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A winter wind blew in from the northern ocean. A woman sat high above a jumbled mess of a city, atop a spire of dirty, gray crystal. She dangled her remaining foot off the side of the railing, glad to have freed her leg from the clamp of her prosthetic.
“Beautiful night, huh, Wolf?” She muttered. Below her, red and gray stretches of streets twinkled with fluorescent lights. The moon struggled to peer through the cloud cover.
A cylinder of a theater shone ribbons of spotlight into the air. Personal servants and mercenaries lined the outside, readying themselves to greet their patrons. The woman did the same.
Her padded foot moved silently, pushing her back to her stomach. The grit of salt on the porch rubbed against her stubby fur, and her fingers worked away at her prosthetic, molding its secret compartments and hidden gears until it had transformed entirely into something else- a round scope and long barrel, two prongs propping it up to her eye, and a hair trigger. A large, leporine ear drooped over the top of the scope, shielding any hints of moonlight. Her breath came slowly.
The theater let out its drunk flock- lords and ladies of ill-earned reputation. Pearls danced across the necks of blushing wives, gold adorned the wrists of old men, and sycophants followed the coattails of their betters. They were met with the neat swarm of servants and soldiers, guiding them to motorbikes or small cars. It wasn’t long until the woman’s quarry came into view- a dark-haired woman with the presence of a crocodile, all teeth and scaled coats. The man posing as her husband was too old for her, and her two teen kids too different to be hers. Under the scales, the sniper knew that woman was scarcely human- her hidden arms had claws like daggers, and her magic could mold frosty chains from thin air. The scale-covered woman was responsible for the arrests and murders of the sniper’s friends.
The woman atop the tower held her breath. Her fingers loaded a rifled round thick enough to kill a mage who was aware of her presence. She squeezed the trigger.
The shot was clean. The timing was perfect. It shouldn’t have missed.
An old man fell onto his back, sputtering. Blood covered his punctured coat. He had done some wrong, surely, but not enough to die like he did.
The woman on the tower pulled back from view as panic erupted. The rifle was busted- as expected for such a compact design. She sat back and blinked twice.
“Shit.”
Two Years Ago…
The sea monsters had come out in force last night, and Monochrome only just found his way back to his bed when the sun rose. Even with the gray curtains drawn, a sneaky ray of light hit his face exactly as he laid down. The woman slamming her fist on the door didn’t help, either.
He opened the door to a very short and very upset woman glowering up at him. Peyton was nearly as round as she was tall, but her broad shoulders and scarred face betrayed a lifetime of burying people who mentioned it. Monochrome, on the other hand, leaned his stick-thin body against the doorframe. His gray hand held a cigarette, his fingers bleaching the filter from a light orange to an unsaturated brown. “Can I help you?”
“I get that you're busy, Bryce,” Peyton’s Nahuatl accent softened her angry consonants, “but I need you to come check the vault. It’s been weeks!”
“Aren’t I the shot-caller around here?” Monochrome rolled his eyes- knowing full well Peyton could never see it. His Root had long-since bleached away his irises. He could hide his mutation if he focused, but it was more effort than it was worth.
“You’re a lazy, preening Ace, like the rest of them. I call the shots, Bryce.”
“It’s Monochrome.”
“Yeah, yeah. Fuckin’ Rooted.” She grumbled under her breath, spinning on her heels. “Stick your dick in a chunk of tech and you think you're better than the rest of us.” She stomped off towards the vault. She expected him to follow.
A drag of his cigarette, and he was with her in a half dozen strides. “So, what’s the problem? We don’t have a new artifact, do we?” Last night had been a fairly regular eradication mission. The monsters that crawled out of the sea at high tide didn’t exactly carry alien technology.
“Greenwing hasn’t reported back.” Peyton explained. They both stepped into the rickety elevator. “They should have put their report in by now.”
“They’re probably just sleeping.” As Monochrome wished he was.
“Greenwing is Sanaki. They can’t sleep.” She explained.
“Forgive me for not knowing about every alien around. We’re a bit busy down here with the shit that comes out of the ocean- as you should know. Don’t have time to look up.” Nahuatl had a far larger alien population than Australia- Monochrome hadn’t even known the name of Greenwing’s species until now. The elevator stopped.
Peyton and Monochrome both stiffened as the cage-like door opened into the underbelly of the Vigil Hall. The steam releasing from old pipes and the coppery scent of sea-worn tiles was expected in the poorly lit hallway. They hadn’t expected the smell of rotting meat.
Peyton’s hands glowed, as she prepared the pugilist’s charms inscribed onto her rings. The cigarette smoke Monochrome exhaled formed into a sharp form of a bird on his shoulder, its feathers like black ice and its long beak lethal. Monochrome hit the emergency button on his watch- backup would be here soon.
As if in response to their powers, a guitar’s half-tuned strings creaked down the hallway, warbling around turns. A music player crackled to life as the two Vigilants stepped down the hall- a young boy’s voice poorly singing a country song.
Down a lonely road
Down a bottle o’ dim
Ya Gotta-a go-
Ya Gotta-a swim
From a boat, from th’ cornfield shore
‘Cause there ain’t no coast, no more!
The two turned a corner. Oil and purple blood mixed with the condensation on the tiles beneath them. The air felt thicker than normal- dust particles hung heavily of the caged fluorescents. They passed evidence of conflict- dented walls, with Greenwing’s needle-like feathers protruding from them. The lights flickered. The bird-like body of Greenwing slumped against the circular door of the vault. Someone sat next to them, strumming a guitar.
“Don’t move!” Monochrome shouted. “This is a dead end. Come peacefully, and I can assure you will not be harmed further.”
The figure strummed the guitar. The boombox by its feet continued to sing.
Ol’ Mama’s gone
Down a bottle o’ dim
Since the city
fell off o’ the dam
From a storm, from the Nest at war,
‘Cause there ain’t no city, no more!
The figure stood. The guitar’s strings struck a wild twang as Monochrome’s smoke-bird smashed through it. The silhouette holding it leapt back, rolling onto the side of the wall and standing sideways. An inertial mage? Monochrome wondered, straining as his smoke-weapon darted up towards it. It struck cleanly into their side- and then through to the other. No blood- only a plume of white fog. The thing deflated like a punctured balloon. A puppet. Monochrome realized.
The doors to the storage rooms slammed open behind them. Bodies lurched out- half-formed and covered in a white cloth- no, lichen? Peyton met them, the glow around her fists transferring enough energy into her punch to pulverize the closest of the puppets. The cloud of mist covered her- and clung. She couldn’t breathe.
I see Papa’s smile
Down a bottle o’ dim
When I think o’
When I farmed with him
Before th’ storm, before the cornfield shore
Before the Gil, they made it no more.
Monochrome could control smog, but these clouds were different. Something living. Spores? He didn’t have much time to think, as Peyton turned jerkily and swung into his chest with a charm-empowered fist. The lichen had grown over her arms.
The Vigilant went flying back at least five meters before hitting the ground. Stars flashed in front of his eyes. He rolled back, narrowly avoiding another punch that dented the ground where his head was. He pressed against the vault, where Greenwing’s body lay crumpled beside him.
Ahead, the lights illuminated the other puppets- no, not puppets. Vigilants. His friends. His allies. His backup. Covered in shelf mushrooms, white lichen, and these strange, coral-like growths that glimmered in the fluorescent light. Monochrome extended a hand, smoke flowing into a barrage of needle-like birds. The bodies crumbled and exploded, one by one, adding to the creeping mist of spores that clung to his gray body.
He wouldn’t survive this. But he would make sure to cripple the bodies of his allies. His Vigil would not be puppets any longer.
The child’s voice stopped singing through the boombox, turning to speak to someone away from the microphone.
What do you think, dad?
Wonderful! Wonderful! The smile seeped through a deep, masculine voice. You’ll be a star. I know it. Everyone will know it.
The spores overtook him.
Part 1: The Rabbit’s Controller
Modern day, on the other side of the world…
A pangolin the size of a small horse poured himself a drink, then slid one across the bar to the one-legged woman. “We all make mistakes, Four. Happens to the best of us.” His voice was shockingly low for his small head, and he stood further upright than others of his kind.
“I fucked up, Beech. Wolf’ll…” A shot slid down her throat as her thought drowned in a malaise of anxiety. “You’ve gotta get me out of this city.”
The pangolin-man shook his head dejectedly. “Vessels aren’t setting off or coming into port right now, on account of the ambassador you retired.” Beech’s long tongue lapped at the beer between breaths. “Look, I’ll put in a word for you. One failed job-”
“-One catastrophically failed job.”
“Even a catastrophically failed job isn’t going to tarnish your damn record. Arbiter Wolf isn’t an idiot. He’ll see your value.”
The woman sighed. She looked across the apartment, where scuffed, wooden panels met a tall, but dirty window, looking out onto the vast ocean that surrounded Alloton island. Her reflection glowered in her direction- a hare’s head with front-facing eyes, a digitigrade leg dangling beside its amputated stump of a pair, and a patchy coat of brown and black fur over sunburnt skin. It grimaced at her. The expression was not quite human and not quite hare. Her blue dress crumpled beneath her balled fist.
A boot kicked the metal door to Beech’s apartment. Two knocks, then a sharp ting on the glass light beside it. A friend.
Beech sidled up to the door, swinging it open to reveal another animal-person- a worried woman with the head and wings of a green bird, wearing a pencil skirt, black leggings, and a navy jacket. She pushed past the pangolin-man. “Four! Four, what happened? We’ve been worried sick.”
Four turned to her friend- Nekera. The sweetest poisoner she knew. “Hey, budgie.” She turned back to pouring another drink.
“Why haven’t you reported in? I abandoned a job for this!”
Four felt a pang of guilt. She slid the drink over to Nekera. “Sorry. Just working up the courage to speak to him.”
Beech rolled his eyes. “I was just telling her she has nothing to fear.” He was already sat down on his plush bean bag chair, typing away at his computer. No doubt giving the Wolf updates.
Nekera’s black eyes softened with understanding. The techie wasn’t as deep in the cutthroat world that she shared with Four, but failure was unacceptable. She sat down next to her friend, draping one of the wings that replaced her arms around her shoulder. It was a familiar position.
They sat for a bit, listening to the tapping of Beech on his keyboard. Four pressed her head into Nekera’s shoulder. “Would you run away with me?” The words were glass- unseen and innocuous until they fell out of her mouth and shattered.
The bird-woman rested her head atop Four’s. “Oh, bun.” Her breath was halfway between a sigh and coo. “I’ll be just outside the door when you face him.”
It was as good an answer as she could give. Nekera, more so than other members of the Wolf’s mutant pack, owed him her life. The False Root Wolf induced in her, which turned her into this bird-hybrid, saved her from an agonizingly slow death by heart cancer. She could never turn against him.
It took a good few more drinks before Nekera convinced Four to follow her out, to her motorcycle, and down to the Unwise. To the Arbiter Wolf’s club.