of his bar.
“Everyone, the Scourge of Shangri-La is here! Free drinks on her!” The rowdy roughnecks cheered merrily, applauding her heroic offering. Lizabeth rolled her eye but handed over her point card to Ira, who ran it several times, less times than Howard would have thought it would take to cover everyone at the bar. Then again, the drinks didn’t seem that expensive in the first place.
“Lizabeth is your daughter?” he asked dumbfounded when he returned with her card.
“Adopted, obviously,” he gestured to his general stature. “But she’s mine alright,” he clarified with a rich cackle. “Did you like the cookies I baked for you?”
“Oh, yes, they were great,” she lied easily. “Can we go upstairs? Something happened.”
Ira’s pleasant smile faded slightly, but he nodded, letting them pass. “I’ll be up in a few.” He assured her.
Lizabeth dragged Howard behind her, hauling him into the small kitchen where his breakfast had been made earlier that morning, and up a flight of stairs at the back of that. When they reached the top, they reached a door that seemed even more reinforced than the one Captain Kress and his crew had busted down earlier. Lizabeth entered a long string of numbers into a keypad next to the door, then placed her eye up against a scanner which shined a bright red light into her pupil. The door made a heavy mechanical clunking, and the sound of five large deadbolts slowly slid out of the way. Then, just when Howard thought the showcase was over, the door and some of the wall that surrounded it, rotated a full 90 degrees, then opened horizontally to finally grant them access.
“Tight security,” he remarked as he stepped inside. It was an apartment, one that was likely just large enough to accommodate someone of the hippo-man’s size. It had the kitchen and living room on opposite ends of one wide open space, and then three doors that likely went off to bedrooms. To Howard, it felt incredibly cramped. His own kitchen was nearly twice the size of just this one room.
“We have our share of enemies,” she said while making her way to the kitchen and grabbing a bottle from the top of the refrigerator. She poured two shots of whiskey into a coffee mug and downed it quickly. Then she placed the cork over the bottle then slapped it with the palm of her hand, making a satisfying plonk and leaned over the sink.
“Did he call you the Scourge of Shangri-La?” he asked tentatively, trying not to bother her, but at the same time too curious to wait for a more polite time.
Over her shoulder she snapped, “Give me a second! I’m trying to think!”
Howard crossed his arms stubbornly; thus far this woman seemed too easily irritable. Still, he waited for her to gather herself, seating himself at the meager table. Lizabeth left the sink and disappeared off into one of the rooms, where Howard could hear her rummaging around. She returned from the room, slamming the door shut behind her, and headed for the long couch in the living room where she plopped down inelegantly. She brought with her an old laptop, on which she began typing with incredible speed.
“What are you doing?” Howard asked curiously. Lizabeth looked up from her typing, but did not stop moving her hands with expert precision, which he found slightly off putting.
“Do you do anything besides ask questions?” She asked dryly while typing.
Howard scoffed and turned away from her, staring at a wall. As far as he was concerned he hadn’t done anything to deserve this treatment. He managed to hold his anger for a few more minutes before boredom set in again, and he couldn’t help himself, and started slowly pacing around the apartment. Another ten minutes passed.
“Okay, my contacts got back to me. I know where the cargo is,” she breathed a sigh of relief. “We should be able to recover it.” Howard stopped pacing, glad they were finally getting somewhere.
“The cargo that Captain Kress took?”
“Yeah. Crate full of vaccines.”
Howard raised an eyebrow, having expected something else, like guns, or bombs. “Why steal those?”
“Cause people need to be vaccinated?” She explained like it should be obvious. When Howard could only muster up a look of strained confusion, Lizabeth rolled her eye and continued. “The medicine is artificially inflated in price to make more money. But if I steal them, they’re free.”
“So you’re a…good guy?” Howard asked with confusion.
“What did you think I was?” She replied cynically.
“I don’t know! You tried to ransom me!” He protested.
“And then I'd have opened a low cost laundromat for my community using the profit.”
“What even is a laundromat!?”
Now it was Lizabeth’s turn to stare.
Howard wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve the look of judgment he was now receiving, he was the one who’d been kidnapped afterall. Luckily for him, the door rotated open, and in clomped Ira. The hippo-man sauntered over to the kitchen and grabbed himself a coffee mug with his robot assisted hands, then grabbed the same bottle of whiskey that Lizabeth had, filling the cup, and downing it quickly.
“So what happened?” Ira asked after setting his cup down.
“Kress hit my warehouse,” Lizabeth explained quickly. “Someone ratted me out and they took that cargo we stole last week.”
Ira frowned. “Did he get anything else?”
“No, my gear is all safe. Thanks to him,” Lizabeth pointed idly at Howard. “Why’d you even send him to me by the way? I thought he was ransom bait.”
“Hm? He wanted a job to pay for the breakfast I made him, so I gave him one.” Ira replied. Lizabeth shook her head at her fathers niceness.
“He took out eight of Kress’s guys.”
“Eight?” Ira glanced at the skinny boy. “With what?”
“Ask him.” Now it was both Ira and Lizabeth who turned to look at Howard, who felt a little put on the spot.
“Ah, well.” He began awkwardly. “I wasn’t even aware it was something I could do prior to about thirty minutes ago. But I think I’m starting to piece it together.” Lizabeth and Ira glanced at each other, then nodded for Howard to go on. So he ran them through his story, in a sped up version. He talked about how as a young boy he was sick, and as a result how much time he spent indoors, and then thought he was spending too much time indoors. Then he grew to hate being indoors. So in a last ditch attempt to free his soul he tried climbing the mountain outside his home, nearly dying, but at the last moment encountered an otherworldly star, which he ate, or rather, it crawled down his throat. And then the next day he was in tip top shape, and was on the fast track to becoming his father’s successor once more. He looked expectantly to the two, eager to see their reaction. Lizabeth seemed confused, while Ira had a quiet fascination.
“I’ve heard of something like this,” Ira nodded.
“Really?” Howard asked curiously.
“Nothing more than rumors,” Ira answered. “But there’s been talk about people who walk away from the Journey Sector with strange abilities."
Howard pondered the information. He hadn’t considered that there could be others like himself. It stimulated his imagination, perhaps shaking tentacles with another eager minded young fellow as himself. It sounded wildly entertaining, yet another reason to pursue his dream and find out what the story was with his strange power! It was all connected somehow. But with his blessing he needed to do something big to propel himself towards that goal.
“Let’s get that cargo back,” He declared boldly, ready to thrust himself into danger at the hero's call to adventure.
“Not with you,” Lizabeth replied flatly. “You’re a huge liability. I don’t trust you and you’re weird.”
Howard frowned, expecting more of a triumphant cheer at his bravery. He sat back down. Lizabeth began pacing the room, scheming out loud.
“I will need a crew though. I’ll coordinate, of course. I’ll need reliable muscle, someone I can trust or have leverage over…and a driver. Small crew, we’ll move fast.” She counted something in her head with her fingers, then murmured something Howard couldn’t hear. “Won’t be cheap. We’ll need good guys.”
“Bring Howard along.” Ira spoke up. “He needs work.”
Lizabeth looked at Ira like he was a tentacle monster himself. “This isn’t a charity! I’m not having a rookie screw me over twice,” she snapped, ending the conversation.
Ira gave Howard a sympathetic shrug. Lizabeth hardly even glanced his way as she gathered her things and headed out, eager to find her operators. When the door had loudly grinded shut behind her, Howard and Ira were alone in the apartment.
“Don’t take it personally. She doesn't like messin up. Blames it all on herself.” Ira refilled his mug with the whiskey, offering an empty cup to Howard, who glanced at the bottle wearily. Ira laughed at his caution. “Her stuff’s better,” he assured him.
Howard, not wanting to be a bad guest, took it. The drink still smelled wickedly strong to him, but this time the taste had something extra to go with it, a sweetness he wasn’t expecting. It burned his mouth and throat, but went down much smoother than the gasoline he’d had downstairs.
“What does she even do?” Howard asked after semi successfully managing to hide a whiskey induced coughing fit. “Other than trying to ransome the children of the rich and steal cargo.” Ira swirled around his mug thoughtfully.
“She steals from Grand Exchange accounts sometimes.”
Howard’s jaw dropped. It was a high crime, punishable routinely by death. “How?”
“I don’t really get the complicated parts like all the fake businesses and whatever, but she’s basically stealing the tiniest amount of money from thousands of accounts. She’s got a whole system,” Ira explained, unable to hide a sense of pride in his daughter's accomplishments.
“And she’s never been caught?” Howard could hardly believe it, Grand Exchange accounts, the thing holding the very Confederacy’s financial structure together, were supposed to be impenetrable.
“Not yet anyway.” Ira shrugged his massive shoulders. “She’s my little bandit.” Howard couldn’t help but smile along with him, seeing how proud he was of her.
“Well…I’m not really sure what to do with myself now.” Howard admitted after a moment. “This day has gone by in such a blur.”
“How about this,” Ira raised his mug. “Finish your drink, then help me downstairs for the night. I’ll teach you how to bartend, and maybe you can pick up a man or two for your crew.”
“Oh that's a fabulous idea! Will I get to shake one of those little metal canisters around to mix drinks?” Howard exclaimed.
“You’re gonna give people cheap beer and shit whiskey.”
“Whatever pays the bills!” He hopped up from the couch and headed for the door, but Ira stopped him with his big stub of a limb.
“Get cleaned up first.” Howard looked down at his ruined outfit, and chuckled. He’d already been through quite a bit and his attire reflected that. He agreed to a shower, which felt incredible after being covered in everything Shanri-La had to offer. When he got out of the shower, he was amazed to find his clothes had already been washed and mostly dried. Though there was a strange modification. The back of his formal shirt, where his tentacles had burst through, had been cut off and replaced with a patch of cloth that was held in place with two buttons. While he was fussing with it, Ira stooped into the living room from his bedroom, holding a sewing needle in his tiny robotic hand.
“Figured it was easier to just have the back pop off than burst through your shirt again. Since you wear the waistcoat over it it won’t be noticeable, long as you remember to take it off.”
Howard looked at the novel handiwork, then at the giant hippopotamus. “You’re full of surprises, Ira.”
“Thanks. Now throw this on and let’s go downstairs.” Howard did so and quickly got dressed, true to Ira’s comment not noticing the alternation to his clothes.
Once downstairs he had Howard perform a few routine tasks, which he tackled with youthful enthusiasm. He disinfected the tables and walls of the blood from the patrons from the previous night, then mopped the floor of booze and other sticky substances. Once the routine chores were completed, Ira brought him behind the bar and taught him some basic mixology. He started by explaining the basic differences in the drinks he had on hand, the whiskeys, the scotches, rums, and the ever-popular gin. Howard absorbed the information quickly, finding it a lot more tolerable than any economics lesson he’d ever had. After about an hour he was relatively familiar with the layout of the bar, and knew where to grab most of the drinks Ira expected he’d be asked to serve up.
Before long it was time for a late lunch. Ira dished up Howard a heaping mountain of hashed brown potatoes and cabbage and watched with mild interest as the young man shovled down about the same quantity of food that he himself would eat in a regular sitting. He decided to not press Howard about it. Once they’d both eaten, they tackled the evening rush together.
Initially Howard felt nervous, the rough-faced patrons practically charging up to the bar and demanding their orders from him quickly. But within the first hour he was feeling much more comfortable talking to those who came up to him, starting to even chat them up a little as he got their drinks. Some of the customers eyeballed him skeptically at his generally chipper attitude, others seemed to welcome it, briefly telling Howard what they’d done that day before taking to a corner with their coworkers. He even got a few to sit at the bar awhile and share their stories with him.
He learned that many of these roughnecks were out of work, and spent the day milling around the endless city looking for earnest employment. Many of their jobs had been displaced through the recent passing of the “Fully Autonomous Initiative,” a rather boring sounding decree from the Confederacy that stated any business operating in the Grand Exchange could operate with less than 20% sentient workers. Effectively it meant that most major companies had shifted their fleets to be almost entirely automated.
The only real work left, as he was told, was hoping a machine doing some mundane job had broken down and needed a human worker to replace it, like sweeping the floor or doing the dishes. But for the more desperate, there were a number of illicit activities. Shangri-La had no shortage of opportunity for desperate workers, and many of the patrons of the bar partook in the lifestyle so they could make ends meet, which explained to Howard why they all seemed to be comfortable sporting pirate flags and symbols.
After slinging drinks for several hours, the patrons became less interested in chatting with Howard, instead becoming a bit rowdy like they had the night before. Merrily shouting amongst one another while all sorts of competitions broke out across the bar. Several arm wrestling competitions started, as well as rounds of darts. A total of three fist fights broke out, all of which ended in celebration and free drinks as was customary. It was all a blast for Howard, who was cheering along from behind the bar. The patrons seemed to have warmed up to him as well, occasionally slapping their cards against the tip jar to tip him a few points.
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All was going well, until Howard spotted a familiar face stumble in through the doors of the bar – Guillaume. His smile dropped from his face as the old drunk approached, already smelling him as he crossed the sticky floors. Guillaume stumbled into the bar, banging his elbow against it, then struggled to plant himself in the seat, leaning on the bar to steady himself.
“Whiskey,” he demanded through strained breaths, slapping his point card down on the bar. Howard looked at him with an expecting glance, waiting for him to acknowledge who he was speaking to. But the longer he watched him, he realized he was witnessing something for the first time. Guillaume was so intoxicated that he was barely conscious. His pupils were dilated and sluggish. He just wasn’t there, an empty house with the lights left on.
“What do we do if someone’s had too much?” Howard whispered to Ira.
“Not my place, really.” Ira shrugged.
“You sure?” He pointed at Guillaume, who was swaying in his seat.
“Been a while since I’ve seen him like that.” Ira grimaced.
“We really can’t do anything?” Howard was still peeved at him for his betrayal, but he was fairly certain if he gave Gullaume more liquor he might die.
Ira saw the concern on Howard’s face, and decided to humor the boy. He grabbed a recently emptied bottle of whiskey and discreetly ran it under the tap, filling it with water. Once it was full, he grabbed some food coloring from behind the counter and filled the bottle, turning it to a murky brown. Why it was there in the first place, Howard didn’t think to ask.
“Just pour these in a shot glass and don’t charge him. He’s not gonna notice.”
Howard nodded, feeling relieved. He returned to Guillaume and began serving him shots of water, which true to Ira’s word, the old man didn’t seem to register, throwing back the glass like it was full of whiskey.
“Another,” Guillaume demanded.
Howard obliged, filling another shot.
“Another!” Guillaume slammed his fist against the bar. He took down another two shots of water, then collapsed onto the bar and blacked out.
Howard gave his inert form a sympathetic, but sad gaze. It was just as well that he didn’t seem to have recognized him either, he wasn’t sure what’d he’d have said to a more sober Guillaume.
It was then Ira walked over to Howard and gave him a pat on the shoulder, “He’s had a rough life,” he told Howard. “Don’t hold it against him.”
“I don’t think I am,” Howard replied. “Trying not to, anyway.”
“That’s kind of you,” Ira nodded. “Maybe he’ll appreciate that, when he’s more aware of himself.” Howard shrugged, not wanting to dwell on it more. Instead he focused the rest of the night on his job.
So he cracked open countless more beers, poured whiskey over lots of ice cubes, and happily told anyone who asked him that he wanted to put together a crew to go to the Journey Sector. Most of the men laughed, though not at Howard directly. It was more of a celebratory jeer, that someone would want to do something so crazy.
The night passed into the wee hours of the morning, and the bar began to thin out. Howard's feet were sore from standing behind the bar for so long, but he felt satisfied! It was the first time he’d ever worked a real shift at a job, or really any job, and he’d done well! His tip jar had a positive readout, having made enough money to get himself a meal at the restaurant that had chased him away just yesterday. He felt great pride in his accomplishment, and as a bonus, it had been a fun experience, so entirely different from the life he’d thus far had. In just one night he already felt more accepted than he’d ever had at home.
At Ira’s direction, he started cleaning up behind the bar, getting rags and soapy water to wipe down the counter. When he returned and set his supplies down on the bar, he suddenly realized that Guillaume was missing, his barstool empty. Howard asked Ira if he’d seen him leave, but he didn’t have a clue either. He told Howard that he usually slipped out on his own after sobering, and would find an alley to sleep in somewhere. Howard might have been worried had he not seen Guillaumes fighting ability already, so he elected to simply shrug and continue cleaning. Before long the bar was looking spotless, and Howard was ready to clock off for his shift. Ira offered him the couch upstairs, once he finished collecting all the bottles and throwing them in the dumpster outside. Howard graciously accepted the offer of sleep after such a long day, and went about picking up the various bottles and cans littered around the bar.
Once collected, the bag was quite heavy, so he had to slung the bag over his shoulder and waddle like an overencumbered duck to the backdoor. Several times he had to place the bag down and pick it up, his slender wrists screaming at him for making them work for the first time in his life. He managed to stumble out into the alley, and after getting some momentum by swinging the bag around, was able to toss the bag into the dumpster. He dusted off his hands with a satisfying grin, and turned to go back inside when a sound caught his ear, a sort of gleeful laughter.
He followed the noise down the alleyway, turning a corner and discovered the source of the sound. Six men were all huddled around something on the ground, and were kicking it fiercely, while another man stood off to the side laughing hysterically. Howard immediately recognized him by the huge bandage covering one ear. Kieran, the man who Guillaume had fought just the night before.
Once Howard realized who he was looking at, he looked to see what Kieran’s friends were kicking, and between the flurry of their feets he recognized the ratty coat they were stomping on, Guillaume, who didn’t appear to be moving.
“Stop it!” The words lept from Howard’s mouth before he could think.
Kieran and his crew turned to face the sudden sound, and his smile only got wider when he realized who was before him.
“Well I’ll be! The brat who spilled my drink,” he took a sip of his beer. “Isn’t it past your bedtime young man?”
“Is he alive?” Howard ignored his jeer, concerned that Guillaume still hadn’t moved.
“Probably,” Kieran replied lazily. “He can take a few more kicks though, right boys?”
“No! You’ll kill him!” Howard exclaimed.
The men erupted into a fit of drunken laughter. Kieran shouted over them, quieting them down. “Hey, hey, hey! The boy’s right, we might kill him if he hurt him anymore.”
Howard blinked in surprise, he hadn’t expected them to be reasonable at all.
Kieran hopped off the flipped over trash can he’d been sitting on and walked up to Howard. “Now, you, on the other hand, I bet you could take a few kicks.”
Howard realized too late what was about to happen. Kieran threw a jab into his stomach, and all the air escaped from his lungs. He tried to breathe, but it was as if he’d forgotten how to inhale. He was quickly rushed by two of Kieran’s goons and pinned down to the ground. Kieran leered over him with a devilish grin.
“I think it's about time you paid me back for that drink,” and with that, he cocked his foot backwards and kicked Howard in the side of the ribs.
He tried to cry out in pain, but being unable to breath all he could manage was a quiet croak. Kieran wailed on him again, and the pain shot up his side. His vision began to be gnawed away by darkness. But as he was about to lose consciousness, he felt a sharp piercing in his chest, and his vision cleared. He jolted upwards, gasping for air, his heart racing dangerously fast. There was a large, hypodermic needle sticking out of his chest.
“W-what?” Howard exclaimed alarmedly, confused at his still conscious state.
“Adrenaline. No fun kicking a guy when he’s out.” Kieran replied, and clobbered him with his fist, sending Howard to the ground once more, badly bruising his shoulder and jaw. As he went down, he felt his mind flash back to the library, and instead of the alley, he could smell his burning books. The mere memory of it would have been enough to ignite his rage, but with Kieran careening over him, all he could see was his father’s irate face, and it sent Howard into a frenzy. He struck upward frantically, trying to claw Kieran across the face, but he was once more pinned to the ground and couldn’t move. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Kieran howled as he brought his boot down, fracturing Howard’s arm with a sickening crack. Howard gasped in pain, his heart feeling it might burst from his chest. His emotions tempered in the intensifying rage, molding his erratic feelings into fuel for his struggling body. He twisted and tried kicking with all his might, for a moment slipping out the grip of one of Kiren’s goons, but was quickly stomped back down from a hard boot heel to the wrist.
“Whitman!” Guillaume shouted from behind, making Kieran stop. The old man had woken up and was struggling to get to his feet, but was so battered and bruised that he could hardly even make it to his knees. Howard hadn’t been able to see while he was huddled on the ground, his eyes were black and blue, already swelling like an angry balloon. Kieran rolled his eyes, annoyed that his fun had been interrupted.
“Should have stayed down, old man,” Kieran smashed his bottle against the side of the ally, turning it into a deadly jagged weapon. His crew pinned Guillaume back to the ground, who struggled fiercely under their grip. As Kieran closed in on him, the broken bottle dazzled under the artificial light above.
Howard craned his neck up from the ground to watch, still pinned down and unable to move. As Kieran’s arm wound up to strike the killing blow, he caught Guillaume’s final expression. A drunken, somber gaze, filled with regret and sorrow. One that said so many things without saying anything at all, yet there was one thing that Howard knew just by looking at the old man. He was sorry for what he’d done to him, and would do anything to take it back.
“I FORGIVE YOU!” Howard roared, and from his back sprouted two mighty tentacles, launching him up from the ground to his feet. He flailed his arms to catch his balance, and the tentacles lashed around with the movement of his hands, catching the two men at his sides and smacking them into the walls of the alley. He could finally feel them, an extension of himself. It felt like having huge, long arms attached to his back. He moved his hand up and down, watching the tentacle move with it. It was a bizarre and alien sensation.
Kieran and his men whirled around at the noise, and their faces lost color at the horrific sight of the scarlet red tentacles hovering over Howard’s shoulders.
“What the hell!” one of Kieran’s goons shrieked.
“KILL HIM!” Kieran barked and his crew charged. Howard roared with anger as they ran at him, raising his hand high into the air, his right tentacle casting a shadow over the men, and brought his hand down, where the tentacle buried the three of the goons under its weight, shattering them from head to toe.
With only one goon left and Kieran, the pair looked at each other in panic. Kieran dropped his bottle and pulled a blaster out from inside his jacket, his remaining ally doing the same. They took aim and opened fire on Howard immediately. Howard went to cover his head, and his tentacle wrapped out in front of him like a protective shield to block the blasters. He felt a sharp pain in the edges of the tentacle, but was otherwise fine. He realized they must be fairly tough. Gritting his teeth, he walked closer to Kieran and his last goon, pressing them up against the back wall and trapping them in the alley.
When he was close enough, he raised his fractured arm painfully, making his tentacle reach out and smack the goon across his side, sending him flying into a dumpster. Then he lashed out quickly with his other hand, connecting with Kieran and knocking him down with one clean hit.
Kieran attempted to scramble to his feet, but Howard was already grabbing him, wrapping him up with his tentacles and suspending him a few feet above the ground.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Kieran pleaded as the tentacles tightened around him. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! We were just joking around! This is just a big misunderstanding!” His pathetic attempt to save his own skin brought nothing but rage from Howard, who squeezed his fists shut, and watched as the tentacles responded by tightening around him.
“You coward,” he spat. “How dare you ask for my forgiveness!”
“C-come on!” Kieran begged. “I won’t ever do it again!” Howard squeezed his fist tighter, forcing all the air out of his lungs, making Kieran croak like a toad. He didn’t believe a word of it.
“You need a witness.” Guillaume gasped suddenly from the dirty ground. Howard’s grip lessened on hearing his voice and turned to look at Guillaume.
“A witness?” he asked. Guillaume nodded. He groaned as he sat up, cradling his stomach.
“If you want to go to the Journey Sector, you need a crew, and they won’t follow you unless they know you can lead them there,” he wheezed, still trying to gather himself. “Only legends can survive the Journey Sector, and he can start yours.”
Howard glanced back at Kieran, still filled with contempt for him. “This piece of filth?” He asked doubtfully.
Guillume nodded. “It only takes one person.”
Howard lowered him to the ground and relinquished him from his grip. The moment Kiren’s feet hit the ground, he sprinted as fast as he could out the alley, not stopping for even a second to see if his crew was okay. Howard watched him leave and shook his head, turning his attention to Guillaume. As the adrenaline faded from his system and his body began feeling weak, he lost feeling in his tentacles. They began shrinking, and slicked back up his shirt, disappearing entirely. It was a bizarre feeling, his skin stretching and shrinking, like someone was tugging on him by the back.
Howard collapsed next to Guillaume, where they both sat in silence for a moment, gathering their breath. The only sound was their ragged breathing, and the occasional groan from the men who were still alive, their bodies broken and battered.
“What was that thing you said?” Guillaume asked after a while.
“Hm?” Howard groaned quietly.
“What did you say before you did the thing with the tentacles?”
“I said, ‘I forgive you.’”
“I never said I was sorry.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Well. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” There was another silence between the two, a comfortable sort of silence, one where neither felt either needed to speak. It could have lasted longer, but both of them were heavily injured and the more they sat the more they began to feel their injuries. Howard slowly climbed to his feet and offered his less injured hand to Guillaume, who took it without a moment's hesitation and let him pull him to his feet. Though he wasn’t much taller than Howard and could look down on him, he looked at him with respect.
“Where to, Captain?” he asked Howard.
“Captain?” Howard asked in surprise.
“I’d like to join you on your quest, if you’d have an old drunk like me.”
“I’d love nothing more,” Howard beamed though it hurt his jaw. “Let’s get back to the bar, you didn’t end up very far from it anyway.” Guillaume gave a weak laugh, but trudged along with Howard back to the bar alongside him.
When the two returned to the Immortal, Ira took one look at the pair and knew they’d been in a fight. So he brought them upstairs to the apartment, threw a plastic tarp over the couch to prevent it from getting blood all over it, and had them sit down. He went to work on them without much questioning, his little robotic hands treating their wounds quickly, stitching their cuts, cooling their wounds with care. It was clear he’d done this on more than one occasion by how quickly he was able to help them. Since most of their damage was broken bones and bruising, he told them they’d need to wait until tomorrow to get fully treated, but he could offer them some painkillers and slings for their arms. Howard took what was offered, wracked full of pain from his shattered arm and ribs. Once the drugs had taken their effect, he drifted off into a dreamless sleep. Guillaume, though, refused any such treatment, even the strong whiskey that was offered. Instead he asked for a huge pitcher of water, and silently grinded his teeth through the rest of the night.
In the morning when Howard awoke, he found Guillaume still sitting beside him, red eyed and looking exhausted, not having slept a wink. Ira was already awake it seemed, and had left them a giant spread of eggs, hash browns, and plate of grilled cheeses just for Howard, which was fantastic because he felt like he could eat a horse. He immediately went to the table and began chowing down like a rabid animal, all his lessons in etiquette nowhere near his mind. He’d already made it through three grilled cheeses before he realized Guillaume hadn’t joined him yet. When he asked why, Guillaume explained tersely that he couldn’t move. Howard tried to offer him some of the painkillers Ira gave him, but Guillaume still refused. He explained that he wasn’t taking anything until he was sober.
Howard didn’t understand why he was being so obtuse, but he respected his decision. He brought Guillaume a plate of the eggs and hashbrowns and left it beside his chair, then returning to the kitchenette to continue shoveling food down his gullet. While he was eating, the door to Lizabeth’s room opened up, and the Scourge of Shangri-la herself stepped into the living room with a confused look on her face.
“Why are you in my home?” She asked suspiciously.
“Ira let us stay,” Howard replied around a mouthful of cheese. “I worked the bar last night, then Guillaume and I got into a fight.”
“A fight? With who?”
“Kieran. A generally unpleasant fellow.”
“Oh I know Kieran,” Lizabeth rolled her eye. “Unreliable and arrogant.” She took a closer look at the two of them and realized how injured they were. “Kieran did all that?”
“No, it was mainly his friends.”
“How many?”
“Uh. I think six total?” Howard counted on his hand, then nodded. “Six plus him, so seven.” Lizabeth tilted her head, the cogs in her head already turning despite having just woken up.
“So you and the drunk took out a few each? Or did you…do your thing again?”
“I was able to control it this time,” Howard said through his sandwich.
“You were?” Lizabeth’s eye narrowed questioningly.
“It's like having extra arms, it feels quite strange actually.”
Lizabeth glanced across the room to Guillaume who hadn’t spoken yet for confirmation. Guillaume merely nodded, though nobody was aware that it was mostly due to the fact that even speaking would have brought him great pain.
“Can you do it now?” Lizabeth asked, sitting at the table across from him. Howard furrowed his brow, unsure. He straightened his back, and wiggled around, like he was trying to pop his back. He tried to flex his back muscles to see if that would do anything, and to his surprise he felt something. It was as if he had a knot under his skin, embedded in his muscles. He flexed his back harder, and felt the knots loosen, and two tentacles slipped out the back of his shirt and were once more floating behind him.
Everyone watched them wriggle around in silence, now able to get a good look at them in the light. They appeared to strongly resemble tentacles from an octopus, the underside having many whitish suction cups. It was a bizarre sight, seeing monstrous scarlet appendages sprouting from the back of the young man. Howard began experimenting with them, seeing how far they could stretch, how much he could finesse their movements. Could he move them without the use of his hands? The answer which turned out to be – sort of. He could wiggle them a little like he could wiggle his toes, but he wasn’t able to move them much on their own without the puppeting action of his hands it seemed. He tried to pick up a fork with one of them but all he managed to do was get the suction cups stuck on the table and almost flip it over by accident. It was at that point Lizabeth broke the silence.
“You still want to help me get my cargo back?”
“Yes!” Howard leapt up from the table excitedly. “I want to give you a helping hand!”
“It’s not-” she started to correct him then gave up. “It’ll be dangerous.”
“But we’ll be helping people, right?”
“Yes.” She replied stiffly.
“Then I’m in!” He went round the table to offer a firm, business-like handshake, but his right arm was still heavily damaged. He couldn’t raise it all the way to seal the deal without yelping in pain. Lizabeth eyed his injury skeptically.
“I’m going with him,” Guillaume declared weakly from his seat and went to rise, but quickly collapsed back into the chair with a guttural groan of pain.
“You’re not going anywhere old man.” Lizabeth replied shortly, turning her attention back to Howard. “You, I’ll invest in though.”
“Invest in me?” Howard asked, now his turn to be skeptical.
“You’re about to owe me a lot of money,” she replied with a grin.