The Excursion

[Austere]

Open upon permission. Necessary bunnying (although I prefer the word rabbit) is approved.

[Austere]

The ache was almost unbearable.

Just one more foothold. A thought that had occurred more times in the past hour of ascent than Vera cared to recall. The tendons that bound her fingers together were strained nearly to their limits. The muscles in her sinuous arms could be equated to burning coals, picking at her climbing ability with a vengeance. Leaving the canyon was required of her. The master under whom she studied had laid one final burden on her shoulders before she could claim the inheritance of the martial art she had studied for ten and nine years. This might be too much for even me to complete, though... Without the extensive use of her inner energy, the climb up the face of the canyon was taking its toll on her body. Had the pathways in her body not been violently and severely constricted, Vera could have easily harnessed the energy stored within her body to supplement the strength of her limbs for the climb. Now, however, it was a purely physical test.

One more handhold, one more foothold. It was dragging on longer than she had expected. Vera discerned a small opening in the rock about ten body's lengths away from her where she hoped she could rest and recover.

A warm breeze passed over the relatively fresh wound on her face, forcing a squint. The heat was relentless, being midsummer, and sweat was flowing down her back and gathering where her pants began. The itch was nearly as unbearable as the pain in her limbs, and it was only getting worse. The pack she had taken with her from the temple where she had resided nearly all of her life felt like an entire quarry's worth of stone on her shoulders. Each small increment toward the opening where she could rest was leaving her breathing ragged and harsh.

After a few more agonizing minutes, Vera finally made it to the small niche. As she dragged herself into the nook she found herself bathed in shadow, the first positive experience of her entire climb. She fumbled at the side of her pack for one of the two canteens she had packed. After finally clenching onto it, she popped the cap open and gorged in what seemed to her the sweet nectar of life after making such a backbreaking journey up the sheer cliffs of the canyon. Vera slid the backpack off and scooted it toward the inside of the small area she was in, which was surprisingly large, she estimated about three people could fit in squeezed together. After slithering in as far as she could and making sure her pack was safe, she let her eyes close and dozed off.

She woke to the throbbing pain that encompassed the left side of her face. She reached up and tenderly grazed her fingers over the scorched flesh that was now there. It still made her stomach flutter each time she thought about what her roasted face must look like. The scar tissue had not yet formed and the crude flesh was sensitive to even the slightest stimuli. Turning her head to the right, she gathered the canvas pack and gingerly made way to the edge of the cranny, scooting her body inches at a time. She worked the pack over the front of her body and got it on, letting it hang out the edge and slowly progressed to struggle her way further up the canyon's face. In order to stop thinking about the events that happened a week ago, which led to the mutilation of her face, the martial artist tried to keep propelling herself forward.

After about an hour, relief finally arrived. Vera rolled over onto a the hard rock that made up the plateau atop the canyon. Something normally so uncomfortable had ever been such a relief to her in her twenty and seven years. The clouds were rolling along playfully, teasing her with their ease of movement in the gentle wind. Her arms felt as though they were wither and die at a moment's notice, her legs were ablaze with pain. The first thing Vera did however, was dig her nails underneath the waist of her pants and claw at the itch there. Relief washed over her as she lay there, finally done with the hardest fragment of her trek across the Jagged Mountains. Reaching into the pack that she set beside her, Vera pulled out a small canteen and allowed herself to slosh water into her mouth. She made her way to her feet, shouldered her pack and made her way toward a small outcropping of rock where she could set up camp and rest until the morrow, when she would resume her travels.

Eight days later...

Finally a change in the scenery, at least. Seems like I still have a long way to go though... Instead of jagged rock as far as the eye could see, it was fertile farmland that stretched ahead of her path now. The difference it made under her feet was unmeasurable, it was like walking on top of a cloud in comparison to the jutting, hard edges of the mountains sprawled out behind her. In the far distance she could see what seemed only a small monolith, but from her study of maps, she knew it to be the city of Radasnath, capital of Corone. It would be no more than a day or two before she reached the outskirts of the city, so she decided to rest first and be in peak condition for her approach to the unknown territory. As she sat under the shade of a large tree, whose species she could not have named, her thoughts began to drift to the events of the past two weeks.

"Your face is a ruin Vera, do not hope for otherwise." Raz had been cruel to her most of her ilfe, and after her power had been sealed by their master, he made no exception. "Do not mistake me, if we had met under different circumstances, I would think you beautiful, even with a mutilated face. But we did not. We are rivals, and I sacrificed my arm for you, I have no sympathy."

Vera had never particularly expected anything other than anger or resent from Raz. Nearly two years ago, she had surpassed his ability in controlling her inner-energy and manifesting it into usable forms. Raz let this newfound gap in power serve as a reason to berate her at every available opportunity.

Vera had begun to bore of his antics however, "I'm sorry that you lost your arm, Raz. I do not know what the Ka Ryu did to mangle both you and I so badly, but it was like nothing I have ever seen before. We should count ourselves lucky that we're alive." Her tone matched the indifference she felt at the moment.

Vera's thoughts skipped around, eventually ending up on the fight that had left her face ravaged.

The flash of heat... the white-hot pain. I still do not understand what angered Myun so much that he thought to annihilate me, was it just bloodlust? The Ka Ryu had come to visit her in the aftermath of the maiming and seemed apologetic enough. Was that also just a facade? He had assured the girl that it was a simple friendly match between the disciples of two old rivals, who were both on friendly terms in their later years. Something about the changed gaze after she struck him still tugged at the back of her mind; the ferocity, the intent to kill.

As Vera became lost deeper into the abyss of her thoughts, she began to doze once again. Fatigue was finally taking control of the situation.

About one day later...

From what Vera could gather, the capital of Corone was bustling, even as the sun crept above the horizon behind her. Already there were trade caravans in and out, creating a clog at the city gates that was reminiscent of an army of ants trying to make their way into a freshly stomped-on anthill. The variety of races was more than she had expected. While most of the denizens were similar o herself in appearance she could easily make out races that she had never seen in person before. She had only read about the ebony skin of dark elves and the sharp, delicate ears of the high elves. Being exposed to the variety in person was exciting and frightening all at once.

As she drew toward the gate, Vera finally felt the looming presence of the walls. From afar, the city had not seemed all that impressive to her. When you stood next to it, though, that opinion quickly changed. It was truly a great feat of engineering. Vera's nose flared in disgust as she drew closer to the gate. I hadn't expected a city this big to smell so bad. An arm instantly raised to her face, covering her nostrils to try and filter out the odors. In the histories, Radasnath, as well as many other gargantuan cities were described in terms of their grandeur and landmarks. Not one author she had studied mentioned that a large city would reek of every fragrance imaginable - ranging from the pleasant to the repulsive.

As she passed under the gate it was vaguely apparent that her wound was creating a buzz amongst the guardsmen, who were still looking groggy and sluggish. To her, the wound was one of the least peculiar sights in the area. It was busier inside than out, and Vera could feel her heart begin to race with nervous anticipation. A sea of people were bustling before her, the ground was unpaved and beaten hard by the stomping of feet. The noise became almost unbearable to her, it was as if her master's lightning fist was creating a thunderous boom constantly and all around her. She only sought passage to a faraway land she had read about, where the man who mangled her face resided, and Radasnath happened to be between her and a boat.

As her pulse began to rise, throat began to constrict and palms began to sweat, the only thought she had was, Where do I go now?

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor Callahan never really understood why people called it ‘seeing stars’.

In nearly four decades of his life, the ex-prizefighter had been knocked out, punched out, cut, stabbed, drugged, drunk and shot, he had been beaten with sticks and beaten with stones, he had been at the short end of just about every stick imaginable, and he had his life hanging by the thinnest of threads more than once. And he had never seen these stars people kept talking about. Usually it was just blackness, sometimes absolute, sometimes streaked with lightning, sometimes fading to grey as the world around him materialized. And sometimes, when the reality pierced the dark veil, there were multiple versions of it hanging around, sometimes doubles, sometimes triples, and sometimes spinning around him like a carousel. Victor preferred the darkness. At least then you knew with absolutely certainty you weren’t getting up anytime soon.

Today it was the spin cycle, however, and he only had himself to blame for it. He had been careless when he walked into the tavern minutes ago, grim and pissed off and ready to mess someone up. A specific someone. He had reliable information – well, as reliable as it could be from a besotted hooker – that one of Walter’s little stooges was in the Gatehouse Inn. As questionable as it was, it had been the best lead he had on Walter in weeks and by now he was desperate to go for it. He still had quite a score to settle with good old Walter Jimes. He didn’t mind that Walter put him in prison for the murder he did not commit, even if the Furnace detention facility was the very definition of hell on earth. He didn’t even mind that Walter led him on like a string puppet, ultimately making him murder an innocent man. Those were pet peeves compared to that one bullet on that one rainy night that ended the life of his Aicha. For that there was still hell to pay.

The tavern had been mostly empty when Victor walked in moments ago. A couple of early risers were scattered around the edges of the main room, shoveling puke-colored oatmeal into their mouths. Two cronies already sat at the bar, milking what was possibly the first mug of ale in a line of many they had planned for today. One of their pals, still not recovered from last night, sat on the floor with his back against the bar, cradling a spittoon like a newborn child. The barkeep was a gnarly old thing, his face lined with wrinkles like aged leather, his grinning mouth filled with teeth as yellow as corn kernels. That horrible smile had been the last thing Victor saw before he got hit in the back on the head with what felt like a mallet. Could’ve been a chair. Could’ve been a bottle. Could’ve been a bloody meteor for all he knew. It sent him sprawling past the stools like a sack of bricks all the same and introduced his face to the texture of the hardwood floor. By the time Victor turned on his back, whoever struck him was gone and instead there was a spinning menagerie of faces looming over him.

The barkeep brought one of his wrinkled hands and slapped him across the face once. His mouth opened, but no voice seemed to be coming out. The second time he swung at the fallen prizefighter, Victor brought one of his hand up and pushed him away. “Where... Where is the bastard?” he managed, but all he could see were shrugs and they were spinning around him, mocking him. One of his hands went to the back of the head, and when it touched the throbbing lump, he immediately regretted reaching towards it. His other went to the holster at his flank, yanking the pistol out. The faces miraculously disappeared. They usually did that when he pulled Aicha’s namesake out of its holster.

Using the barrel of his pistol and one of the nearby stools, Victor managed to push himself back to his feet. This is a good sign, he assured himself, even if it didn’t seem so at the time, what with the main room of the Gatehouse Inn still doing its swirling and the imminent headache waiting for him when it stopped. It meant that he was stepping on the right toes. Now if only he managed to catch up with the little twerp that cheap-shot him.

He stumbled through the batwing doors, careening like a drunk and hitting one of the wooden columns that held up the thatched roof of the porch. The brightness of the early morning struck Victor like something tangible, making his eyes squint and sending an ache through his temples that felt a lot like his head was splitting in two. Pushing himself away from the wooden pillar, he managed down the first two steps, missed the third and hit the ground again, this time getting a mouthful of dirt as a memento. Instead of pushing himself up again, he crawled the short distance to the water through and showed his head in as deep as he could. The water was stale and stank of horse, but it was still cool enough to do its job. When he took his head out and sat with his back against the through, the world has stopped its cycle and the sound of his deep breaths was lost in the clamor of the morning bustle.

Most passersby didn’t seem to pay any heed to him – the sight was familiar enough in the Radasanth Slums – and a few spared a cursory glance before they went on their way. He was just another drunkard in their eyes, purging the remnants of the last night’s inebriation from the system. And to their defense, Victor definitely seemed to fit the part. His denim pants were worn and faded, his white undershirt – the only thing he could wear in this godsforsaken heat without sweating like a hooker in a church – dusty and wet. Nobody made any comments, though; the gun had a way of silencing people even when it wasn’t spewing lead. And no trace of his attacker either. Everybody seemed to be following their routine, going about their business like drones. Well, all except one.

Victor’s vision was still a bit blurry from the hit and the water dripping into his eyes when he willed himself back to his feet and approached the brown-haired woman. “Hey, miss!” he called out, shambling in her general direction. “You didn’t happen to see...” He wanted to ask about whoever struck him, hoping that they might’ve ran out of the inn and thus attracted attention. However, once he was close enough, he could see the color of her eyes. “...anything at all?” slipped out, and despite not being the kind of a person to make a jape at blind people, the prizefighter couldn’t suppress a grin. He recomposed himself fast enough, though.

“Erm, my apologies. Didn’t know you were...you know... blind,” he said, waving a hand in front of her face. “You, er, need any help, miss?”

The guy he was after was long gone anyways and Victor Callahan hadn’t been in shape for chasing little shits through the streets for over ten years now. So he figured he might as well help a damsel in distress. He was growing to be a bitter bastard these days, but he wasn’t that much of a bastard just yet.

[Symbiosis]

An eventful morning for Baxter Arlington at one point in his life would have been waking up to three eggs, a stiff black coffee, and reading the latest edition of the Salvarian Herald with his feet kicked up in his morning robes. On a particularly eventful day, perhaps a friend would have come over to chat and play chess. Somedays, he thought back fondly, he would even do the taboo of active journalists like himself, and sleep in. Oh ho, those were the days.

Yet today, today was the normal routine. Sit and order a drink, watch a man get his butt, in no less terms, handed to him with a bow, and then watch the culprits run like childish urchins whooping and laughing. In the process of this pounding Baxter had even lost his coffee, spilling it all over his edition of the news, ruining it as the ink and paper ran and tore, and he didn’t even begin to dwell on the fact he was out three gold crowns for the whole thing. The tavern lord, wrinkly finger wagging, demanded the pen write pay for the damages to his cup, and out went another crown.

However, this chaos of events; these bad misfortunes and overall hell on earth when compared to his old life was not what made him exhale in a sigh filled with bitter sadness. It was the fact that this was not an eventful morning at all. It was rather tame, and boring for his tastes.

That left a sour taste as he handed the money to the barkeep and turned towards the double swinging bat doors that he waltzed through the previous evening with all intentions to make his last stay in Radansath more pleasurable. Yes, a little Inn off to the side, not well known, less patrons. No evil crime lords, no gun toting loudmouths. Nope, just a simple, quiet evening.

“Yet those are few and far between,” Baxter exhaled in a whisper. He knew the source of all this change in his life. Why was a simple pen write from Salvar in Corone, getting into situations that he, the definition of a lesser man, should feint to even be a part of? With a cold feeling in his chest, like an ancient leviathan of old, an essence stirred, gently slithering its way around Baxter’s ribs, tethering through them with a dark chuckle that echoed within the chasm of his psyche. Symbiote, as the beast preferred to be called, was the sole reason for this.

The demon had bound himself to Baxter for nearly six months, and in those six months the pen write had to his recollection: Soiled himself four times, got into six or more fights, met a mysterious mercenary named Mask, fought other demons, had intercourse with a succubus (though he adamantly claimed he was raped.), and now was on the hunt for the wizard who turned Symbiote into the creature he was today. Oh, and his job? The Salvarian Herald was uncaring of how, but the pen write’s articles he sent back were the talk of the town in Knife’s Edge, and just the bit of adventuring spirit to help during the reconstruction after the destruction of the fortress city during the Corpse Wars. So as long as Baxter kept up this life he was paid handsomely in gift care packages and told to keep them coming.

“There is a good thing coming out of all this at least,” the demon spoke, his tone vibrating each nerve within the human. Like a gentle caress from a lover, that sparked all the darkest of intentions. Baxter looked to his chest, eyes cocking up in a challenging manner as he moved down the street, adjusting his coattail jacket so the shoulders did not sag. “As long as we stick together, Binky Boy, we’ll be fine. I keep looking for the bastard who stole my soul, and you get your money. This is now a healthy relationship. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

Baxter groaned thinking of the implied joke. It was a moment of drunken weakness, the night his dearest Jessica broke his heart by leaving him for another man the day he was going to propose to her. Symbiote spoke to him, words like honey, that he would help him find a soul mate who could fuse and become one with the writer’s soul. Not knowing a foolish deal when he heard one, and heartbroken, Baxter agreed and the demon possessed his soul. In his twisted way, the demon was fulfilling his contract.

“Just because I found a way to make the best of a terrible situation does not constitute that you and I are in a healthy relationship.” Baxter felt the sun beat upon his face, and he turned away from the glow, rubbing his fingers along them to try and get rid of the blinding feeling he had. When he opened them he continued to travel towards the main gate of Radansath. “So, what to write about now,” Baxter thought aloud as he chewed his bottom lip. He could feel Symbiote swirl lazily in circles around his heart.

“Been awhile since we fucked someone up in the Citadel,” Symbiote hinted. Baxter shook his head. One, as a writer, he could not return to the start of this inspiration so soon. It would be dry and boring! The second reason was a bit more practical in his desire to fulfill his personal goal: Breathe for twenty four hours without getting into a fight. A difficult prospect considering the demon had a knack for trouble.

“It would be nice to just follow someone else, and catalogue their journey,” Baxter confessed as he took out his pad of paper and looked to the notes he scribbled down. “I am still afraid to submit this work about Amaretta the Succubus.” Symbiote merely sniffed the air, sighing before he swam upwards. The feeling was like liquid freezing in the wake of an ice spell, and Baxter felt light headed from the experience as he continued on.

“Well, let’s make a deal. I show you the next story, you got to follow it through.” Baxter looked down to his chest continuing to walk forwards as he thought it over.

“No murderers, serial killers, or crime lords. Otherwise, deal.” Symbiote chuckled as he swam back down, and pushed against Baxter’s ribs. The pen write followed them up and looked to see the man from the inn helping a…blind…woman…thing? She looked and seemed terribly scraggily in her current condition. Still, he looked to the man, his guns, and decided maybe the citadel wasn’t sounding so bad. A soft cough, loudly, from Symbiote put Baxter on the spot as the pen write looked to the pair with guilty eyes before he mumbled weakly,

“Hello, I am…uh…” Baxter looked to his feet, sighed loudly and lifted his head more sincerely. “Name’s Baxter Arlington, Salvairan Herald journalist. I was wondering if you two happened to have enough time for me to tag along and perhaps write your tales.”

Baxter mentally slapped himself, for it was the cheesiest, and perhaps dumbest opening line he ever came up with, but then again there was a universal medium to make all things go more smoothly. With a pat to his coin purse, the bulge having barely enough room for the metal to jingle, he added. “I of course will pay for your time.”

[Austere]

Amongst the bustle of Radasnath, Vera found her nerves beginning to simmer down. The sea of bodies around her were moving around less violently and she began to join them. There was an odd order to the crowd, shoulders missed each other by a hair's breadth and all around her there were short, purposeful steps. She found that it was simple enough to navigate, that it was a compromise between two people when avoiding others in the crowd; give and take. For ten minutes now she had been weaving in between the forms around her and observing the mess around her.

She began with herself, looking worn and beaten-down. Until now she had not realized what the climb and hike to Radasnath had truly done to her. The tough cloth that constituted her pants and jacket were faded more than ever at the joints, where the most wear-and-tear occurred. The scum that had gathered on her garments generally made her feel the need to gag. Though there was no looking glass to observe herself in, Vera imagined that the rest of her body was just as filthy. The dark auburn hair that normally cascaded down her back felt ragged and greasy, she imagined it was sticking to the back of her deep wine-colored jacket, creating a sort of odd lightning pattern. The more Vera made her way into the city, the more comfortable she became with this appearance, however. Relative to the rest of the populace she had met thus far in Radasnath, she was the odd duck out. The filth that was the slums of Radasnath made her grimy garments look like a gift from the heavens. Things were so pleasant in my little valley... reading does very little for living out here in the world, it seems... Reminiscing about the temple where she grew up had become more frequent, the occurrences were not far and few between by any means.

Around her was the hustle and bustle of what she gathered to be a piss-poor populace that scraped their way by. Here and there, a snob would sport clean clothing, walking away from the crowd so as to not change that fact. The merchants had come out early in the morning to maximize their profits. Men, women, and even young children stood in line to buy any number of goods. There were stalls set up all around her, as well as some more permanent structures, which she assumed were areas to sleep or gather and drink. They're called pubs, as I recall. The wares on sale ranged from colorful, exotic-looking fruits to the mute brown and rock hard bread she had picked up in a small village along the way to the capital. It was captivating and disgusting all at once. The places that she had read about in the books seemed to not exist. She had expected the shining epitome of civilization - stone walkways, well-dressed nobles, buildings so gargantuan that they made her temple pale in comparison. Perhaps it was naive, but the books were all Vera had known since her master had brought her to the Jagged Mountains to train. Her last memory of civilization was a foggy one. The few years that she had been amongst people were hard to remember. It was due to a blow from the head, her master had told her, simple memory loss. But glancing back and forth, it seemed she had been dealt a better hand because of it.

Radasnath is mostly a trading town, that's right. This can't be all there is to it, Vera. That knowledge had been gathered in a dusty tome kept within the temple, no doubt. Though hopeful, the slums of Radasnath were not creating a kind first impression of the city.

The martial artist shifted her attention to the more permanent structures. She could vaguely make out by the worn sign what each one was - a bed, a mug, a sword. An inn, a pub and a smithy, I suppose. Her thoughts were rudely interrupted as a splash of water grazed the ends of her toes. A large, burly figure was partially submerged in a trough. Vera stopped and observed the scene inquisitively. The man's pants were worn even more than her own. A soiled undershirt, once white but now brown, were clinging madly to his chest. His build dragged her thoughts back to Raz, her fellow student. He had trained hard to build his muscles into the bulging machine they had become and this man was similar. He had the look of hard training, the look of a fighter.

As the man positioned himself upright, his eyes caught Vera's own. He struggled to approach her, asking if she had seen anything. "...no." she whispered quietly. At that distance the man could not have possibly discerned her words.

“Erm, my apologies. Didn’t know you were...you know... blind, you, er, need any help, miss?" As his hand rose, Vera's pulse began to rise. This man can fight, I can see it in the way his muscles move. The dirty hand in front of her waved for a fraction of a second before she had decided.

Vera's perception was heightened due to her pulse and she could vaguely make out someone behind her talking.

"...Baxter Arlington..." Vera ignored the voice behind her. Quickly, her lean forearm rose up under the fighter's waving own and parried it away, creating an opening for further movement. She held onto his arm for the moment.

"...you two happened to..." What is going on behind me? Despite the distraction of the refined voice behind her, Vera's footwork was incredible. Though not supplemented by inner-energy, within a second she was to the Herculean man's side, aiming a quick strike for his neck.

"...write your tales..." A milky fist flashed out with no regard for anything but its sole destructive purpose.

“I, of course, will pay for your time.”

And missed its mark.

It was in the following moment that Vera realized what had happened. Hell, my eyes must have been injured from the fire drake. This man really does think that I'm blind. Her grip loosened on the man's arm, letting it drop to his side. His head had jerked ever-so-slightly forward while she was distracted. It seemed that even in the seemingly drunken stupor this man was in, he could still function.

Vera took a step back and spoke softly, "I... I apologize. I thought you were going to hit me, I'm not blind. I saw your hand rise toward my face." How could I be so stupid, this is not going to end well... She drew into a deep bow and looked at the new arrival as she rose. He looked considerably less threatening than the man whom she had just encountered. She had very little experience with social interaction with the outside world, yet she took the lead in this dance, "My name is Vera Kyun, disciple of the Raikou Tora. Lightning fist." It was the traditional introduction given before a fight, and the only one she knew.

She had to trust it would be right.

[The Cinderella Man]

It was boxer’s instincts that saved him from another headache, instincts and perhaps a bit of luck. When the obviously not blind woman came at him, his half-dazed mind was dealing with the ridiculous proposition from the scribe, temporarily unable acknowledge the threat until she had his wrist trapped and an open shot to his face. But while his mind was sluggish, his muscles reacted, remembering years spent on the canvas eating lightning and crapping thunder. Because once you broke a fighter to the essential components and built him anew from the ground up, the lessons remained for the rest of time, written in the meat and bone like invisible runes. Dormant and seemingly forgotten, they activated themselves when a familiar pattern came up. So when she swung for the side of his neck, Victor’s body jerked back just enough to evade the attack. It was a close call, though; he was no longer in his primes and his reflexes hadn’t been lighting fast even when he had been in his primes.

For a moment anger flashed on his face, a cold and bitter thing that rose up to surface far too easily these days. But before it had a chance to take over, the girl was backing away, offering an apology and an explanation. And it made sense, of course, the way things always did in hindsight. It made sense that when a drunken-looking old, tall and ugly came shambling towards you with one hand in your face and another holding a gun, the safe bet was that he wasn’t coming to ask the time. Victor couldn’t blame her for trying to judo chop him in the face.

“Hey, no harm, no foul. Besides, I reckon it’s my fault as much as yours,” the ex-prizefighter offered in return, taking a cautious step away, lifting both hands at this side. “I probably shouldn’t go about making assumptions like that. What was it that my mother always said about assuming?” He scratched the back of his head absently, as if in an attempt to extract the memory, but as usual it refused to come. All he got for his effort was rejuvenated pain at the base of his scalp.

“Ah, never mind,” he gave up with a grin aimed to calm the situation further. “It probably doesn’t help that I’m waving this thing around.” He gave the Aicha handgun a displaying shake, then returned the pitch-black weapon to the holster beneath his left armpit. The leather straps went up his shoulders and crisscrossed on his broad back, but the holster on his right flank was empty. The shotgun was too clunky to carry for longer periods of time and it tended to fall out of the sheath every time he leaned forward, so he left it behind more often than not these days. It wasn’t like he needed it overmuch these days, chasing Walter’s shadows though the gutters of Radasanth.

“My name is...”

“VICTOR CALLAHAN!!” The call came from behind both the woman and the odd journalist. The constant stream of bodies was blocked by the six figures that stood their ground some fifty yards from the unlikely trio. A few busybodies shouldered their way past, but most saw wisdom in either waiting or turning away from the scene. Of the six, five stood there with the sort of lazy calm Victor often saw on gangmembers and raiders who just caught their prey, some patting their clubs, some with thumbs in their belts, some crackling their knuckles, and all trying to look more formidable than they really were. The sixth one was a blonde youngster who was breathing heavily, palms on his knees. Victor had little doubt that he just spied with his little eye the source of that throbbing ache at the back of his head.

“Who’s asking?” Victor responded after a couple of seconds of stillness filled with shuffling feet and faraway shouts.

“You know who’s asking,” one of the six said, a soft-looking man with a beer gut, dressed all in worn leather. He stood several steps closer than the rest, which probably made him the head honcho. “Our mutual friend is getting increasingly annoyed with you.”

“Good,” Victor said with a mocking smirk. He took a couple of steps towards the group, passing both Vera and Baxter to face the six. “Must mean I’m doing something right.”

“You’re a distraction, Callahan, a fun pastime for Walter. You should quit before that changes.”

“Don’t think I will,” the bulky boxer said, taking another step forward. The anger crept into his facial features like something vile and ancient, a beast waiting to be unleashed. These were Walter’s men and he had only one currency to exchange with Walter’s men: lead.

“He figured you’d say that. That’s why we have instructions to beat the gods out of you... and whoever else is with you.” The flabby man had a wicked smile of a weasel, a smile of a murderer. Victor’s head snapped to Vera and Baxter. He didn’t owe these two anything, he didn’t owe it to them to protect them from the windfall of the situation, wasn’t supposed to care about the fact that they had the rotten luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And yet he did. Because as much of a bastard as he was – and he was, he no longer denied that little fact – Victor Callahan was still better that the likes of Walter Jimes. Or at least he kept telling himself that.

“They have nothing to do with this,” he said.

“I don’t care,” the fat man shrugged his shoulders absently. “What you’ve got there, anyways? A buddy and another hooker? Whoa, she’s an ugly one. Look at that face, boys,” he nodded at his goons, and the goons chuckled obediently, good dogs that they were. “I wonder, do you use a pillow or like a paper bag?”

Victor Callahan looked towards Vera and didn’t think her ugly. He had seen ugly. Spend enough time in the back alleys and unlicensed rings of Radasanth and you had ugly shoved into your face every step of the way. Ugly was a guy with evil eyes and a piece of glass in his glove, willing to kill you for the lousy bout purse. Ugly was a young floozie spreading disease with the gash between her legs just because she thinks it funny. Ugly was a bunch of meatheads with short clubs and shorter tempers, breaking fingers for a fistful of coins. Ugly was a fat man with beady eyes, working for a bastard like Walter and walking around with an attitude and five more morons just like him. Vera wasn’t ugly. She was marred, touched by the unfortunate hand of fate, perfectly human in her imperfection. The scar was just something you needed to get used to.

“Now, that,” Victor said, whipping his pistol out in one smooth motion. “is no way to talk to a lady.”

“And that,” the leader of the pack said, pointing a chubby finger at the pistol. “is not a nice thing to bring to a brawl.” And even as he said it, his fingers snapped with barely a sound. Now, Victor had large hands, strong hands, battler’s hands, but even they weren’t enough to hold on to the gun. The invisible force knocked it out of his grasp, sending it splashing in the water through. Victor’s eyes went to his empty hand, jumped to where the pistol had landed, then up to the fat little bald man that just disarmed him. Just in time to see the man raise his hand again, this time with his thumb and middle finger joined. He made a motion as if to chase away a gnat with a flick of his middle finger and instantly Victor was send flying through the air, riding an invisible gust of air all the way to the stacks of half-empty wooden crates.

“Now, boys, let’s have some fun.”

[Symbiosis]

“Really, I think I’m going to stop listening to you, Symbiote,” Baxter muttered as he patiently turned his head and pretended to shrink into the background. He moved with a steady gait, as if he managed to happen upon this and wanted no business with the outcome. Yet he didn’t get very far when two men approached him, grabbing him by his coattails and pulling him back into the group. They took the fold and dragged it over his head so he was blind, and then proceeded to punch him repeatedly in the gut.

Danger, Danger, we’re going down! Symbiote hissed as the pen write collapsed in a head into the ground where boots began to pummel him. He felt his ribs ache as they continued to wail upon him, guttural cries of laughter and the insufferable chuckles of an inbred imbecile cackled in his ears as he covered his face and whimpered loudly. Thayne’s sake you moron, thrash about, fight back! Symbiote swirled in circles around Baxter’s heart, speeding up his adrenaline. Baxter tried to say something but felt a boot impact his face, his nose leaking like a faucet as he rolled to his back. A foolish move as now his assailants stomped his arms and stomach knocking the wind out of his sails.

You need me, and you know it, the demon whispered to Baxter, moving up to his brain where the icy numb feeling of the demon’s essence cleared his mind. Let’s make a deal, Binky Boy. Let me cut loose, and when the fight is over I’ll give you control again.

Loathe to take another deal with the demon, and more aware that it was an open ended deal with no real clear definition of the end, Baxter felt little choice left to him. He took all the last bits of his will power, reaching deep within himself so he could shout the words for the demon to hear. “Deal!” The two who assaulted the Salvarian paused at his awkward comment, before suddenly they back pedaled hearing a demonic voice start to laugh with nihilistic glee. The sound of bones breaking, muscles tearing filled the morning air as the pen write rolled around. His shoulders grew in size, resembling small cannons as his chest expanded for larger, fuller set of lungs. His jaw cracked and broke into the maw of a terrible beast, teeth elongating into fangs that dripped with deadly desire while a snake like tongue slithered out of the mouth of Baxter Arlington. His eyes rolled into the back of his head looking a milky white similar in appearance to the female fighter. When the last of the transformation was done the two enemies looked to each other, then back to the demonized Baxter.

“My turn,” the demon hissed as he lifted his hand grabbing one man by the cuff of his shirt. He tossed him over his body, his inhuman strength easily causing harm in the descent as he slammed the ground. Slowly the demon stood, a clear coat of slime oozing out the pores of the pen write’s mutated skin. What clothing he wore was tattered remnants of the Salvarian. The other man who stood before him gave out a whimper of fear, turning to run. Symbiote, now in control of Baxter’s body, lifted a hand and grabbed the foe by his jacket, tugging him back to the ground where he collided with is partner.

He let out a roar of animalistic fury, his mouth opening like a snake’s as the saliva dripped from tooth to tooth, his tongue licking his lips as the demon breathed heavily, narrowing his soulless eyes on his prey. One taloned hand reached down in a closed fist, hitting the taller of the two in the jaw and knocking him down as he slowly stood. The other grabbed the smaller by the head, tossing him down into the ground with a sick and satisfying crunch as the dirt churned upwards in a splash from the impact. Symbiote turned to the portly man and let out a whine of mirth.

“Here piggy piggy,” the demon taunted stepping forwards. To the larger man’s credit, he didn’t seemed remotely phased that a giant demonized human was stalking towards him licking his chops like a butcher in a slaughter house. Instead he lifted his hands gripped them shut as if grabbing something. Baxter attempted to speak to the demon, but usually when Symbiote took over he rarely, if ever, listened to the pen write’s warnings. The fact the pudgy bastard showed no fear was a warning siren to the blood lusting demon. The fact that he clearly demonstrated he had powers beyond comprehension didn’t register to the demon. All it wanted was the thrill of a good time.

“Demonic possession?” he muttered as an insult. “Far too common these days.” With his fat little fingers he lifted his hand and then with a smile he spoke calmly, “Quit hitting yourself.” He punched his closed hand forwards, and Symbiote felt his own fist cross his jaw in a powerful haymaker. The demon reared back in pain, roaring back with rage as he began to move towards him in a faster gait. “Quit hitting yourself.” An uppercut knocked the demon senseless as he stumbled and dropped to a knee. “Quit hitting yourself.” Another cross to his face sent the demon sprawling to the ground where he used his none possessed hand to steady himself from total collapse.

“You’re hitting me with your cheap ass tricks!” the demon roared as he turned to face the strange magician. With a dark, amused chuckle he merely shook his head.

“I beg to differ,” he narrowed his gaze to a serious look of painful intent accompanied with a hint of a smarmy grin. “You asked for this,” In a similar manner in which he dispatched the prizefighter his fingers lifted, and in one motion the demon felt his body lift and soar before tumbling down into the trough exploding in a shower of murky water and splinters and wood. Woozily the demon rolled to his feet, standing with a grunt of pain. He turned to the prizefighter and the girl.

“Loathe to admit this,” the demon hissed, clearly annoyed he even had to say such things. “But I’m suddenly finding myself open to suggestions.”