I fight back tears as I stare at the sky of darkness above that eventually leads to the ground beneath the surface. I knew the Bloody Palm was angry at me for what happened in the fight against Hura, but this? It was willing to give up on taking me over just to fucking spite me? Just to make my life worse?
Boiling with anger, I sit up and ignore my injuries as I focus my hate toward the Bloody Palm. If it weren't for this fucking artifact, I would have saved Edmund's soul from being devoured by that mass of disgusting flesh of a God.
Dewey calls out to me, and I only give the man a short answer before telling him to leave me alone.
"You okay? What the hell just happened? How were you floating? Did Basprit take Edmund's soul? Were you able to stop it?"
My voice comes out scratchy and raw as my voice cracks while leaving my throat.
"No. I failed. Just… leave me alone."
Dewey goes quiet for a second, making me think he's going to leave, but he sits in front of me after a few moments. I just ignore him and stare at the Bloody Palm with rising hate.
How possible is it for me to live without any arms? Not very…
Fuck.
This was your plan all along, huh? That's why you won't heal me?! You want to make me hate you so much that I want to get rid of you. But I can't. If I do, I'll be a cripple. At least with one hand, I can shoot, fight, and live. But without any, what options do I have? Shoot a gun with my toes?
But does it even matter? Why don't I just bring the same suffering back to the palm? No, it will only hurt me in the end. This damn thing doesn't care about pain. It only wants to live, eat, and for some reason, make me suffer. The first two needs that we sadly have in common.
The truth hits me as I stare at the gray skin of my arm possessed by the hungering and sadistic artifact. I can't get rid of it. I just have to live with this damn thing. The truth hits like a fucking bullet and leaves me with grinding teeth.
My vision begins to swim and shake, but I don't care. The swirling emotions only seem to rise as I can feel the palm laugh at me. It might not be truly sentient yet, but that doesn't mean it can't also possess hate and spite. If I cut off my arm, are there ways to regrow it? I know Heath can't; his limit is fingers, toes, and eyes. But perhaps Birdie can. Her healing was incredible, and she is an Angel after all. Surely she can recover a lost arm.
But even if she can, the Bloody Palm would fight back. The last and only time it was severed, the damn thing came crawling back in less than a second, stitching itself right back to me. Can I even sever the palm? It's dug so deeply into me, and at this point, it's all the way at my shoulder. At least, what I can tell is the skin turning gray and my own Ether feeling out of place past my shoulder. It doesn't impede the actual use, though, just feels weird.
I just can't do it anymore… This thing has been on me, leeching away my life for so long and making it so much worse. Sure, it has helped me fight, but the last time it truly helped, besides just being a more durable arm, was in the fight against Hura. And even then, it was unwilling.
Dewey calls out to me again and again, but I just keep ignoring him as I open and close the fist, which is not mine. Eventually, though, he grabs my shoulder and forces my attention to him.
"Wyatt! Wake up, man! You're gonna bleed out!?"
The concern in his voice finally breaks me out of my stare, and I look at him and then at myself. His hands are covered in blood from trying to stop my bleeding from the fight against Edmund. I didn't even notice him applying pressure to stem the life that is leaving me with haste. I look at the liquid falling down and can only laugh dryly.
Even dead, Edmund shows just how dangerous he was, for the lasting effects of his attacks last way beyond his passing. The wounds themselves aren't all that bad, but the bleeding is. While I just stare completely out of it, Dewey pulls me up from the ground.
"C'mon, man! Get it together! I'm taking you to a medic, or else you'll die!"
From there, I can see with hazy eyes that he is dragging me toward Heights. And after a few minutes of leaving the outskirts, I feel myself being dragged across the rough cobblestones of the street. The pain is… nonexistent. The pain inside is far worse. Blood pours from my wounds, leaving a trail of crimson behind me just as tears drip from my eyes onto the bricks. Only one of the two is noticeable to any but me, however.
The sound of footsteps echoes around me, growing louder as we approach a large, imposing building. I feel myself being pulled inside as Dewey speaks to me, the smell of smoke and incense assaulting my senses.
My vision blurs heavily, leaving the world incomprehensible as darkness encroaches on the edges of my vision. I try to speak, but nothing comes from my voice but an inaudible whisper.
As my consciousness fades, I am left with the vague impression of figures moving around me, their voices a distant murmur. A few of them even look familiar to my blurry gaze, their chains having a recognizable color as well. But I can't make out who is who before a light covers my eyes. And then abruptly, everything goes black.
*******************
Otto Henderson
I light my last cigarette as I stand outside Wyatt's infirmary and take a deep puff. Damn, kid. Almost got himself killed. Again. It seems to be just normal for him. He's lucky Birdie has connections with the master of this city. Otherwise, we'd never have found him in time. Even then, though, she says the kid is stunting his growth with all these wounds and approaching his limit.
Seems like he might never grow to his full height as his body is so focused on healing itself all the time. Now, that might not seem like that big of an issue, but it's a well-known thing that the larger you are, generally, the more Ether you can handle. The only race that doesn't fit this generalization is the Pygmies. For them, it's the opposite.
And that's not all. She says the damn kid got so close to death that she had to put him in a coma with her Sigil, altering his mind with her light, whatever that means. Who knows when he'll wake up? And for what? I thought he promised Johnny to be more careful. Either he's a liar or a military-grade dumbass.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
As I breathe out my cigarette, the rush that comes with it giving me a spout of happiness, I am hit with sharp pain in my side. I cough several times because of the pain, which only spikes it further, ending with me doubling over. Those damn Volkars. They are hard fuckers to put down, that's for sure. Birdie is a damn good medic, but she's no miracle worker. There is only so much she can do for another's body.
Not all is bad, however. According to Dewey, the man, or I guess the undead, that drug Wyatt into the city from his idiotic fight with the Bloodhound, Wyatt learned the location of what we're looking for. At least he wasn't dumb enough to tell Dewey what it was, though. Haaah… I guess I can understand why Wyatt took that fight besides Birdie's theory of the Bloody Palm, making him more self-destructive and careless.
He wanted one last chance with someone he loved. I never had anyone like that, not a mother, father, or sibling who cared, though, but that doesn't mean I can't understand. I'd do the same with Marion if it meant that I could connect with him one more time.
If it can't be over alcohol, cigarettes, and stealing from random dumbfucks on the street, then I guess I'd want to fight him. Maybe that way, I'd at least learn from him. Speaking of, he is alive, and I await his arrival in Heights eagerly.
He was sent to Apathy, the location for neutral individuals who are neither morally evil nor good throughout their life. Sounds like Marion to a tee.
I peek into the room and see Birdie working on healing Wyatt. She's already finished reconstructing the portions of his body ripped away by the Bloodhound, but it seems as though she's stuck on healing his lost arm. It's been almost three days since she started, and almost no progress can be said to be achieved on that front.
I tried telling her it was pointless and to just heal me or Blake to our peaks, but she's determined. If it doesn't work the first thirty times, why go for a thirty-first? Another dumbass, I suppose. I seem to surround myself with them, huh, Marion?
Quietly, I step in and look over at Johnny. His eyes are still closed, and it'll be a few more days until he can see again, but that's not what plagues my gunslinging friend. It's the fact that his daughter is long gone. The little one who burnt up in her own radiance is not down here; her soul is already gone. Birdie's connections were unable to find any hint of her at all.
Dakota is curled up at the bottom of Wyatt's bed, constantly whining for his owner. A whole parade of sadness. At least we don't have to deal with Iva anymore. That psycho left us shortly after she somehow sent Wyatt here through the same means. Wish I could have seen the artifact that did it. Too bad I was still knocked the fuck out from killing the most demons.
After a few moments of calm, I call out to Johnny.
"I'm going to go find Marion. He should be here in just a lil'."
The Gunfighter nods in my general direction, although he is getting eerily good at seeing without eyes. At this point, half the time, he looks you in the eyes on the first try.
After the simple informing, I turn and leave, waving goodbye to Blake, who is sitting on a chair reading a book. She only lifts a few fingers and gives me an awkward smile as I walk out the door. What an odd girl.
I take a few slow steps down the street as I see Silas talking to literally everyone he sees, begging to either trade their gold for something he has or simply just begging for gold, promising to owe them one. It gives me a snort as I walk past. It must suck to have such an essential weapon in your arsenal depending entirely on money. Though, I suppose up above on the surface, it is much easier to get gold, so it's probably way more powerful up there.
As I walk through the city toward where Birdie's contact, Emil, said that Marion would arrive, I keep my eyes out for anything interesting. This whole city is unbelievable, after all. Miles of brick, mortar, and canvas created entirely by legions of undead. What a crazy thing. Does look quite interesting a place to live in, that's for sure.
Slowly, my steps carry me to another part of Heights, the Landing. A portion of the city where undead from the other two towns are sent. The living seem to have little to none when it comes to restrictions on where we can walk. We are a rarity down here, and most seem to respect us for braving the journey. I would never have expected us to not be the first down here, however, and as I've talked to a few more undead like Silas and Birdie, I've learned there have been dozens over the millennia. We're rare but not groundbreaking.
I do wonder something as I walk toward Landing. Where is Death? So many undead speak of her making huge waves long ago, but for the past several hundred years, the pale lady has been absent. Not that it's stopped people from dying, though. The Devil, however, is also not very active, but Birdie mentioned that he appeared a hundred years ago or so for something catastrophic down here. According to her, only the Supremes would know the truth of that event, so I'm left guessing.
It's common knowledge that the Devil is the only sane God remaining because he has never truly done something beyond reason or been shown as a mass of corruption. Sure, the God has his good and bad sides, but he is fair. Some pray to him and have been said to receive responses according to their efforts put in. Other Gods, however? All their cults are slain the second they're found, for their followers commonly go mad and either unleash hell on earth or kill many innocents. Even the churches that have risen to worship Death have gone the same way. Only the followers of the Devil are not destroyed or burnt at the stake. They are merely banished by the Prime out of the Territories.
So what's different between the Devil and Death? Both rule the Underworld, one owning death itself and the other the judgment of the afterlife. Why is one mad and not the other? Why did the Gods even go mad in the first place? Many say it was the Mother Below, but was it indeed? Why is the Devil fine if that's the case? And how come it's noted that Death aided the Underworld long after the rest when mad? The timeline simply doesn't add up.
But these thoughts are for another time because my feet have brought me to Landing. A large building of stone with a double door made of wrought iron inscribed with swirling skulls stands in front of me, and I take a deep breath before opening the door.
What awaits my eyes is a massive lobby similar to a hotel where several people stand bored, and in the back, I see a wall lined with jail cells where people sit just as bored, if only a bit more frustrated. Those in the back must be those coming from the Depths. Only people like Iva can ignore the rules and enter as she pleases. The rest have to be approved and escorted who come from that terrifying city. The rest of these people, however, the ones in the lobby, must be from Apathy, simply waiting for someone to arrive and pick them up.
My eyes rapidly scan the crowd, looking for a glimpse of familiar red hair, and I spot it quickly. In a corner, spinning a large needle between his fingers is Marion. He looks to be a fair bit skinner, and the pale flames in his eyes are a bit odd, but it's him.
I move quickly through the crowd of people to my closest friend of over a decade, and he notices me before I even get close. Marion stands, puts the needle in a pocket, and moves to greet me. I laugh in relief at seeing him as our hands clasp in a handshake. We look at each other for a moment as we were never the most open with our emotions, but the times call for it. I open my arms and pull him into a hug.
"Missed you, man."
"You too, dumbass. You come all the way down here for lil' old me? Sounds awfully like you're in love with me or something. Don't you have that fine lass from Mendroza?"
I push him away and punch his arm. Fucking ass can't even have a moment without him ruining it. But that's Marion.
"Shut up! I ain't seen her in months."
Marion's lip twists in a smile as he keeps messing with me.
"Uh-huh, I'm sure you haven't. Just fucking with you, anyway. Did you guys end up getting Alexos? Bastard made me look like a dumbass with how I died."
His mention of his death makes me look at his neck, and another shot of relief flows through me as I see not even one mark on his neck. He hasn't even died yet down here. Good.
"Nah, he ended up getting away. I'm sure we'll get him, though, for how much of a pussy he made you look like."
This time Marion punches me in the arm at my obvious jab.
"Ah, fuck you. C'mon, who else came with you? I ain't been down here long, but from what I've heard, living people are really rare. And I'm not doubting you, but I don't think you could have made it all the way down here on your own."
I laugh and pull him with me toward the door, but he stops me.
"I'll take you to see them, alright?"
"Wait, wait, wait. You need to tell the overseer. Otherwise, they'll be on the lookout for me. I don't want to go back."
I think he's joking for a second, but the look on his face tells me otherwise. Fuck. It's really bad for people who aren't sent to Heights, huh? Damn, Devil. Why couldn't you have been a bit lenient with him? We ain't ever been that evil, plus we helped a whole bunch of people.
Shrugging with frustration, I walk over to a tall man standing in the middle of the lobby behind a wooden desk. His face is rough and covered with scars, and his eyes glow a verdant green. The color of his flame and the wooden desk instantly put me into a respectful mood, even with Marion next to me. Anytime eyes are a different color, that means the person is powerful. Normally a Chief. There are exceptions, but I ain't gonna test 'em. Not just that, but this is the only wooden thing I've seen since I got here.
"I'm taking my friend, Marion. Will that be a problem?"
The undead man looks me up and down before asking for my name.
"No, you living are easy to track down. Just gotta ask where the eyed is. What's yur' name?"
"Otto, Otto Henderson."
The man waves his arm, and writing is inscribed into the wooden desk he's sitting at. Then, he waves at us to leave.
"Go on, get. Don't waste my time."
From there, I drag Marion out of the Landing, prepared to wage some foolishness before we leave. I ain't stolen somethin' in a while. Just never felt the same without Marion.