22. What’s the Worst a Kid Can Do?

Pyro and Thwain walked with purpose away from the Church’s compound, not wanting to be caught in their hit and run's fallout. When they came up on a side street that looked secluded enough, they ducked in.

“What do we do with the loot?” Pyro asked, his eyes glinting with greedy excitement.

“Check it quick, see what we have to deal with,” Thwain said, motioning to the janky robe-bag.

Pyro laid out the bag and started rooting through it.

“Money… Money… Magical cup? Probably-magic stick… Magic necklace… Magic revolver…” He muttered to himself, examining each item carefully. Suddenly, he looked over at Thwain with disbelief. “Hey, Thwain… Doesn’t this look like…”

“Tower’s sh…” Thwain trailed off, taking a moment to compose himself. “Open it quickly!” He hissed, his composure falling to pieces.

With a single swift motion, Pyro coated his hand in rock, reached back and swung, smashing the lock off of the small familiar-looking black box. Thwain crowded closer as Pyro flipped the lid. Inside, on a velvet cushion, were six tiny, white, pristine marbles.

Pyro’s laugh started burbling deep in his stomach, coming out louder and louder until he was almost shouting.

“Shhhh!” Thwain hissed, slapping his friend on the shoulder. “Yeah, it’s cool and all, but what do we really need Awakening Stones for? We’ve got classes and Théo can bring people over little by little to the second floor.”

“What do ya MEAN what do we need ‘em for?!” Pyro almost shouted, but lowered his voice again at a sharp look from Thwain. “We can raise a small army without waitin’ a few days for Théo to ferry ‘em all. Or give ‘em to someone sick who won’t make the trip. Stats of a class alone could prob save someone who’s ‘bout to die.”

Thwain nodded slowly, cogs turning faster and faster in his mind. Steam was almost coming out of his ears by the time he spoke again. “Ok… We have a way to insta-boost a handful of people. We can slowly ferry a few people at a time. That means we can ramp this up a notch. Really hit the Slums where it hurts. Force people into climbing.”

“How we findin’ people to boost? Tower Guides?” Pyro asked, still staring at the stones.

Thwain shook his head. “The guide we met that one time was nice, but they don’t help people for free. If they only help for profit, I don’t think we can trust them. And if they could have been helping this entire time, but they weren’t, that’s not the kind of person I want to work with. Plus, they probably already boosted everyone they wanted to boost.”

“Nepotism?” Pyro asked timidly.

“Nepotism,” Thwain agreed with a shrug.

Figuring it was too dangerous to lug around a priest’s robe filled with potentially powerful relics, Pyro opened up a hole in the ground and hid most of the new items under the road in their back alley. He kept the magical revolver with him, just in case.

"So, what's the plan then? We Awaken some people?" Pyro asked, nervously looking around to the dark streets.

Thwain leaned in, his voice a low whisper. "Now that we can almost guarantee a steady stream of Awakened, we need to force people to farm. You know the saying: easiest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

Pyro nodded in agreement. “Ok, so what? Hit the farms?” There weren’t many, but the few farms owned by various gangs, families and businesses were one of the only sources of locally-produced food.

Despite that, Thwain shook his head. “Farms take time, work and risk. Even with all that, they don’t produce a whole lot. Not lately, at least. Not without a large investment of funds. No, I’m thinking we hit something more immediate. We already hit the Church once, it’s time to hit them again.”

Pyro’s eyes widened with understanding. “Brother François? The food conjuror?”

“Exactly. We jump him, stash him somewhere until we get people farming.”

Pyro crossed his arms stubbornly. “Thwain,” he said disapprovingly. “Since when do we do half measures? You know the actual right plan. If we just kidnap ‘em for a bit, people’re gonna stop farming slimes fer’ food once he’s back an’ you know it. He’ll be back to conjurin’ his food an’ we’ll be back to square one. Then the festival happens an’ everything goes sideways an’ we all forget about it.” He huffed, his country accent getting thicker as he got worked up.

Thwain grumbled, looking away. “It’s the Sulky argument again. I don’t like it. I want to get people farming the floors to save them, to save us all. No point in saving the Tower if we kill everyone in the process.”

“Then ya shouldn’t have mentioned him. People are too dependent on ‘em. He goes away for a day, people wait. He gets killed? People panic. We need us some panic, Thwain. Unless you can think of another solution…” The Geomancer trailed off, waiting for his point to sink in.

Thwain rubbed at the beginnings of dark brown stubble forming on his sharp jaw. It took a bit more convincing, but he came around. Necessity trumped morals, after all.

“Good,” Pyro said with a serious nod. "So, how do we get to Brother François?"

"We can ambush him on his way to the Church’s Cuisine, on his way back, or attack him while he’s there. He travels with a guard, but I don’t know how vigilant they are while he’s conjuring and handing out food. I don’t think anyone’s ever been dumb enough to threaten the only free meal ticket in the Slums."

“He ain’t there now,” Pyro said. “May as well set up. If we don’t find an opportunity when he shows up or when he feeds ‘em, we follow him back and…” He finished his point by balling his fists and cracking his knuckles.

Their plan mostly made, the masked duo made their way down the street, quietly debating other ways to sow chaos within the Slums. Unbenounced to them, a pair of students was hiding a few alleys down the street, trying to uncover the truth behind the rumors of inquisitions, demonic summonings and gang activity.

“So, it’s true!” One of the students hissed at the other. “We have to tell the professor!”

“Oh, come off it,” the other replied. “We don’t know what we heard.”

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“Really? Because I’m pretty sure the one in red, a member of the Blood Oats, just told the one in black, probably from the Sons of Blades, that they should send their demon to suck the life out of people to cause a panic. It’s pretty clear what they meant.”

“And what can we do about it? We’re just kids!” The other said in a whine.

“First, we tell the professor. Second…” He paused, a grin gracing his face, a sparkle in his catlike eyes. “Remember how much Kelsey Davis was bragging about how her dad was sending her an Awakening Stone this week?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, I just so happen to have stolen the key to her mailbox.”

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Pyro and Thwain sat atop a rooftop, looking at the stars, resting and waiting for dawn to arrive.

“What’s yer’ favorite color?” Pyro asked nonchalantly.

“What? Black, why? What’s yours?” Thwain asked, confused.

“Red. Duh. What’s your favorite food?”

“Uh…” Thwain hesitated for a moment before replying. “You know those grilled meat skewers they sell in Market Alley?”

“Yeah?”

“Those. Now, what are you doing?” Thwain asked, turning to look at his friend.

Pyro shrugged, embarrassed. “I don’t know, I’m bored! Passin’ the time.”

“Well pass the time by… I don’t know, carve some escape tunnels under the square or something,” Thwain said exasperatedly.

Pyro cocked his head to the side, thinking about the suggestion. “You know, that ain’t half bad… Be right back.” He hopped off of the roof, riding a thin stone pillar down to the ground. He snuck around, trying to find a good place to start. Shrugging, he chose a spot at random, carefully raising a large square of stones, then carving a tunnel beneath the raised portion. He pushed the dirt around with his skill, compacting it to reinforce the walls as he went. He worked slowly to conserve as much mana as possible, spending hours creating a labyrinth underneath the city square known as the Church’s Cuisine.

When he grew tired, he decided on staying underground. First, he climbed back above ground, plugging the hole he made and making sure the stones didn’t look out of place. Then, he looked around once again. There were the typical square-related adornments: plenty of benches, a dry fountain, the pedestal of a statue, and empty garden beds.

Pyro walked over to the garden beds, looking around them. They were made from planks of rotting wood, their insides not much more than gravel and a bit of dirt. There was a plank laid across the top of each bed, as if to ward off any potential gardener. “Good enough,” he muttered, creating a few air holes from the partially-covered garden beds to his stone maze. With that taken care of, he jumped into one of the garden beds and tunneled down into his new hideout, closing the tunnel behind him as best he could. Then, picking a particularly comfortable rock to use as a pillow, he went to sleep.

Thwain napped on the roof until he heard footsteps below. He looked around, trying to spot Pyro, but the goof wasn’t anywhere to be found. Apparently, he had decided on sleeping underground. Unfortunately, that left Thwain without any way of contacting his friend. He hesitantly peeked over the side of the roof, watching as an old man in pristine white robes was escorted by two brick shithouses in human form. They were huge! If they hadn’t bathed in the sludge rivers until they mutated into hulking abominations, it would be a miracle.

He watched them approach, one bodyguard pulling a cart into place, the other slinking off into the shadows of a building in a corner of the square, disappearing as if melding into the stone. Was Pyro aware of the situation? How would he even contact his friend without alerting the three goons? Thwain sighed, frustrated.

Brother François set out plates and started channeling his mana, conjuring loaves of bread for the crowd that was to come. Thwain simply gripped his pistols for a few minutes, contemplating. If he shot and the bullet was deflected or blocked… He focused his vision, trying to spot any similarities between Brother François’s gear and the priest’s from the carriage ambush. The clergyman leaned over to pick up another stack of plates, and that’s when Thwain saw it: the necklace. It was identical to the priest’s. If that was the object that was the source of the bullet-deflecting shield… He’d have to get close. He could, of course, assume that it wasn’t the piece of gear that generated the shield, but if he assumed wrong… He weighed his options for a bit before deciding on swooping in quickly, eliminating the target, then beating a fast retreat.

Wings as dark as night sprouted from Thwain’s back, ripping through his clothes. He really needed to figure something out for that. He winced at the sound of tearing fabric and hoped it didn’t give his position away.

“Hey! Did you hear that?” The deep voice boomed from below. Shit, ok, so the sound of a shirt tearing into pieces from a rooftop is a suspicious sound. Now, to wait or not to wait? If he didn’t make any noise, maybe the thug would…

THUMP

Seven feet of mana-fueled muscles landed on the rooftop in front of Thwain. The Gunner jumped back on instinct, not prepared for someone to be so close, so soon. The bodyguard flexed his muscles as he took a step towards Thwain, his dark green tank top straining to hold in his mass.

“I like your wings,” he said. “Let me have them.” He simply held out a meaty hand, as if expecting Thwain to rip them off and hand them over.

Instead, Thwain channeled mana into one of his guns. Before he could squeeze the trigger, the bodyguard was on top of him, open palm swinging for his face. Thwain fell backwards, feeling the wind of the blow rush past his nose. He tumbled off the roof, catching himself with his wings, righting himself and coming back up with both guns at the ready, one of them humming with mana. The hulking bodyguard lunged right off the building at Thwain, despite the Gunner being in midair, hands outstretched like thick hotdogs wolf jaw tongs (in a menacing way, because they looked dangerous).

Thwain fired off a quick shot from each gun. The unempowered bullet skidded right off the enemy, not even penetrating his shirt’s fabric. The enchanted bullet slammed into the bodyguard’s shoulder with the sound of a cannonball. Like, if you took the sound of the cannon firing and added it to the sound of the ball hitting a concrete wall, you’d get the sound of the magical bullet smashing into Radiation Test Subject 4. Amazingly, he didn’t die. Thwain wasn’t even sure if he bled. No rivers, no streams, not even a wisp of red energy flew from the abomination and into Thwain. Despite the impressive thunderclap, the bullet only managed to send the man into a tailspin, flying off course from his lunge and crashing into a building across the street. People came out of buildings and streamed in from alleyways just to slink right back off again at the sight of the damage. Thwain winced as he heard metal bend and break. Bricks shattered as they met their match. He took the moment to charge both pistols with mana.

A growl from the hole in what might have been a diner was the only warning Thwain got. He flapped his wings, dodging to the side as the bodyguard came sailing past, swiping at where he had been moments before. The giant pivoted, landing on the side of the building whose roof Thwain had been using, then pushed off again. The building’s stone exterior shattered as the man launched himself at Thwain yet again. Thwain tried to dodge, but the man was too fast. The bodyguard grabbed onto a demonic wing, yanking Thwain along with it and sending both of them hurtling towards another building. The brute of a man bunched up his muscles, ready to slam his opponent into the wall. Thwain did the only thing he could think of, and dismissed his wings. The man swung with all of his force, launching fistfulls of nothingness into the wall.

Thwain braced himself for the impact, unable to arrest his built up momentum. He smashed into the building, despite his best efforts, grunting in pain as several bones snapped. Then, to top it all off, gravity reminded him of its dominance, dragging him downwards. He was in too much pain to scream as he fell, but the hard concrete, boosted with a damage buff from nineteen feet of freefalling, managed to squeak out a huff as air was expelled from his lungs. He lay on the cracked sidewalk, unable to so much as groan in pain. He saw legs and boots rushing around, but he couldn’t tell if they were running towards or away from him. The world was spinning as if it were a rotating globe and not a flat piece of land.

The rest of the sidewalk splintered as two-time InterTower bear-wrestling champion, Igor Igorson, son of Igor Igorson, landed in a superhero crouch next to his downed opponent’s face. That got a moan, a groan and four hacks of blood out of Thwain, who simply curled around his midsection, glowing pistols still in hand. He knew he needed to run, to flee, to fly away, but he was in too much pain. He couldn’t concentrate long enough to conjure his wings, let alone flap them coherently enough to get away.

Then, Thwain had an idea. Pyro had offhandedly mentioned it before, but it was too stupid of an idea to entertain testing at the time. It was nuts. It was absolutely the dumbest possible thing he could think of. Yet, it was exactly what he needed.