Prologue
Dirty Deed
Rain threatened to break through the car's dirty windscreen as Dusk sat amongst two dead men.
Besides him, a tinny voice whimpered out of a speaker.
“Yeah we got it done... Yeah, dirt cheap... We’re all good.... Just finished a sweep of the warehouse... Ok... It's really pouring down tonight, drive safe... See you in thirty.”
The voice died as the car's inhabitants disconnected their listening device. Dusk's long black coat rustled as he turned a key, causing the vehicle to splutter to life before slowly reversing onto the pathway and crawling down the hill. From underneath a black trilby, his caffeine strained eyes looked into the mirror and studied the man behind him.
“Luka, when we get there, you’re straight on watch.” Dusk’s voice scraped out of his throat, deep and dehydrated. He watched the man behind him – waiting for a reaction – and was rewarded by a dismissive wave of the hand. Luka did not turn his face away from the window, but his lack of protest satisfied Dusk who turned his attention to his other partner. “We’re going in through the front.” The man turned to him with a soft, polite smile, needlessly adjusting his cuff links whilst talking in a smooth tone. “Yeah, I’ll go ahead in case there’s any upset, okay?” Dusk nodded, allowing his shoulders to drop slightly. Watching Franz recline in his seat added a bit of warmth to the car.
Eventually, the car came to a halt around the corner of the warehouse. One by one, Dusk, Franz and Luka stepped out and faced their target. It was a simple warehouse like any other, rusting from exposure. The suffocating fog native to Ancerbridge's docks was granted a sickly hue by a few amber lights that lazily shone through windows, occasionally betraying the silhouette of a person walking about inside.
“Luka, could you get Oswald out, please?” Dusk muttered, his voice barely avoiding being drowned in the rain.
“We're seriously going through with this? We do this, a lot of people get pissed.” Luka swept a yellow hand over his forehead, pushing long black locks away from sunken eyes. When they had first met, Dusk had thought Luka sick. Over the years however, he had learned that it was Luka’s time in the Crane slums that were the cause of his jaundiced skin.
“We have the warrant, Luka, we’re under orders.” Dusk rose his voice a tone, mustering a veil of austere command.
Ahead of him, Luka shrugged and moved forward. “Whatever you say man, it’s your funeral.”
Dusk reached for the other mans shoulder, halting him momentarily as his hard eyes met “We’re not at the bar, Luka. I'm your superior. Detective. Not man,” letting him go after the stern correction.
Watching Luka shuffle out a few feet into the cascade, Dusk saw him press the palms of his hands together and chain his fingers together. If a person’s resonance is truly an echo of their soul, Dusk mused that Luka must hate himself more than he’d ever let on. Turning his face to the sky, Luka let a low and drawn-out hum escape his throat. As it drew on, a second voice joined it in a higher, discordant tone. The two voices intermingled, and eventually became one. Dusk winced, turning his head away. He had always thought that Luka sounded like a wailing child whilst tuning. Franz didn't seem to mind.
From the shadows around Luka's tired boots, Oswald began to emerge. A pair of long, wiry hands with bladed fingers dug out the gravel, hauling the rest of the puppet’s slouching form behind it. Oswald’s body was constructed of thick, wooden mannequin torsos which were bound together by long strands of greasy black hair. At one end, a footlong scalpel scraped over the stones. At the other, a pale head with a crudely painted face hung, veiled by more dark and oily hair. Oswald was not alive. It had no respiratory system. Dusk knew these facts, but knowing them did nothing to assuage the feeling of disgust that crawled up his back whenever the puppet moved. A rasping wheeze rose from Oswald each time one of its clawed arms clutched the ground and pulled its twisted form along the floor to fulfil its master’s commands. Worse yet, the bleak and oily creature seemed to have a fondness for Dusk, the blade of its scalpel tapping against the stone like an overexcited dog pawing the ground beneath it.
Luka’s dissonant hum died down as, taking a shaky breath, he stepped toward Oswald and cupped its face in his hands, the puppet instantly becoming still. Pressing their foreheads together, he muttered instructions which died under the thundering rain. Oswald’s rickety frame lurched once more to life and it slouched off, heaving its heavy body toward the shadowy periphery of the warehouse. Luka’s eyes were empty and sunken as he turned to Dusk and gave an affirmative nod. Oswald was to scout around the outside of the warehouse and ward off any interruptions while the three did their work inside.
Satisfied with Luka’s confirmation, Dusk crouched low and started to cross the entrance of the warehouse courtyard towards its large doors. A few dozen feet in length, there was little cover save for abandoned wooden crates, and drums that confessed their scarcity by echoing the heavy rain that battered their top. Pulling his raincoat tight to his body, Dusk pathed through the courtyard to press himself against these visual polluters, ensuring that any line of sight from a window to his person was broken at each stage. After a few minutes of sneaking in this way, he dug his feet into the gravel and made a low sprint to the front wall of the warehouse, pressing his back up against it. Dusk looked back at Franz and Luka, who gave him a nod of confirmation. Turning his head again, Dusk peered through an adjacent window into the warehouse floor.
Inside, the warehouse was as Dusk expected. A single, large room stretching roughly 120 feet across, and only a third as wide. There were dozens of wooden crates, uniform in size and shape, coming just above the hips of the armed guards who leaned against them. Each man wore a waterproof and workman’s trousers, but Dusk spotted the occasional neat collar of a trim-shirt underneath jackets. Slung beneath their shoulders were slim, black guns with large, drum magazines that hung from the end of the barrel. The corner of Dusk’s mouth pulled into an annoyed sneer, though he thanked his luck that he had brought Franz with him tonight. Raising a hand to his friends, he flashed four digits thrice, signifying that he counted twelve men stood upon the warehouse floor. Turning his attention slightly up, he studied the grate balcony which ringed the warehouse’s interior. Three more men up there, three more fingers signed to his allies.
Waiting for a moment where most eyes were turned to the inside of the warehouse. Dusk heard a muffled chorus of laughter from inside the building and darted back across its yard towards his companions. Franz held a laminated clipboard above his head, a minor shield from the rain, while Luka rested against the wire fence that walled the grounds, static aside from the occasional shiver. They looked to Dusk unblinkingly.
“Fifteen obviously armed, twelve on the ground, three on the balcony.”
Franz pushed his bottom lip up in contemplation as he nodded approvingly. “Fifteen’s a lot for… what did you say this shipment was listed as?”
“Clothing.” Dusk nodded, lifting the wing of his coat forward like a makeshift umbrella as he flipped through a war worn notebook. “This shipment is listed as wedding dresses and suits, imported by that new place on the Vellichi Straight.” Dropping the book back into his pocket, he levelled his gaze at the warehouse.
“Can you deal with them? We have about twenty minutes before Chelone gets here.”
Franz’ introspections came to a halt as he clapped a hand on Dusk’s shoulder, his youthful eyes sparkling beneath the dour environs. “We’ll get it done in ten.”
Dusk hummed in acknowledgement to the taller man, gently moving his hand off his shoulder. Truthfully, he had faith in Franz. Whilst still rather fresh, prodigies like him are at their most palatable to Dusk whilst he still outranked them. Despite that, there was something affable about Franz. Taking orders from him didn't sound so bad.
Luka pushed himself off of the fence and reached beneath his coat, grasping a small but boxy pistol. Occupying himself with a brief once-over, he spoke over the rain. “Are we arresting, or are we…”
Franz nodded approvingly, tucking his clipboard beneath his armpit. “Hoping to arrest, but the weapons mean we are licensed to take them out if they won’t come quietly.”
In many ways, Franz was the best of all of them. Dusk and Luka knew it. As he employed his resonance, three disembodied voices poured out from between his hands, clasped together in a prayer. Forming within swirling mists that hung around Franz’ back, a living statue in the form of a moss-coloured angel shook off the veil with a smooth but weighty flap of her stone wings. With her hands hung by her side, she bore a short sword and a set of scales. Without effort or disturbance, she drifted through the air behind Franz as he strode straight through the yard. Dusk and Luka pressed themselves against the corner of a nearby crate in anticipation of what was to come.
Three heavy knocks perforated the rain, each echoing within the warehouse walls. Franz stood before the door, again holding his clipboard above his head. His angel cautiously curled around the side of the door, obscuring it from immediate view. The sound of heavy footfall grew louder as someone approached the door. A chain was dragged, and the oxidised spyhole swung open. Franz stared into the bloodshot eyes of an unseen man who, through a torn and raspy throat, spat an questioning grunt.
“Good evening, my name is Captain Maregold of the Silverwatch. Please could you open the door so that we can talk face to face?” Franz tilted his head and softened his eyes.
“You got a warrant?”
“Yes sir, would you like to see?” Franz said casually, flipping the clipboard down to face towards the eyehole. The eyes of the warehouse inhabitant skimmed the top few lines of the first page, not bothering to read the rest before the raspy voice issued a quiet curse and the slot slammed shut. Franz heard hushed whispering from within, unable to parse what exactly was being said behind the metal, before the slot suddenly opened again. Somewhat hardier eyes accompanied a distinct though still weathered voice that crawled through the hole.
“Boss isn’t here. Come back later.”
“When will he be here?”
“Tomorrow.”
Franz raised an eyebrow at the man and tutted, turning away and resting a hand on his hip before looking back at the doorman. “Look, I’m going to be honest, I was told to arrest all of you immediately on suspicion of possessing illegal firearms. I don’t really want to do that, its late and it’s a lot of paperwork, but I’m under orders to follow up on this warrant. Let’s work with each other here, let me in and I’ll take a note of your compliance. If you're lucky you'll just get a fine rather than time behind bars.”
“Come back tomorrow.” The spyhole slammed shut, leaving Franz alone in the rain. Turning back to face Dusk and Luka, he shrugged before calling out over the rain. “Guess they don’t like Silverwatch!” He took a step away from the door as the angel drifted down from it's hiding place above the hole. Floating down to the ground, it raised it's sword and swung at the iron door’s hinges. The stone blade messily carved and ruptured the door, releasing a hideous, grinding shriek. Pulling its arm back, the statue tore the door off of the wall and, with a further flick of the blade, discarded it to the ground. Franz ducked behind the corner of the warehouse, as the chaos began.
Having already arranged themselves during Franz’ conversation at the door, the warehouse's occupants knelt behind the wooden crates that decorated it's floor, directing their guns towards the eyehole in an organized manner. For a moment they watched the 5 ton door crash from it's frame with disbelief, before the most trigger happy of the lot spotted the angel and let loose, causing the rest to follow suite.
At first, the bullets tore through the angelic lady as though she were made of paper. Crossing her wings over her body like a shield, she knelt on the floor dead in the centre of the firing line. Though bullets passed through her, they didn't seem to cause it any trouble. After a few seconds of sustained fire, a bullet lodged itself within her wing, before falling to the ground. One by one, more crumpled against her, eventually preventing any from passing her large wings. The angel stood back up, before taking a slow step forwards. As she did, the bullets began to ricochet off, pinging and twanging in different directions. By the end of the bullet stream that poured forth from the large magazines, the bullets had stopped touching her entirely. As they flew through the air, they slowed to a halt before the angel’s wings and harmlessly dropped to the ground.
In the deafening silence that followed due to the absence of ammunition, Franz called around the warehouse corner. “If you’d rather be arrested than get your face rearranged, drop your guns and have your hands behind your head by the time I turn the corner!”
Some of the men attempted a panicked reload, others stood and grabbed crowbars, unsheathed knives or reached for secondary pistols. Before any could get their bearings however, Franz sprinted into the warehouse, following the wall and ducking behind the iron beams that held up the ceiling. As he entered, he flung off his heavy raincoat. Pressed against his back, in a black curved sheathe, was an elegant and ornate sword. As soon as Franz pulled the long brass sword from over his shoulder, the angel similarly went to war.
Racing through the air, it dove straight into the middle of the men and delivered a vertical slash that carved cleanly through the closest man’s right hip to his left shoulder. Confused shouts took hold on the warehouse floor as the remaining men scattered from Franz’ resonance, any attempted coordination having been lost. Spreading its wings wide, the angel walled off the seven that had retreated away from Franz, absorbing a volley of bullets from the sidearms that had been muddled out of pockets.
The other four left alive, who saw the angels back, picked themselves off the ground. No sooner than the first of them had stood, Franz was upon them. Capitalising on the surprise created by his resonance’s attack, he drove his sword through the small of the nearest man’s back, paralyzing him from the waist down. Franz then grabbed his collar and pulled him, interposing him between Franz and the other shooters. The men whipped around, rifles aimed, but paused for a moment as they saw their companion struggling on the sword, arms flailing as Franz held him by shoulder and blade.
Above him, Franz heard the tell-tale ‘click’ of a rifle. Craning his head up, he saw two of the watchmen that Dusk had mentioned peering down from the balcony, releasing a barrage of impotent shots into his Guardian Angel. Each bullet paused before the statue and fell to the ground without causing so much as a delay in its assault on the isolated cluster of guards. The third however had moved along the railing, finding a mark against Franz’ exposed back. Just before the man could fire down on Franz however, a single deafening shot rang out from the entrance of the warehouse. Dusk sprinted inside brandishing a heavy revolver. His shot was clinical, having seen the predicament as the adversary was still repositioning, the bullet crashing into the side of the guard's hand, provoking an anguished cry and knocking the weapon from his hands, clattering harmlessly behind Franz.
Wasting none of the time Dusk bought him, Franz took a further step forwards and shoved the impaled man off of his sword into the centre of the group before him as many were pivoting towards the new intruders. Where one man stumbled to catch his comrade, Franz flicked his sword across his neck, just above the shoulder blade. Blood flicked out, and the shooter clutched the gash as he stumbled, his face growing pale. Both him and the stabbed guard slumped to the ground. Two left.
Franz weaved around to the side, ensuring that his next mark was between him and the final grunt. The barrel of a gun drifted towards him, but Franz deftly slammed the flat of his blade against it and pushed outwards as though he were parrying an opposing sword. With a twist of his wrist, he aligned the point of the blade with the man’s solar plexus and drove it as deep as he could. Letting go of the sword for a moment, he elbowed the rifle by its flank and pushed it wide. The victim clenched the trigger in duress, the bullets careening into the metal ceiling above.
Tearing the sword from his opponent’s chest, Franz whipped his head up to see the barrel of a rifle levelled at his face. He froze as the guard stared down upon him. The crack of gunfire echoed against the walls, not from Franz’ would be executioner, but from Dusk. Once again, the sharpshooter had saved him, having already put down the other balcony guards. Franz steadied himself with a deep breath, before nodding at his partner and scanning the scene around him.
His angel had made short work of the remainder of the men on the ground floor, with only three still standing. Two had backed themselves into a corner, taking blind shots from cover, whilst the last made a dash up the ladder to the balcony. They would go first. Franz ran to his angel who, sensing his intent, knelt on the ground and folded a wing like a large ramp. Franz leapt upon it, crouching low. The angel stood to its height, unfurling its wing as it went and flinging Franz through the air towards the balcony that had hung just above his head mere moments before. Franz soared through the air with a wide, toothy grin.
As he slammed onto the balcony, he wrapped one hand around the rail that guarded its edge, Franz pressed his feet securely onto the metal walkway’s outside ridge and released a horizontal slash that tore across the guard’s chest, sending him careening into the opposite rail, falling over it and to his death. Franz set his angel upon the remaining two men.
As it tore through the air towards them, however, they dropped their fire and raised their hands in surrender. Seeing this, Franz halted the attack. Crouching behind the rail, he called out. “You surrender!?”
“YES, FUCK, YES!” Frightened voices shot back from the other side of the battlefield, shrinking away from the angel.
“Kick your guns out from behind there and kneel down! Hands behind your head!”
After a moment, the clatter of rifles sliding along the ground confirmed their broken resolve. Franz stood and strode down the length of the balcony to collect the third guard Dusk had rendered incapable, muttering under his breath as he fished a set of handcuffs off of his belt. As he passed above his partner, he dropped his voice. “Where’s Luka and Oswald?”
“Around the back, closing off the back exit.” Dusk tossed an additional pair of handcuffs up to Franz before leaving him to the doldrum of making an arrest. He had more pressing matters to attend to.
Pulling his notebook back out of his coat, he quickly strode towards a nearby crate. On its outside face, painted in red, read the words ‘Vellichi Transit’ – the name of the shipping company who owned the warehouse, and the target of the past few months of his investigations. Peering into the crate, Dusk found exactly what he and Franz had expected to find earlier. Clothes. Beautiful wedding dresses and resplendent suits sat folded beneath plastic films. Donning a leathery glove, Dusk peeled back the plastic and started examining the clothes. Careful not to disturb their fold, he traced a finger along the hem of the dress until he felt a slight and coarse disturbance. Pinching at the fabric, it felt as though there was fine sand coating it. For the first time in months, Dusk let a smile play across his worn and heavy face. Pulling at the fabric, a pinch of white crystals clung to his gloved fingertip.
Turning and leaning against the crate, Dusk fished a thin, glass vial of white phosphorus from his pockets and dropped the tiny crystals inside. Placing the vial on the ajar lid of the crate, he grabbed his lighter and doused the underside of the vial in flames. Though not enough to ignite the phosphorus from the outside, if Dusk's suspicion was correct, the crystals would solve that problem. He pressed his gloved thumb over its lid and watched carefully, the flame dancing against the transparent walls before the contents suddenly burst alight. The vial was enveloped in a deep violet flame, the contents quickly vaporizing as the flame ate itself. After only seconds, the flame died, leaving a vial of swirling purple smoke in Dusk's hand. He was right. This was Indraknot.
Releasing his thumb from the vial, he let the vapour pour out, ensuring that he inhaled none of it. Dusk dropped the glass and stamped on it, twisting his boot to make certain that any large fragments were ground to a fine dust before sweeping them under the crate. He pulled at the sleeve of his coat to check his watch before turning to Franz, who was noting the names of the arrested men. “Franz, come here for a second.”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Walking to the centre of the warehouse floor, the men met half way. Dusk faced towards the hole in the wall where a door once stood as he spoke. “We’ve got three or four minutes before Chelone gets here. There was Indraknot in the crate I looked through, but only a trace on the clothes inside, not enough to make any progress, they’d just argue that it was contamination from one of the workers along the train line…”
Franz nodded, his face even and unbothered. “Okay, how do you want to do this? We’ve played our hand here, twelve dead and you’ve opened their goods. It’s too late to play it off.”
“I know…” Dusk’s brow furrowed as frustration crawled up the back of his neck. Tapping his foot against the ground for a few moments, he met Franz’ gaze. “We arrest Chelone on suspicion of transporting Indraknot and drag an answer out of him in questioning?”
Franz smiled and nodded. “Sounds good mate. We should find Luka, he's out front right?”
Dusk strode through the warehouse and around its corner, pulling the collar of his coat high against the rain and scanning around him. Stood before a large lorry, he met eyes with Luka. The back of the warehouse had another large gate for heavy goods vehicles to enter through and a series of garages for them to be parked in. Elsewise, it was as barren and depressed as the rest of the misty district.
“Where’s…“ A wet crunch snuck out under his question from inside the garage. Dusk tensed his throat, he instinctively knew the puppet was nearby thanks to the bile that crawled up the lining of his gut every time he was close to the twisted abomination.
Luka opened his mouth to speak, but was overcome with a fit of tortured coughing. It sounded as though it would tear his windpipe to shreds. Unable to talk, he tossed a thumb over his shoulder towards the garage.
Dusk closed the distance between them, gesturing towards the warehouse “Chelone will be here in a couple of minutes.”
Recovering, Luka whispered out a raspy reply lost to the rain, causing Dusk to have to lean in. “Good. Let’s get this over with.” Luka clicked his fingers and the gravel within the garage churned. A bloody, clawed hand gripped the corner of the wide, garage doorway and Oswald hauled itself around, clutching a set of teeth in its other hand, carefully picking them clean of the flesh and gums that still clung to them. As soon as it saw Dusk, the heaving in its chest and the clacking of its scalpel tail grew faster and faster. Whatever it was about Dusk that made this thing so excited, he’d be happy if he could die without finding out.
“You're not wearing your badge…” Dusk placed a hand on Luka’s chest. “Put it on.”
“We’re a little tight on time.”
“So put it on.” Dusk levelled a hard stare at his partner, who acquiesced and fished his badge out of his pocket before pinning it onto his jacket. “There, can we go?” Oswald sloped to a stop and turned to face its master, the little scalpel on his tail tapping against the ground in anticipation. Dusk nodded, and turned to leave.
The pair walked around to the front of the warehouse, where they were met with a confident smile and wave from Franz, whose angel held a wing aloft to shield him from the rain. Only Franz could spend all night in the mist and muck only to come out clean, the fluffy mop of bright blond hair on his head almost looked like lamb wool to Dusk. How did he manage that? He pushed the question aside, his idle musing best saved for a glass of whiskey and a warm fire, things which he had promised himself after they made this arrest.
Somewhere in the distance, the screech of a lively radio broke through the choir of the night. Two spears of white light flashed around the corner as a red sports car rolled toward the warehouse entrance, pausing behind Franz’ simple car. The light and sound came to an abrupt stop as a figure stepped out, unfurled an umbrella and moved to the back passenger seat. As he opened it, Chelone Vellichi exited the vehicle.
Chelone wore a white jacket over a black shirt, with a red, silk tie. By Dusk’s assessment, that tie probably cost more than the total sum of he and his partner’s clothes, jackets and waterproofs included.
“It’s a little weird that you’re wearing sunglasses in the middle of a rainy night, no?” Franz called out into the rain, pointing at the black and gold shades that sat on Chelone’s face.
A genuine smile broke across the man’s handsome feature, followed by an earnest laugh as he and his driver strode over towards them. “Sorry about that, officer, I just came here from a little to-do over on the Strait, it was much brighter in there.”
“Right, but that’s a half hour drive away, so you still had to keep them on in the car.” Franz jabs his finger towrds the cars direction, his own playful smirk betraying the blood that refuses to wash of his left boot.
“Is that why you’re here? Because I’m wearing sunglasses at night?” The flawless smile remained on the Vellichi's face, but even through his shades, Dusk could tell a hard gaze set across his eyes.
Dusk cut into the conversation, stepping ahead of his partners. “Chelone Vellichi, you are under arrest by the authority of the Silverwatch on the suspicion of transporting Indraknot into the city of Ancerbridge. Remain silent. Any attempt to employ a Resonance will be met with lethal force.”
As Dusk spoke, he strode down the yard towards Chelone, who tilted his head with an amused smile. “Do you really think I didn’t know you would be here, detective?”
Dusk stopped in his tracks. The wretched wheezing from Oswald gnawed at the fraying edge of his patience. Pausing for a second, he shot daggers at Chelone. “I don’t give a damn if you did or you didn’t. Tell me about it during the interrogation.”
Chelone turned a palm to his driver, who stepped aside. The umbrella parted ways with the waiting downpour as the well dressed man carefully removed his jacket and hung it off of his assistant’s arm, then shrugged “Okay, well you don’t mind if we put up a fight, do you?”
Dusk narrowed his eyes in confusion. “We?” A bolt of lightning streaked through the sky as he questioned the word, illuminating his surroundings in a grim hue of purple. In the periphery of his vision, a glimmer of light shone from a reflective surface.
His eyes shot open and he started to turn, but before he could finish the motion his lower back shook in a foul convulsion as cold metal pushed into Dusk’s back, breaking through his coat and puncturing the flesh just above his right hip. Looking down, he grimaced and saw a large, metal scalpel jutting through his midriff.
Behind him, Oswald chittered in excitement. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Luka look on sympathetically. “I told you man, it’s your funeral.”
“DUSK!” Franz’ voice tore through the rain as he drew his sword. Before he could take a step towards his comrade, his angel swung in front of him. Two shots from Luka’s pistol compressed and came to a stop at its wing, followed by a third a moment later, then a fourth. His gun wouldn’t damage the angel, but he knew he could keep Franz behind it for as long as possible if he spread out his shots.
Dusk hauled himself off of Oswald’s scalpel and wrapped a hand around his wrist. His resonance roared to life not as a gentle harmony or a discordant cry, but as a chorus of eight deep voices that soared to a crescendo. In his hand was a jade green orb, half a foot wide. As soon as it was fully formed, he turned and chest-pressed the ball towards Franz, who snuck an arm out from behind his angel to catch it. As Dusk started to run, Oswald came in hot pursuit. Like Dusk, Chelone flared his resonance to life. His call came in three voices at three opposing pitches. Four large, metal swords came to life at his back. Grabbing the northern and southern most ones, Chelone joined Oswald in the chase, shepherding Dusk back towards the centre of the yard.
Meanwhile, Luka finally ran out of ammo. Pulling the trigger twice, he heard it click and tutted in frustration. As soon as the shots stopped ringing, Franz set his angel to action, flying to intercept Chelone. As it left, he tore towards Luka with a vengeance. Luka whipped two long daggers out from behind his back and crossed them over his head, just in time to block a one-handed slash from Franz. Metal clashed against metal with a hideous ring.
“The *fuck* are you doing?” Franz hissed out in seething rage. Both men struggled against one another. Franz slid one leg back as Luka tried to stomp on his knee cap, then their lead legs collided as they attempted to knee one another in the gut. Franz brought an elbow up, releasing the weapons from their struggle and clipping Luka across the chin. The traitor stumbled backwards. In the same motion Franz threw the jade orb across the yard.
As the orb spiralled through the rain, Dusk, who had one hand on his wound, dodged a descending cut from Chelone and carried the momentum into a swift kick to the Vellichi tuner's gut. Seeing the orb, he leapt into the air and caught it. As soon as it touched his hand, it began to crackle with power and light. The game had begun. Franz' angel intercepted a tail swipe from Oswald, then turned and extended a wing to block a stab from Chelone. The sword pierced through the stone, stopping short an inch from Dusk before getting torn back out.
Oswald dove atop Franz’ statue, raking at it with it's claws. Dusk vaulted over the two constructs and kept the pressure on Chelone, every slash against the Guardian Angel would only increase its defences against that form of attack, and Oswald didn’t have the firepower to blow it away in one hit. What commanded Dusk’s concern was Chelone, who took two steps back, freeing the immediate space around him.
To Dusk, Chelone’s resonance was an unknown entity. As he filled the space left by the swordsman’s retreat, he slid low beneath a high slash and slammed his heel forward, connecting with his opponent’s gut and launching him backwards. There was no way to ascertain what Chelone’s resonance did right now, so Dusk had no choice but to pour the pressure on thick and never give him a chance to use it.
Chasing him down, Dusk bowled the jade orb forward, straight into Chelone’s face. Stunned for a moment, Chelone watched the orb bounce into the air, then felt Dusk press his boot into his chest and leap up after it. As the detective caught the ball, the light and noise grew brighter and louder. Dusk descended with a forceful blow, an axe kick which Chelone narrowly dodged away from. For his evasive efforts, he was immediately rewarded with another kick to the chest that drove him further into a corner.
“Franz, swap!” Dusk turned and ran towards Franz, who rolled away from a pair of slashes from Luka and darted towards Chelone. As the two men passed each other, Dusk handed the orb to Franz. Sparks began to fly off of it as it exchanged bearers once more.
“How many swaps?” Franz called as he ran.
“Three more!” Dusk slid to a halt just out of range of a cut from Luka’s daggers. Winding a leg back to deliver another crushing kick, a stabbing pain shot up from his hip and he fell to one knee, clutching the wound that Oswald had given him. Before Luka could finish him off, however, Franz’ angel arrived. Swooping over Dusk’s kneeling body, it let loose another horizontal cut that shattered one of Luka’s daggers as he blocked with it. Dodging its second and third blow, Luka called out. “OSWALD! ON FRANZ!” In response, the puppet heaved in delight and writhed across the ground towards its former comrade.
Franz and Chelone were a flash of blades in the dark. With every step they whirled their swords in front of their bodies, searching for an avenue of attack. As he heard Oswald creeping up behind him, Franz found his opportunity first. Shifting his weight from his back leg onto his front, he threw himself forward and roared, slicing Chelone’s left arm off at the elbow. One of his long, white swords clattered against the ground and immediately shattered into an ephemeral nothingness as he roared out in pain.
Turning to push his advantage, Franz had just enough time to sweep past Oswald’s scalpel as it slammed its mannequin-coils between him and his mark. Two clawed swipes went wide, while Franz’ riposte did nothing but send a spray of splinters coursing off of Oswald’s chest. Faced with an opponent he could not overwhelm; he leapt backwards and flicked his eyes towards the other side of the battlefield.
Dusk had picked himself up and fished out his gun. As the Guardian Angel hounded Luka down, Dusk was content to provide ranged support, occasionally firing an uneasy shot to prevent Luka from disengaging from the stone warrior before him. Before long, Luka was driven a sufficient distance from him. Turning, he called to Franz. “Ready!”
Crouching low, Franz dodged another tail swipe from Oswald which aimed at his legs. Leaping over it, he lobbed the orb towards Dusk. As the detective reached out to catch it, another flare of pain shot through his body. He missed. The ball bounced once off of the gravels. Dusk dived to the floor to catch it before it hit the ground a second time, rolling to absorb the blow. Once he felt the energy within the orb spike a second time, he shouted out through the rushing wind. “SAFE, TWO MORE!”
Chelone knelt on the ground, staring at his new stump in rage, holding the north-facing sword high with his good arm. Under his breath, he muttered. “First Concerti: Spring.” and ephemeral, red roses crawled out from beneath the gravels around him, spreading through the yard. Petals flew from them as they did, coalescing around his wound and taking on the structure of an arm, as though they were moulded to match his shape.
Franz stepped left and right, trying to work his way around Oswald, but no matter where he moved the puppet blocked him by either claw or tail. Could he throw his sword? Even if he could hit Chelone, he would have to withdraw the angel and free up Luka afterwards. He took a deep breath, getting ready to raise his voice over the wind and rain.
No words were needed. Oswald’s face jutted to the side as a black boot pressed against his chin. As Franz had danced around Oswald, Dusk had sprinted behind it and landed a firm kick to the side of its head, one arm pressing on the flat part of the scalpel blade, the other gently bowling the orb towards Franz’ open arm. It felt like Franz was holding a star, hopeful, hot and burning. The battle was rapidly approaching its crescendo.
Luka knew not to attack Franz’ angel. He knew that he did not have the necessary power to overwhelm its evolving defences. He knew that in this incarnation, it had adapted to bullets and assumed, after fighting Oswald, that it was nearing completion on its adaption to blades. Despite knowing all of this, none of it made his battle any easier. The angel dragged its weapon through the ground as it robotically swung up. Luka nearly lost his head. In his periphery, he saw Dusk and Franz overwhelm Oswald, saw Chelone stood in a field of roses. Just as he stepped by another heavy blow, boils and cuts within his lungs flared up once again.
Coughing and wheezing, he fell to a knee. He made a wild swing through the air, but felt an aberrant force hold him still. His blade had been forced to an early, harmless stop, inches away from the angel’s side. Driven to desperation by his spluttering, he had inadvertently finished the statue’s evolving defence. With its faultless defence enabled, the angel went in for the kill, slamming its stone blade into Luka’s hip and shattering it instantly, sending him falling to the ground in agony.
A rush of exhilaration flooded Franz’ body as his angel learned once again to defend itself from slashes. Immediately, he called it back to his side. It tore through the air and drove its weapon into Oswald’s back, its scalpel still held down by Dusk. Oswald thrashed and slashed, harmlessly deflected by the angelic stone. Finally pulling its scalpel blade free, it launched two stabs towards Franz who parried them effortlessly.
Dusk slipped away from the puppet and raised an open hand to Franz. “Give it to me.” Franz tossed the orb to its owner, who caught it with an ugly grin on his face. As the jade landed in Dusk’s hands, the conditions were finally met. An unreal amount of power flooded into his arm, as though it might tear him apart, streamed through his chest and into the rest of his body. It would only last for a few seconds, he had to make them count.
The earth beneath Dusk’s feet erupted as he kicked off of it. Leaping into the air, he pulled his arm back and slammed his fist into Oswald’s head with all of his might. It sounded as though a thunderbolt had struck the warehouse yard. The wood and oily hair that made up Oswald’s form shattered all across its length, exploding as the force rippled through it. For a brief moment, the rain stopped falling.
As Dusk landed, the fleeting force that flooded his body began to wane. First, he turned to Chelone, who watched idly by from his ring of flowers. His instinct was to tear the man apart, but then he saw Luka sprinting towards Franz, who stood with his hands over his ears as he endured the thunderous eruption that followed Dusk’s attack.
Using what little time he had left, Dusk tore past Franz. Even if he were in perfect health, Luka would never have been able to defend himself from Dusk’s attack. He moved like a train, his forearm effortlessly shattering Luka’s remaining dagger before his fist drove its way into the man’s stomach, pushing through blood and bone instantly, launching him through the wall of the warehouse. Luka a broken mess, slumped within the rubble. Dusk looked down at his hand, broken shards of spinal cord dotted his fish, steaming in the cold night around him.
Stood frozen for a moment, Dusk felt the force draining from his body. The effort of destroying Oswald and laying waste to Luka had burned through all of the energy that his resonance afforded him. Turning to face Franz, he mustered an apologetic murmur before collapsing onto the floor, blood oozing out of his earlier stab wound.
Franz froze for a moment as he turned and watched Dusk fall. Instantly, he whipped his angel around to face Chelone, racing alongside it to attack the man. As the two raced over the roses, the petals that clung to Chelone’s arm fell to the ground and revealed a new limb of flesh and bone, naked under the rain. Instantly, Chelone dropped the northern sword and whipped both arms behind his back to grab the other two.
Taking a defensive step back and flourishing his weapons, he raised his voice once more. “Second Concerti: Summer!” The eastern sword took on a golden glow, and a heavy pressure flooded the air around Chelone. As the angel bore down upon him, he blocked its blade and pulled his knee up to his chest before kicking the angel. Though the force bore no comparison to the explosion of power that Dusk had demonstrated, it sent the angel careening backwards and cracked the stone around its stomach.
Franz swerved around the angel as it rocketed past him. Stepping up to bat, he swung once into Chelone, who effortlessly batted his sword away. Franz narrowly dodged a heavy swing from Chelone’s glowing blade, springing backwards to gain some space. As the Vellichi hounded him down, he brought his angel in between them to absorb the sword blow. Though his resonance had increased his physical prowess, Chelone could not overwhelm the statue’s evolving defence, growling in frustration as his sword grinded to a halt inches away from its stone wing.
“Any chance I can convince you to come quietly?” Franz called from behind the angel. As he did, it drove forward and pressed its blade against Chelone’s sword.
Chelone didn’t respond, crouching slightly to absorb the force of the angel’s stone sword. At first, it seemed as though they were physically equal, but Chelone soon began to get the better of their exchange. As he started to overpower the angel, he saw a flicker of light and instinctively swept his other weapon out to his side. It swung through the air and collided with a master-less blade, swatting Franz’s thrown sword to the side. Chelone only had time enough to turn his head over his occupied shoulder. Crouching on the ground to his side, Franz had rolled past the angel and out of his line of sight after throwing the sword. Swinging all of the momentum from his role up, he drove his heel into Chelone’s chin.
Immediately, one world became two. Chelone’s vision blurred and he stumbled away. The angel pulled its sword away from the clash and slashed across his torso, slamming him into the chain link fence with a force that would kill any normal man. As Franz turned his head to follow his launched opponent, his heart fell into his stomach.
The driver that had accompanied Chelone stood by an open door on the other side of the car, holding his umbrella out. A figure cloaked entirely in black emerged. As he turned, Franz squinted in confusion at the beaked, black mask that covered their face. The plague doctor walked silently around the car to Chelone’s side, beckoning the driver to follow him.
“That’s quite enough roughhousing, thank you.” A man’s calm but creaky voice crept out from behind the mask. “Help Mr. Vellichi back into the car please, Tomas.” The driver nodded and lifted Chelone to his feet, walking him slowly back to the car.
Spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor, Chelone threw the driver’s arm off of him and shakily stood to his feet. “You pretentious twat.” Stepping forward, he fell onto a knee again. The plague doctor turned his head over his shoulder and called back. “You are severely concussed, sit back in the car and wait for me to join you. I’m not some employee for you to holster your ego upon, Mr. Vellichi.”
“Yeah, Chelone, go sit in the car. I’ll come deal with you in a minute.” Franz whipped up a false bravado, puffing his chest out and conjuring a wide smirk.
“Mr. Maregold!“ The doctor’s raised a palm in offence, as though he had been offered rotten food. “Please, let’s be– “
“Captain Maregold.” Franz interrupted, narrowing his brow in annoyance as he watched Chelone flip him off and wordlessly wander back towards the car. There wasn't meant to be another, and the man clearly looked comfortable approaching the Silverwatch's newest tuner.
“Captain Maregold" The man feigns a small bow as he restarts, "you know just as well as I do that those men laying behind you wont last much longer out here. Their wounds are too severe, the conditions are too harsh. Might I suggest that we peacefully withdraw? Perhaps you can still save your friends life.” The man held one hand over the other as he spoke, occasionally gesticulating with points and waves toward Dusk and the warehouse district surrounding them. “I’m sure the police will appreciate having fewer bodies to bag and identify, all parties involved benefit from an armistice tonight.”
Stood drenched in the rain, Franz’ angel knelt upon the ground and gently scooped up Dusk, before taking flight. It soared over fences walling the warehouse, then the roofs of the surrounding buildings, until it became a faint speck against the mist and midnight rain. Franz' grin grew into a wide smile as he bared his teeth like a wild animal. Any pretence of caution had left his mind, adrenaline coursing through his body.
“Withdraw? Armistice? You’ve got me confused with someone else. You make it sound like I have to choose between saving him and arresting you two. I don’t. I’m Franz Maregold. Body bag or handcuffs, I’m taking both of you in. So what’s it gonna be?”
“That’s disappointing to hear.” The figure nodded sadly before striding towards Luka’s mangled form. As their resonance flourished to life, a deep polyphonic hum crackled across the yard, as though the one who sung it had not seen water in weeks. Franz picked up his sword, spinning it into a comfortable position in his hand, then pounced at the plague doctor, who remained steadfast in his course towards Luka.
Franz stepped into striking range, his foot landed firmly in the man’s shadow, blade raised high. The blow would be clean, perhaps even lethal. The doctor seemed utterly unconcerned however. Not even a tilt of the mans head accompanied a sudden and vicious cold that erupted through Franz's nervous system. Fingers slipped from the blade, his arm fell limp and his legs gave out beneath him. The sudden weariness in his body caused him to not even feel the pain of his chin splitting against the drenched cobbles. His lungs refused to act, completely inert in his chest as the man suddenly became unable to breathe.
“I have never been able to tell exactly how long a person stays alive in your situation. I do so hope you can hear me, though.” The plague doctor slowly crouched down and scooped up Luka’s body, blood pouring over his coat. “We have known for quite some time that you were coming here tonight, Luka was very diligent... poor man. That being said, I suppose we will never have to pay for his treatment… Regardless, we have scapegoats willing to take the fall for your passing here tonight.” A boot clashed into Franz’ side, turning him over to stare into the rain. The masked face emerged, hovering over him as he felt his heartbeat slow. “You are not a martyr; your death provides nothing. Here and now, you will die alone, nothing but rain and failure to see you off. Goodnight, Captain Maregold.”
Rain stained Franz’ uniform and mixed with the blood below him, flowing off into thoughts of home. Somewhere behind him, he heard the car pull out and drive away. Breathless gasps accompanied his last moments, dim and draining senses detecting the fading life of his angel, the resonance’s duration lapsing after extended use. Despite his mind being distant, he managed to use the last of his energy to summon a strong enough thought to command the angel. Staff would later find Dusk's broken form before a nearby hospital. Satisfied, Franz relaxed. His mind found what it was looking for, resting on a last image, a smiling face from his youth. All of a sudden, the cold rain battering him felt warm, his convulsing chest ceased moving and his eyes closed for the last time. All things end.
