You Can't Script This

In the hot confines of the freezer, Kreshnik begins to panic. Smoke is starting to leak in and the temperature is rising. A second explosion can be heard outside, and shrapnel peppers the door. A moment later a third explosion shakes the door. Knowing that there should be no more compressed air tanks, Kreshnik tries to open the door to make a run for outside, but the extreme heat forces him back in.

As the moment tick away and the group begin to resign themselves to their deaths they hear other shouting. What they first assume to be more victims of the fire they quickly realize is in fact a volunteer fire department. They feel the heat of the door recede, and burst out, choking on the smoke and chemical fumes. The fire brigade is shocked at the survivors, but after questioning their involvement in the fire (and realizing that they likely won’t get any useful answers), they leave to ensure that the fire hasn’t spread too far to the whore house and drug lab that are next door.

Taking a step forward to head outside, Jonas stumbles and collapses in a heap. Rolling him over, the group is shocked by his pale pallor and high fever. Scanning around for anything to help with, Firene rips open a small cabinet that has survived the fire relatively unscarred. Inside is a plastic packing box full of medical supplies – syringes, sutures, painkillers, stimulant patches and other things. Most of the contents are higher tech but some of it is of the lower-tech that the group is more familiar with. Unfortunately, nothing seems suitable for dealing with Jonas until they can figure out more of what’s wrong with him. They pull him outside into the (relatively) fresher air and contemplate what to do.

In the end, Kreshnik has Viktor talk to the people in the building to see if they know anything about the late Doctor Leon Drake, and then inform Myles’ employer of his fate. Unfortunately, Drake kept to himself and the other tenants of the building didn’t pry too deeply into his doings. After delivering the news to Myles’ employer and asking to be informed if anybody else goes missing Viktor heads back home to Longpond to make some inquiries with some of his friends as to the history of a certain Fulgurator by the name of Josiah Hall. With nothing else to do, he heads home (a small skin in the mass of boats that makes up Long Pond) and goes to bed.

Firene and Josiah take Jonas back to Kreshnik’s shack/church to care for him – which is to say that Firene mops his brow and tries to keep his fever down. Josiah takes more stimulants (he’s been awake for over 30 hours now) and positions himself, gun drawn, so that he’s got a clear shot at anybody entering from the front door.

Kreshnik takes it upon himself to inform Brooke of her husband’s demise. He does so in a cold manner, offering little comfort to the distraught woman. When she asks for him to kill the people responsible he agrees, and then leaves her to inform her children.

Kreshnik then heads to Long Pond himself to speak to some old acquaintances in the 3^rd Syndicate. It takes some time, but an old friend by the name of Lorentz is quite sure he can find a buyer for Kreshnik’s misappropriated medical supplies.

Rather than heading back home at the late hour, Kreshnik finds a relatively secluded corner in an alley and sleeps.

Back at Kreshnik’s place, Josiah is running purely on stimulants. His body is awake but his mind is fogged over by the chemicals in his system. The door opens up and a man walks in. Josiah levels the gun at him and tells him to freeze. The man stops, and demands to know who Josiah is. In the ensuing argument, neither giving their identities, Josiah tries to shoot the floor, close to the intruder’s foot, to scare him. The drugs affecting his aim, he misses and hits the man’s foot. Moments later, the epitome of excellent timing, Kreshnik walks in to see Josiah holding a gun at his friend Lorentz, who is now bleeding quite profusely.

The situation deteriorates quickly, with Kreshnik shooting Josiah as a punishment for his transgression. Much of the stolen medical supplies goes to immediate use staunching the flow of blood from Josiah’s leg and Lorentz’s foot. With Josiah taken care of thanks to a near overdose of painkillers, Lorentz and Kreshnik sit down and discuss business. Kreshnik has found a buyer. Willy “The Fish” tends to move much larger amounts of contraband medical supplies than what Kreshnik has, but he’s willing to meet with the Priest and his companions at the Underground market. Lorentz leaves just as Viktor arrives and Kreshnik, Firene, and Viktor leave for the Underground Market, leaving the comatose Jonas guarded by the now nearly delirious Josiah.

Viktor is unsurprisingly okay with this.

In the Market, the group has some difficulty making contact with The Fish’s associate, Selma, but is eventually taken to meet the notorious man himself. Being one of the largest dealer in medical supplies in the city (and possibly the largest independent dealer), Willy enjoys reveling in his opulence, and his “office” in the Market shows that. Even Firene, used to as she is to a life of privilege, is taken aback for a moment by the decoration of his office – even if his ex-military guards tend to detract from the ambiance.

Over the next while small talk and verbal fencing gradually leads to the topic of the medical supplies. There has been a noticeable increase in the sale of such supplies over the last several months, hence Willy’s willingness to (re)purchase such a small amount. When questioned about the source of the market upswing, Willy admits that he doesn’t actually know the cause, though he can put Kreshnik in touch with somebody who might – for a price.

The price is twofold. First, when Kreshnik finds out why medical supplies are on an upswing, he will inform Willy. Second, Kreshnik and his group needs to perform a small service for The Fish. A woman, Nelle, has decided to go into business for herself, directly competing against The Fish. Suffice it to say, she’s been more than an annoyance, and Willy wants her taught a lesson. Nothing permanent, she’s having a shipment of medical supplies due to be sent to the Folly Hills Hospital intercepted by some of her men. Willy wants the supplies.

It takes very little discussion. They agree.

Strange Bedfellows

Desperate for help, Brooke approaches Father Kreshnik Ymeri, a preacher of the Mortal God Church. Father Ymeri has a reputation of being a hard, unforgiving man belonging to the Unfair Universe faction of the church, but she has no one else to turn to. Sobbing, she explains her situation to the Father, who sits back and takes her story in without emotion. The wheels in his mind start spinning – in the last several months a lot more people than usual have gone missing in Bankside. Some of their bodies have been found in the canals twisted and deformed.

Kreshnik quietly agrees to help determine the fate of Brook’s husband and sends her on her way. Suspecting that this will not be simple, he decides to call in some backup. He asks Viktor Kobb – a zealous follower of his teachings – to join him, as well as a Fulgurator by the name of Josiah Hall who has been listening to his sermons for some time. Josiah has agreed to come out of some strange search for redemption. Realizing that they might need more muscle, Viktor heads home to Long Pond to enlist the aid of a rather mercenary acquaintance of his – Jonas Rohm. Jonas has recently taken up a job as a bodyguard to one Firene Omberwell, but her money is fast running out. He agrees to join up if he’s paid well (Josiah offers Jonas his share) and because she has little chance on her own, Firene follows along.

The motley gang heads to the western side of Bankside, to the Fat Fish Breeding Pond where Myles worked and was last seen. The Banksiders are naturally distrustful of outsiders, and the Foreman makes that abundantly clear when Josiah questions her about Myles. She doesn’t respond any better to Viktor, but upon noticing Kreshnik she calms down visibly and tells him that Myles hasn’t been around for a week and if they do find him they can tell him he’s fired. She points over in the corner at a skinny man dumping food into one of the ponds, explaining that Rolf was the last one to see him.

Already on edge, Jonas is over in a flash and has Rolf by the collar with a knife at his throat, interrogating the now terrified man. Kreshnik and Viktor have to talk very quickly to settle him down, as the other workers are only a step away from inflicting mob justice upon the ghostfighter.

In fear of his life, Rolf tells the crew that the last time he saw Myles was a week earlier. They had left work and stopped by a local watering hole – The Mudlark’s Fish – for a few drinks. Rolf explains that he stumbled home some time later, and that he doesn’t recall what happened to Myles. Kreshnik believes him.

Disturbed by Jonas’ instability, Viktor sends him on ahead to the ‘Fish to search for witnesses, in hopes that Jonas will pick a fight with the wrong person or people. Jonas goes off with Firene in tow, but manages to keep a (relatively) civil tongue in his mouth at the bar - even when a drunken patron tries to buy sex from Firene.

Soon enough Kreshnik arrives with the rest of his hires. In short order, they are able to learn that Rolf and Myles showed up after work and started drinking. A couple of others (not regulars, but still locals) started drinking with them. Some time after that Myles left with the two strangers and Rolf left some time after that.

Confronted by this information, Kreshnik goes outside to ask some of the more sober locals if they recall anything. In short order he notices another sound slowly drowning out the dull roar of The City – an inhuman roaring, like some bestial tyrant in torment. Concerned, he retrieves his hired muscle from the bar. The roar gets closer, and they can see a visible line of destruction as whatever it is destroys shanties in a narrow swath of devastation. People can be seen fleeing from it, although Kreshnik and his group are still not sure what it is.

With a crash, the thing breaks through a small flimsy shack, not even noticing its collapse. It’s humanoid, but barely seems human. Naked and standing hunched over, it’s body completely covered with thickly matted hair, it’s mad eyes are sunken deep into its skull and barely seem conscious of it’s surroundings. One brave – or foolhardy – soul throws himself at the tyrant. It snarls and grabs the man by his throat with one hand. Grossly disproportional muscles bulge and the tyrant rips the man’s arm clean off.

Shock prevents the group from acting for only a moment. In one motion Jonas draws his knife and throws himself at the beast, Viktor only a fraction of a second behind. It makes no effort to avoid their attack, but their slashes barely cut the thick hide of the tyrant, however, and it responds by clubbing Jonas about the head. Worried about hitting their comrades, Kreshnik and Josiah level their pistols at the tyrant and take careful aim. Firene looks around for a weapon.

With a roar, the thing grabs Jonas by the arms and starts slowly tearing him in two. Loud pops signal his arms being dislocated and he does even stop when Viktor slices deeply into the creature’s arm. Hearing Kreshnik’s cries for help, another man comes out from behind cover and charges the beast, but in its rage it fails to even notice him.

Desperate, Firene grabs a chunk of stone and hurls it with all her might at the tyrant. The stone strikes it in the temple, and it roars, throwing Jonas at Firene. The two go down in a heap. His target now a somewhat clearer shot, Josiah takes a breath and squeezes the trigger on his pistol. The bullet impacts the creature’s skull, rocking it back but not stopping it. It turns it’s attention to Josiah, dark ichor slowly dripping down its face. It takes one more step when Kreshnik fires. His bullet is barely an inch lower, penetrating the creature’s left eye. With a jerk, the tyrant collapses.

Carefully, Viktor moves in to ensure that the tyrant is dead. As he does he notices something on the creatures arm. With a sick feeling in his stomach he compares the body to Kreshnk’s lithograph. The mark on the arm is obscured by the creature’s hair but there can be no mistake. It matches the birthmark on Myles arm, clearly visible in the lithograph.

As Jonas struggles to re-locate his arms in their sockets the rest of the group decides on a plan of action. They cut the scrap of flesh off of Myles’ arm as proof of identity and dump the body into the canal. Then they head down the path of carnage that Myles left.

For a period, it seems that a blind man could follow the trail. Suddenly, however, it ends. They find a very frightened child hiding in some smashed crates. The kid’s disposition isn’t helped by Jonas’ questioning, and all that they can get out of the child is that three men dropped Myles off and left. Josaih gives the child money for train fare and tells the kid to find a friend of his (“Uri”) with the transit militia.

It takes a great deal of time to pick up the trail again, but with much back-tracking they manage to eventually trace it back to a large stone building on the edge of the Canal. All windows on the lower levels have been covered with sheet metal. Kreshnik knows the reputation of the building – it contains several different businesses, all of them at least somewhat suspect. One of the most infamous businesses in the building is that of “Doctor” Leon Drake, a former fish breeder and now back alley biosci-modifier of ill repute. The trail leads to his office.

Jimmying the lock to the Doctor’s office is no difficult task, and the door opens to a small, dingy waiting room. A copy of the Mire’s End Tribune, several years out of date, details how a recent skirmish between the company of Arclight and the Macrocorporation Hirplakar has escalated into a full scale “Hundred Block War”. There is a wide doorway in the wall with a filthy sheet hanging across it. A silhouette can be seen in the other room. Kreshnik orders the Doctor to come out but the silhouette simply motions for the group to come in.

The group heads in while Josiah guards the main door. Mere moments before pushing aside the curtain, Kreshnik notices a flash of movement and jumps back, barely avoiding a vicious knifing from a thug hiding around the corner. A second thug appears from the other side and they try to kill the investigators.

The fight is quick and brutal. In the end, the thugs lie bleeding and unconscious on the floor. Kreshnik storms into the operating room and grabs the Doctor and starts interrogating him, Jonas and Viktor close on his heels. The operating room, in stark contrast to the rest of the building, is in immaculate and possessing a remarkable amount of high-tech medical supplies. On the far wall are several lithographs of various people, with notes underneath each one. Myles in listed as “Subject #18”.

Josiah turns to close the door and is confronted by a large man, his face obscured by a cloth mask. Before he can do anything the figure kicks him in the abdomen, sending him back into the room. He follows it up by throwing two small devices, and slamming the door shut. A rough scraping can be heard on the other side. A moment later the two devices explode, and the “reception area” is bathed in flames.

As the flames make their way across the room, everyone reacts differently: Kreshnik demands to know of a back door from the Doctor, who only babbles and points to a large refrigeration unit in the back wall. Viktor dashes over to the lithographs and starts grabbing them and the notes to try to save some evidence. Josiah, seeing the compressed oxygen tanks near the front of the operating room demands that everybody help move them into the refrigeration unit to keep them from exploding. Viktor adamantly refuses, insisting that there won’t be room. Josiah draws his gun and points it at Viktor, demanding that he move them.

An inferno building around them, both men refuse to back down. Sweat builds on their brows from the heat and the stress as each waits for the other to move. The situation is temporarily resolved when Kreshnik wrenches open the refrigeration unit. It’s small, but has an air duct leading outside the building. If they are able to get the chemicals, blood packs, and shelves out they may be able to fit in it…

Working quickly, they toss everything out onto the floor. The flames lick the walls inside the operating room, and are getting dangerously close to the air tanks. Firene goes in first, followed by Jonas, and Viktor. Josiah needs to double over to get his 6’7” frame in but fits – barely. Kreshnik is barely able to squeeze himself in as the Doctor pleads for them to help him. Grimly, Kreshnik shoves the doctor away and closes the door.

In the darkness of the fridge, the seconds seem like hours. The minutes like days. Despite the fresh, cool, air being pumped in it is difficult to breath. The air gets warmer from both the bodyheat and the raging inferno. The Doctor pounds on the door, pleading and trying to get in, but Kreshnik holds the door shut with all his strength. They hear him starting to scream in pain as he catches fire, and a muffled explosion shakes the door. His screams and pounding become more frantic and then quickly slow and finally stop.

The door gets hotter, and smoke starts drifting in around the edges where the seal is failing…

Introducing Firene Omberwall

Fragments in the History of the Omberwell Family

A man paces and smokes a long, ornate silver pipe filled with nembelweed. He tries to ignore the gnawing in his gut with every agonized scream that filters through the tightly-closed door to the bedroom. Sometime after he smokes himself into a wall-eyed daze and collapses in a chair, the nurse comes bustling into the room, her skirts making a noise like paper falling off a desk.

"Ser?"

He turns to look at her lazily, watching the colours of his wife's much-loved plants smear across the hazy yellow light streaking the far wall.

"Ser, it's finished. You've a healthy wee girl now. Madam Beatrice is asking for ye."

She fidgets uncomfortably as his brain starts working with an almost audible grinding of gears. He sits up carefully and looks at her more closely.

"Did you say a girl?"

"Aye, ser. Madam Beatrice wishes to name her Firene, but she waits to hear your thoughts on the matter."

"Damnation."

He slumps back in the chair and starts filling the pipe again.

"Beg pardon ser?"

"Tell her she can name it whatever she likes."

* * * * * * *

A small child with curly silver-blonde hair kneels on top of a stack of heavy textbooks, which are in turn precariously balanced on top of a chair. Even with the added height, she can barely see over the edge of the workbench, but she still watches her father in rapt fascination as he carefully explains the composition of the alloy he's been developing for The Company. He says it like that too - both words capitalized, infused with meaning beyond the merely generic identification they should denote.

"Drake, do you not think she's a bit young to understand such things? Even I can scarcely comrehend your work at times, and you've been telling me about it since we were courting."

"Nonsense, Beatrice. Our Firene is going to be a fine metallurgist when she comes of age. See how she plays with the molecular models I bought for her?"

The woman smiles indulgently at her daughter. Firene has stood up on the chair and is putting together a complicated arrangement of metal rods and plastisteel balls in various colours.

"Be sure you don't give her real chemicals until she's not in danger of burning our house down."

* * * * * * *

This time, the man is more relaxed, although the sterile Arclight medical wing is considerably less comfortable than the Omberwell home. He still smokes nebelweed, but only puffs on the pipe idly - his concentration is largely focused on a technical document one of his subordinates has prepared for a conference at Longshore University. Firene is in another chair, her gaze directed with equal intensity at a maths problem in her schoolwork.

A junior doctor marches over and stands at attention.

"Yes?"

"Sir, I am happy to report that your wife has given birth to a viable and apprently healthy son."

"Really? Well... that's... that's wonderful news. Truly. May I see them now?"

"Of course, sir. If you'll just follow me..."

The clockwork doctor marches off again. Drake Omberwell turns to his daughter.

"You don't have to come in if you'd rather not."

If she notices the sudden distance in his voice, she doesn't show it. She nods absently and continues working, occasionally using a small hand-held dingin for particularly difficult calculations.

When he's gone, she looks down the corridor, a speculative expression drifting across her face.

Fragments in the History of the Omberwell Family II

The girl stomps into the library, flinging herself into a chair and scowling at her mother. Beatrice refuses to rise to her bait. She continues to prune the dead flowers from the massive climbing plant that clings to the window frame.

"And how are you liking your new tutor, my dear?"

"I don't know why you and father hired a tutor for me, mother. She refuses to talk about anything interesting - all she seems to want to teach me is useless frippery like music and art and other 'domestic arts', as she calls them. I don't think she has any knowledge whatsoever of mathematics or science."

Beatrice sighs and closes her eyes.

"Firene, sweet... she's not meant to teach you mathematics or science. To tell you true, you probably won't find anyone to teach you something you don't already know about those subjects until you're old enough to go to Longshore. Your father and I merely felt that there were certain... gaps in your education which we were ill-equipped to fill."

"But why must I learn these things at all?"

"By knowing a little about art and music, you mark yourself as a person of culture and refinement. And it is important when you are in the company of others to know how to comport yourself as befits your station. Don't you want to make us proud of you?"

Firene looks at her feet.

"Yes, mother."

"Good girl. Now, go wash up - your father will be home soon."

* * * * * * *

"This is hardly a laughing matter, Beatrice."

His wife stifles a giggle.

"I'm sorry dear; of course it isn't. But honestly, you should have seen the look on her face--"

"Damn it, Bea - that's the third one this year! It's not as though the city possesses an inexhaustible supply of governesses of suitable breeding and background. The agency is beginning to ask questions, and I suspect others are starting to talk. Jecks asked how my 'little spitfire' was the other day, and I'm assuming he wasn't referring to you. If her behaviour becomes common knowledge among our circle, there won't be a single appropriate family willing to let their sons be seen in her company, much less marry her."

"Drake, she's only twelve..."

"And if we wish to reinforce our position in The Company, we must cement our existsing alliances while building new ones. Tedwin will be starting school in just a few years, and by then I'd prefer to see Firene betrothed. I don't want him to live in his sister's shadow."

"Especially when she showed such aptitude for the work..."

"Enough! I have been considering alternatives to our current situation, and Jecks rather casually mentioned a school which might provide the discipline our daughter apparently requires."

He walks briskly to the library door and throws it open.

"Firene! Your mother and I would like a word with you!"

* * * * * * *

Drake watches Firene climb the long flight of stairs from the canal to the heavy iron doors of Miss Markham's School for the Education of Young Ladies. She doesn't look back and doesn't look up, so she fails to see the words carved deeply into the otherwise featureless stone walls.

SILENCE

GRACIOUSNESS

DEFERENCE

POISE

DECORUM

MODESTY

OBEDIENCE

This will do nicely, he thinks, then taps the cabbie on the shoulder when the doors clang shut behind his daughter.

* * * * * * *

Firene stands at attention at the end of her bunk while Matron performs the morning inspection. Unlike most of the others, she doesn't try to whisper or make gestures while Matron's back is turned. Keeping quiet has never been a problem for her. Unfortunately, the same can't be said for poor Teresa Brannart, who has just been caught mouthing something to Alice Govanade. Alice is smart enough to stare straight ahead and not give any indication that she's even aware that Teresa was trying to get her attention, so the Matron turns the full force of her scorn on Teresa.

"Is there something you wish to say, Miss Brannart?"

"No, Matron."

"I see. So you are, what, merely exercising your mouth?"

Don't laugh don't laugh don't laugh...

"Yes, Matron."

"Don't you think it gets quite enough exercise, Miss Brannart?"

Teresa looks at the floor. She knows what's coming.

"I believe you might benefit by a few hours of wearing the brank. However, since I am not convinced that you were not alone in your crime... Miss Govanade!"

Alice flinches involuntarily.

"Yes, Matron?"

"Was it you Miss Brannart was attempting to communicate with?"

"No, Matron!"

"Very well - then you may choose the severity of her punishment."

"Oh, please, Matron - not too severe. I'm sure she's sorry..."

"I'm sure you both will be. You shall both wear the gossip's cage - Miss Brannart for speaking out of turn, and you for lying. Spikes down."

Teresa whimpers slightly. Alice opens her mouth as if to protest, then seems to think better of it.

"The rest of you may leave for breakfast."

Fragments in the History of the Omberwell Family III

Firene shuts off the mini-telly and pushes it back into its niche in the wall above her bed. The clock on the small nightstand reads 00:17, but she can't sleep. Something's missing, or something's out of place. She sighs heavily and stares at the ceiling. She looks at the clock again - it's now 00:21.

Down the hall, she hears the rustle of Matron's skirts along the stone floor as she makes her way through the long first-year dormitory. There's a sudden startled shriek as Matron catches someone not sleeping, immediately follwed by a series of sharp snaps. Matron rustles past Firene's door but doesn't enter. There's the muffled sound of sobbing coming from the dormitory.

Firene curls up on her side and drops easily into slumber, a faint smile on her lips.

* * * * * * *

Tedwin leans against the doorframe, waiting for his sister to acknowledge his presence. She sits at her writing desk, her dark, severe clothing a sharp contrast to the pale colours of her bedroom and the misty light coming through the domed lightwell.

"Fireeeeeene..."

She looks up sharply from her dingin.

"Do you need help with your schoolwork again, Tedwin?"

"No... I mean, if you can check it later that would be good, but I think I figured it out after you explained how to do it last time. But... 'Rine... I don't like school."

"You're not supposed to like it, little one. I certainly didn't."

"No, but... you know, Da says I have to do good at school so I can go to Longshore and be a metallurgist like him, and I don't want to go to university."

"Do well at school, dear. And why don't you want to go to university?"

"'Cos I want to be in the Brigade of Light. Byron's older brother is in the Brigade - he showed me a picture of him in the Tentenel armour. I want to do that - then I could defend The Company against those dogs from Hirplakker..."

Firene takes as deep a breath as her stays allow, closes her eyes, and does not say all of the twenty things she immediately thinks of saying to her brother. He's just a baby, after all.

"Well, maybe you should wait until you're older before you tell Da you want to join the Brigade. In the meantime, it can't hurt to keep going to school. And I'll help you with your work if you need me to, all right?"

"All right... M'sorry, Firene. Mama said you liked school."

He shuffles back to his own bedroom. Firene still hasn't opened her eyes.

* * * * * * *

She stares at a point somewhere past her reflection in the dressing mirror as Ester fusses with her hair, braiding silver wire and tiny lights into the longer sections and sprinkling her exposed skin with a fine metallic powder. Her mother beams at her.

"Oh Firene - isn't it exciting? The Grand Palova is the biggest social event of the year, and our little girl was invited!"

"Well, at least all those dancing lessons won't go to waste..."

"Now, dear... I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time. Several of your friends are going, after all. This is a great opportunity for you to meet suitable young men your own age."

"Who will coincidentally be the sons of families in a position to assist Father in attaining his political ambitions within The Company?"

Ester senses a change in the atmosphere and hurries off to perform her regular duties. Beatrice observes her daughter for a moment.

"Firene... that may well be your father's hope for you. Mine is considerably less far-reaching. I would like to see you happy and secure, preferably with a husband whose goals are less lofty and hence less hazardous."

Firene looks up sharply. Her mother looks tired, possibly even a little haggard.

"Mother?"

Beatrice smiles wryly.

"Nevermind, my dear. I speak more than I think. You look radiant. Here..."

She steps forward and wraps her thin, pale arms around her daughter's shoulders for a moment. When she pulls back a heavy, ornate locket hangs around Firene's neck on a thick ribbon of some iridescent material.

"Make us proud, my darling."

Firene: Crucible

"'Rine! Over here!"

She looks around carefully. Shasta and Valeri and a few other people she vaguely remembers from the Palova are waving wildly at her from a small table at one of the crowded floating cafes clustered by the canal bank. She lifts her skirts delicately and steps onto the barge to join them, a rare smile crossing her solemn face.

"Here, try some of this."

"What is it?"

"Edge. Just try it, you'll like it."

* * * * * * *

She's never realized how colourful the city was at night. There's just the faintest whisper of a breeze up here on the observation platform, and the surrounding buildings are all lit up, each with slightly different-coloured lights, bathing her and Valeri in a hazy glow. It's been the sort of night that Firene's only experienced second-hand in vidstories - her friends surrounding her, the brilliant, witty conversation, and Valeri...

As they walk along the canal, he brushes a strand of hair away from her face and kisses her.

Her father is waiting at the door. She notices the grey streaking his black hair and the lines etched into his face on either side of his mouth, and then the sterile whiteness of his work clothes washes over her, stealing the colour from her surroundings. Dimly, she notices that Valeri's dropped her hand and beat a hasty retreat.

* * * * * * *

"Where the blaze were you?" Shasta hisses.

"Sorry," Firene mutters, dumping her dogskin cape in the back of the water taxi and struggling out of her heavy overdress. The boatman studiously prentends not to notice.

"Your da shutter you again or something?"

"More or less. I'm still shuttered from that business tennight ago with Val, but that's not what he was on a fury about this time. Teddy, bless his dim little head, decided that tonight was the time to tell Da he wanted to be a Brigadier. You can just vis how well that went."

Shasta covers her mouth with a gloved hand. "Oh Builder. How long did he crash on for?"

Firene balances a row of small pots across her knees, daubing metallic dust along her cheekbones and at the corners of her eyes before smearing purple waxstick across her lips. "About an hour. Or felt like, anyway. After that he piped about three or four though, so he was walled out by the time I left."

"Want some Escape?"

"Hah. Does the rain fall black in Dreamingspires?"

* * * * * * *

The klaxon cuts through the landscape of her dreams. The twinking lights slowly resolve into flashing emergency beacons and the flickering glow of flames. Her house is on fire.

Her house is on fire.

Firene stumbles forward in the wake of a team of Clearwater Emergency Personnel carrying a battering ram. The heat barely registers on her consciousness, although her father's lab and the library are completely ablaze. The remainder of the house seems relatively intact, albeit filling up with acrid smoke. She walks upstairs like a sleepwalker, idly noting Ester's bloody corpse in the hallway. She turns in slow motion and sees Tedwin huddled in the space between his bed and the small worktable their father built for his birthday this year. Then she sees the awkward way his head is twisted around.

She's still screaming when the fire crew hauls her downstairs.

* * * * * * *

"Miss."

She stares at the wall. The medic clears his throat awkwardly.

"Miss Omberwell."

He shifts, opens his mouth, closes it again. She stopped screaming when they administered the sedative, but this leaden silence is almost worse.

"Miss Omberwell... the fire... your father was storing several volatile chemicals in your house. Shortly after we found you, the place blew up. We were able to save these..."

He places a handful of sooty banknotes and her mother's jewelry box on the table.

"Im sorry for your trouble."

Firene: Precipitation

"It'll be all right, 'Rine. I'll look after you."

His mother smiles at her in a manner which is probably meant to be supportive but just looks strained. She's barely spoken five words since they discharged her from the hospital.

"You're welcome in our house, Firene. Valeri has told us so much about you. Is there anything we can do to help?"

She frowns slightly. Her gaze sharpens and focuses on Mrs. Oslawski's face.

"I want to go to Longshore University."

* * * * * * *

"Omberwell? As in Drake Omberwell's daughter?"

She nods, startled by the old herrprofessor's sudden show of interest.

"Well, this does cast things in a different light, does it not? Your father was something of a celebrity among chemists. Almost an alchemist, one might say, hmm?"

Firene has no idea what he's talking about, and it evidently shows on her face.

"From the last few articles he submitted and the preliminary results he shared with some of our mutual colleagues... Drake Omberwell was on the verge of doing some truly spectacular things with metals. I cannot, you understand, share many details with you... walls having ears and so forth, you know... But then perhaps you could tell me what it was he was doing better than I could tell you anyway."

"No, Herrprofessor. I regret that my education was somewhat curtailed by events beyond my control. I have some knowledge of chemistry and metallurgy, but I was not privy to..."

She trails off, blinking hard and biting down on her tongue to keep from crying.

"A pity, a pity. Truly. Still, if you'd managed to salvage any of his research notes, anything at all... You'd find yourself in quite an advantageous position. And I would be more than willing to act as a broker so you would not be forced to deal with... unsavoury characters who might think to put undue pressure on you in your current delicate state."

She stares at him blankly again.

"Forgive me, my dear. Allow me to speak more plainly. According to corporate protocol, your father's research materials, had they survived the fire, would revert to Arclight. And I am certain that if you assisted them, Arclight would make sure you, as Drake Omberwell's only surviving heir, would be well looked after. They might even be willing to pay your tuition at Longshore. But there might be other parties who would be willing to offer more. Gorunna, for instance..."

She stands suddenly.

"Sir, if I were in possession of my father's notes, which I assure you I am not, there would be no question whatsoever regarding their disposal. I would not dream to betray The Company and my father's memory by selling his work to the highest bidder. But this is a futile discussion, because as I have already stated, I do not have them."

"Ah. Well, then, do forgive my indelicacy, Miss Omberwell. I am sure that the Registrar will be able to assist you with the application process and payment of tuition. Perhaps I shall see you in some of my classes. Good day."

* * * * * * *

"You must be joking."

"What? Why?"

"Your application is in order, and you passed the entrance exams, which - no disrespect intended - somewhat surprised me, considering your lack of formal education. In fact, you scored higher than many applicants who have attended school. But you appear to be unable to afford even a single semester's tuition."

"That can't be right. Please, check again."

He types in the codes on the filthy banknotes with exaggerated care.

"Nothing. In fact, your parents appear to be in a spot of trouble with their bank - the account is overdrawn for a significant amount."

Firene makes a conscious effort to slow her breathing.

"All right. I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding. Would you be so good as to provide me with directions to the bank, sir?"

* * * * * * *

"Ooh - innit pretty?"

A painfully thin boy steps out of the alley to her left, and when she turns to face him she hears scuffling behind her. The edge of his rusty knife is the only thing that shines.

"You lost or somefing, sweetmeat? Or you looking for someone, eh?"

She feels something behind her catch at her skirts, hears fabric tearing.

"Sweetmeat's slumming, Chaz! And she brung prezzies, see?"

Hands snatch at the jewelry box. She pulls back sharply and trips over the torn edges of her skirts.

"Well well well... Prezzies first, or playtime? Whatchu think, lads?"

He lowers the knife and pretends to be lost in thought. He's somewhat surprised when Firene screams, kicks him in the shins, and starts running. But only for a moment.

"Ey - no fair! We din't call a hunt!"

She keeps running and tosses a couple of the now-worthless banknotes behind her to distract them. A couple of them stop, but the remainder, including Chaz, seem to find the pursuit much more entertaining. Still, she's better fed and healthier than they are, so she manages to outdistance them. Then she rounds a corner into another alley and finds the other end choked with debris. She hears shouts and catcalls and the pounding of their feet as they approach, and then decides to try to climb the pile of rubbish at the end of the alley.

She tumbles down a few seconds later, opens her mouth to scream...

And realizes she can't hear anything.

In a way, the silence is almost more terrifying. She turns around and sees a man standing in the alley mouth. He's taller than the young toughs were, thin, but wiry-looking. He's covered in blood. She releases her breath, which comes out as a startled but disappointingly decorous shriek.

"Five on one. Tha's hardly a fair go, especially when you're just a little thing."

She stares at him, frozen in shock.

"You should go have y'self a drink. Steady your nerves, like."

He turns to walk away, clearly not expecting any thanks.

"Be seeing you."

"Wait!"

He stops and stares at her as she stumbles over.

"Please... will you help me?"

She opens the charred box. Her mother's jewels glitter in the dim light. He looks at them, then looks back at her, appraisingly.

"Reckon we ought to talk about this somewhere a little more private. And you still look like you could stand a drink. Come on, then."

Introducing Jonas Rohm

INTERVIEW WITH JONAS ROHM, GHOSTFIGHTER
TCMA (20 minutes into the future)

“Is this thing on?” Jonas Rohm tapped the microphone. It let out a high pitched squeal.

“It’s on Mr. Rohm,” said the scrivener. “We can begin.”

As Rohm sank his six foot frame on the high backed green leather chair and took a long drag of his nebbleweed cigar, the scrivener gave him a sideways glance. From what he had heard about Jonas Rohm, he had expected a big, beefy and burly man with biceps to lift the weight of the stories told of him. Instead, Rohm’s athletic build was sinewy and sleek not yet dulled by time spent in the comfortable confines of the TCMA. Even the clothes he wore – khaki pants, a green muscle shirt and boots – seemed to point towards someone much younger. Only the salt and pepper beard and hair and the arrogant swagger (or was that a limp) of someone who had won too many battles in the depths of the City, hinted at Rohm’s advancing age.

“It’s yer quid, kid. What do ya want to know?” said Rohm impatiently.

“Well, for starters, where does a celebrity like yourself come from?”

Rohm rolled his eyes and let out a guttural belly laugh. “Why the hell do ya wanna know that? What kinda dumb-ass scriv’ner are ya? Who the hell cares where the fuck I’m from? I’m here ain’t I?”

Rohm gestured around the room. It was a typical luxury tower in the TCMA complete with ten foot ceilings with elaborate etchings, hardwood floors (it was considered the height of luxury to say that you walked on wood), real leather chairs and ornately carved wooden tables. The window overlooked an indoor atrium. The sun-fed garden that made up much of the atrium contained trees, shrubs and flowers from almost every part of the City.

Rohm sat forward and gestured at the scrivener with the tip of his cigar. “I thought you wanted to know about that job, not ask me some pansy assed questions about my fucking childhood?”

The scrivener gulped. He prayed Rohm wouldn’t stomp out of the room. “Well, it might help, you know, give a bit of perspective to our readers. Help establish you as a person before you made it big.”

“Ah, fuck. You think that bullshit is gonna get you laid, fine.” Rohm sat back in his chair and gazed at the ornate ceiling for a long moment and took a drag of the nebbleweed.

“Not much to tell, kid. I don’t remember much and I sure as hell don’t remember where I got born. Parents were dispossessed. They had nuthin’. Know what having nuthin is like kid?”

“No – no Mr. Rohm.”

“It’s the shits. Parents carried all the junk we owned on their backs. My dad had no steady work. He earned just enough every day to give me an’ my three older brothers some shitty gruel. That’s if’n he actually found work that day. Most of the time we had to do somethin’ else to eat. If we had to, we ate the garbage got tossed out of windows or left in alleyways – I even dove for the shit that landed in the canals. Learned to steal just to survive. Swore when I got big, I wouldn’t stand for this sorta shit. I’d be the one with all the money livin’ in those towers, drinkin’ the best stuff an’ whorin’ with high class dollymops. Wasn’t gonna be a no-account with nuthin’ ta me name. An’ well, look at me now, kid. Almost there.”

“Some might say you made it already.”

Rohm glared at the scrivener. “Know what kid, let me be the one to tell ya when enough is enough. Maybe this is enough fer you, but I ain’t finished yet. Got it?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good.” Rohm smiled, leaned back in his chair and took a long puff of his cigar, watching the smoke swirl upwards toward the roof before continuing.

“Fer shelter, my parents found boxes and set em’ up in alleyways, under bridges or by canals. Usually stayed in any one place for a few days or weeks before the local Provost would have us booted or another group a’ dispossessed liked our spot too much an’ forced us to move on.”

“Remember one time when I wuz about six. Goddamn asshole an’ his gang o’ thugs he called a family, coulda’ been at least 16 o’ them, docked beside us. We had wood shelters an’ all and it musta looked too good to ‘em. Family we wuz sharin’ with had just moved on an’ guess news that we wuz livin’ high an’ unprotected got to them ears. We wuz no match fer them. We had one bum, his whorin’ wife and four snot nosed kids armed with one broke-down sparklock ‘gainst whole lot a’ sparklocks, bats an’ llives. It wuz no contest. Least they gave us an hour ta get the fuck out. Fucking bastards. Wished many times I coulda’ gakked em, but I wuzn’t big enough.”

Rohm sat staring at the ceiling for a moment.

“’Course, every now and then, some high falutin’ religious organization had a kitchen open fer us poor folk and then it felt like we wuz livin’ the high life. Never lasted long before some goddamn asshole closed em down and kicked us back out into the gutter. So where am I from, kid? It doesn’t fucking matter.”

“But I hear that some Ghostfighters have tattoos representing where they were from. Don’t you have any of those?”

“What, where the fuck are you getting your intel from, kid? Maybe if I had some kinda home, but naw, never got one of them tats. Got these ones though.”

Rohm rolled up his right sleeve and pointed at a tattoo on his bicep. “This represents my military unit – the 31^st Infantry Regiment. Had it done just ‘fore we transferred off to the Flak Towers.”

Rohm pointed to his left thigh and rolled up his shorts part way up his scarred leg. “This one is my Ghostfighter tat. Lets other know what I do fer a livin. And this one – this one represents my days as a Cripplecut fighter down in Mires End.” Rohm pointed to his left bicep and rolled up his sleeve.

“Can I take pictures of those?”

“Knock yourself out kid.”

As the scrivener took pictures of his tattoos, he noticed Rohm wearing a thick chain necklace with dogtags and a plain, tarnished ring hanging from it. The ring seemed out of place to the scrivener – a piece of stained finery hiding beneath a militaristic veneer.

“What is that, Mr. Rohm?”

“Whut’s whut?”

“That,” said the scrivener, pointing at the ring. Rohm looked down at his chest and noticed the chain hanging out in front of his muscle shirt. He hurriedly tucked it back under.

“Nun o’ yer damn business,” shouted Rohm. “Now get on with the damn interview or get the fuck outta my sight.” The scrivener cringed. Rohm seemed to turn bright red when the ring was mentioned. He had to find out more about that ring.

“Please, Mr. Rohm, just a comment or two about it might be appreciated.”

Rohm got up and towered over the scrivener.

“What parta ‘no’ don’t you fuckin’ understand?”

The scrivener knew when to quit. Rohm sat down and the scrivener meekly went back to taking photos of Rohm’s tattoos, all the while eyeing the necklace with its now hidden ring wondering about the story behind the ring and what it meant to Jonas Rohm.

After taking a few more photos of Rohm’s tattoos, the scrivener cleared his throat. “Now, if I can just go back a bit, you said you got that first tattoo while you were in the military?”

“Yeah. Hirplakker Cadre.”

“How did you end up there?”

“Fuck kid, where do you get these stupid fucking questions from?” Rohm gazed upwards, following the smoke he blew out of his mouth. “Stupid fuck. If I wuzn’t gettin’ paid…”

“If you don’t want to answer that, we can always come back to that…”

“No shithead, I’ll answer it,” said Rohm as he leaned forward and began gazing above the scriveners right shoulder.

“My mother,” Rohm finally said. “My stupid fucking cunt of a mother sent me. That good enough for ya? What your mama do fer you? Probably sent you to a nice school fer stupid fucking squeezbox lessons until you were ten -”

“Um it was piano, actually,” interrupted the scrivener sheepishly.

“Whatever, kid, just pay fucking attention.”

Something was wrong, thought the Scrivener. Rohm was hiding something behind all that venom he spat out about his family. Beyond all the bluster and crudeness that Rohm let the world see, he hid some secret. Rohm seemed incapable of lying or any kind of subterfuge and his scrivener’s instincts went off like alarm bells. What that secret was, the scrivener could only speculate on. After the previous altercations with Rohm, he was not willing to dig any deeper.

After a long pause, Rohm continued.

“My dad died when I wuz about 8 years old, I think. Found him face down in a canal. Provosts didn’t give a flyin’ fuck about how he died. Just scooped him up, give him what-for and then tossed him back in the canal. Not much any priest is gonna do about just another no-account bum like my dad. My mom got more desperate. Even whorin’ didn’t pay fer food fer us. Too skanky fer anyone to pay good money fer the likes a’ her. Made ‘nuff ta pay fer her drugs though, stupid bitch. She finally holed up with one a’ her regulars, another no-account bum, but this fucking bum had a job and we didn’t have anywheres to go.” Rohm extinguished the remainder of his cigar butt and then lit up another.

“So, he took us all in, but hated us kids. More mouths to feed. Didn’t have any kids of his own, and my mom wuz a good lay so he put up with us. Least, that’s what he said while he wuz beatin the shit out of us with his belt. Course, once I started gettin’ in trouble with the law, he said I wuz a worthless pile of shit. Didn’t matter that I wuz fightin’ kids that wuz bullying others, my worthless fuckin’ stepfather still thought I should be sold fer food or some such. I wuz a scrawny and wiry kid - near starved, so that wuz a no-go. Instead, he suggested havin me drafted into the military. Hirplakker wuz hirin’ and they would pay for my schoolin’, food and stuff. Wouldn’t have to worry about me ever agin. That fuckin’ bitch wuz so wound up on drugs an’ booze, she agreed, so off I went.”

“Did you enjoy working for Hirplakker?”

“No. I hated it. Had to drag me kickin’ and screamin’ to work fer them. Swore bloody murder on my slut of a mother and her shitty husband. Course, once I wuz there, I learned to make the best of it. Had no choice. You learned or you wuz back on the street with nuthin’. And my fuckin’ mom weren’t gonna take me back, so I put up with the daily beatings, an’ the constant yellin’ and screamin’.”

“Is this where you learned knife fighting?”

“Yeah. This is where I began to learn my trade. Only thing I ever got out of the military. Had ta fight ta keep yer rations almost evry day kid. If’n ya didn’t learn ta fight, ya starved. An’ that’s what I did, kid. Learned to fight, so’s I could survive. Now, I wuz scrawny an’ couldn’t brawl worth shit, but damn I wuz fast. Wuzn’t a bad shot either. But it wuz knife fightin’ where I earned my keep and kept my rations. No one in my cadre could touch me in a knife fight. I wuz that good. Discovered the joys of Cripplecut while I wuz there.”

“But don’t the military cadres frown upon Cripplecut?”

“Yeah, kid, they do. Now shut the fuck up and pay attention.” The scrivener held back a retort as Jonas took another drag of his nebbleweed cigar and began hacking and coughing loudly.

“Damn stuff,” Rohm said, referring to his cigar. “Be the death of me.”

Rohm cleared his throat and continued. “Where wuz I? Oh yeah, we cadets had our own little cripplecut competitions ‘to the first blood.’ Couldn’t take it as far as they do in the rings. Hirpplakker would’ve shut us down and kicked us out. That still didn’t stop us from findin’ the occasional Cripplecut arena on R&R. All the time watchin’ an’ wishin’ I wuz down there makin’ big bucks . You make a lotta good buds in the military. Got to know a good bunch. Don’t know where any of them are now, but at the time, we were the best. Anyway, got my first tat just before we left for Flak Towers in Contested Ground. Reminds me of where I learned my trade.”

“So, what happened there.”

“Nuthin’, kid. Nuthin’. Spent six months in Tower Five. Arclight had three of Hirplakker’s Towers and we had four. NCO sent us out on missions against the Light Brigades. Our Cadre wuz just fuckin pumped all the time. We swore our cadre wuz gonna kick Arclight ass and be the first to re-capture one of our Towers.”

“So did you?”

Rohm took another drag. “Never happened, kid. Instead, we get picked off by Arclight snipers. We had our own too, but we learned to do the duckin’ dance real fast. You learned or you died, kid. That’s also why I like the knife. It’s a clean, personal kill. You see the fuckin’ eyes of the person you off and they see yours and know before they die, who killed them. Not like the cowards shit of firing some fuckin slugthrower you train on for a week to make your first kill. No, knives are more personal. Git more satisfaction, if’n ya know whut I mean.”

“So, how did you become a mercenary, then?”

“Shit kid. Ya git me to give relations of my early life then ya wanna skip over stuff? Lots of history between that or don’t you wanna listen to the rest of my fuckin story?”

“No sir. Continue.”

“Flak Towers were a killing ground, but they wuz a great trainin’ ground for us. What it wuzn’t, wuz a place for them pencil-necked geeks – them that called themselves officers. They wuz the main problem with Hirplakker, not them snipers. Snipers I could deal with. Officers, I couldn’t. They wuz a pain in our backsides – givin’ lame-brained orders that made no sense, no how. Felt like tannin’ each and every one of them motherfuckers every day. They sent us grunts out to die with no fuckin’ strategy other than ‘get out there’ and they paid us shit fer riskin’ our fuckin’ lives. I had the skills and wanted to cash in on it, kid, not die like a worthless grunt fightin’ fer a no-account pencil neck with nuthin in the brain pan . We had fuckin’ about had it.”

“So, what did you do about them.”

“Do? What did I do? I’ll tell you what I did. I plugged my stupid fuckin’ NCO, that’s what I did. With a knife. Our cadre started with 20 of Hirplakker’s finest. Our NCO, Graceley or some such, had managed with his stupid goddamn strategies to take Tower Two, to whittle our squad down to 9. He had the fucking balls to order us out again. Madden wuz our squad leader. He had the tactics in the brain an’ I trusted him with my back. He wuz the one I would fucking listen to, not Graceley. Madden had a brill plan to take the Tower. It had an unprotected weak spot that would be easy to infiltrate as long as we distract the goddamn snipers. But did Graceley listen to him? No. Stupid fuck.”

“Instead, Graceley sends us on another fuckin’ recon to Tower Three – third fuckin’ one that month. Madden told him it wuz a deathtrap – but Graceley said his intel told him situations changed. So, we wuz too chicken-shit not to follow the chain o’ command – we felt like usin’ that chain on Gracely – but we followed orders anyway. But it wuz just like Madden said. We got caught under heavy sniper fire in a cul de sac. Watched as another four of our guys got cut down by Arclight cowards. Vics included Madden. I grabbed his tag before his body got fragged by an enemy mortar. Ever seen a body get fragged, kid?”

“No. Can’t say I have?”

“Friggin awful sight. You get hit with the sound of the explosion and the force of the blast. Before you can recover, you realize that you can’t hear anything, but you smell sulphur and then burned flesh. Finally, you get hit by the fallout. Mostly it wuz just bits and pieces of dirt and rock, but then somethin’ soft with the consistency of black tar lands on ya, and you realize that a piece of your buddy just landed on ya. Can’t usually tell what it is. Could be a piece of his chest or maybe part of his brain or an organ. But whatever it is, it is smashed to a pulp. Usually it’s still smokin’ and mostly slimy and dark red. Once that thought takes hold and you resist the urge to retch, you dive for cover or risk getting’ hit with the second barrage you know is coming.”

The scrivener looked pale and squeamish for a moment and then finally spoke up.

“So how did you kill Graceley?”

“The five of us got back and our NCO had the gall to ask us to report. I threw down the tags of our squad who got fragged. Graceley wuz furious when we had nothin’ to report and threatened to send us back there to complete the mission or have us all strung up as traitors. We wuz fuckin’ fumin’. All of us. Not just angry at Graceley an’ his goddamn shithead of a brainpan, we wuz fuckin’ red-faced that this fuckin’ asshole had the goddamn nerve ta get fifteen of his men gakked on his orders and not give a rats ass about any of our fuckin’ lives. Don’t goddamn remember who jumped the little shit first. MP’s barrelled in when they heard the ruckus and a full goddamn ronson broke out. I do remember grabbin’ at Graceley and stickin my bayonet in him, and I saw others do the same. Don’t remember how many times he got plugged. Just remember Graceley sputterin’ an’ chokin’ in a lake of his own blood. Remember thinkin’ ‘that all ya gotta say, ya goddamn shit.’ All I remember after that wuz bein’ hauled away from him by the MP’s leavin’ a long red trail behind.”

“So you were court-martialled then?”

“Nope. Thought they wuz getting’ the firin’ squad ready fer us and I wuz thinkin’ ‘bout what I would ask fer my last fuckin’ meal. Didn’t think they would bring us some dollymops in ta give us one last fuck, but couldna’ hurt ta try an’ ask.”

The scrivener looked at Rohm for a moment as what he said sank in. “They didn’t let you go, did they?”

Rohm gave a wide smile. “Yup kid, that is exactly what they did. They couldn’t figure out which one of us stuck him enough ta kill ‘em. None o’ the squad would admit to it. Instead, another Hirplakker NCO hauled our asses into Command with a buncha’ other brass with ‘im. Guess Graceley wuz not that popular with the other NCO’s either. He wuz some kinda high falutin’ momma’s boy from the TCMA who failed officer training. He wuz a prick and everyone there knew that it wuz only a matter of time before someone gutted him.”

The scrivener was aghast.

“You stabbed a Hirplakker NCO and they just let you walk?” He was beginning to think Rohm had a horseshoe strategically placed up his ass.

“Considering Hirplakker’s reputation, I find this a little hard to swallow.”

“Choke on it kid. It’s whut happened. You can believe it if’n ya want. I don’t fuckin’ care.”

“Is there anyone else who can confirm this story? Anyone from your squad?” asked the scrivener.

“Don’t know where the rest of ‘em are. Wouldn’t fuckin’ tell you where ta find ‘em even if I did.” Rohm leaned forward menacingly. “I’d have ta kill ya if’n you knew.”

The scrivener tried hard not to react. He’s just trying to intimidate me, he thought. I will not be intimidated. The scrivener loosened his shirt and tie. Was it getting a bit hot in here?

Rohm sat back in his chair and the scrivener felt relief. “Well, what did they do then?”

“Ya did have it a bit right, kid, I’ll give ya that. They couldn’t just let us walk. Would be, you know, repercu-shins. NCO’s decided ta ‘discharge’ us right then and there. Told us the official report would say we wuz MIA, and possibly deserters. Gave us our civvies and a popgun and told us to leave the Flak Towers on our own. If’n we survived and left Contested Ground, we wuz free to go. I think all of us but Loftus got out. The other three I ain’t seen in years.”

“So, do you hate Hirplakker then?”

“Ya know kid, you’d think I would, but I don’t. Thems what trained me ta be a killer in the first place. Not gonna hate ‘em after that. An’ as fer what happened at Flak Towers, well that all got sorted out a while ago kid. Kinda figured there wuz somthin’ more to it than just an unpopular NCO. Didn’t find out the goddamn truth fer years.”

“So what is the truth?”

Rohm took a long drag of the nebbleweed and blew it into the scrivener’s face and smiled while the scrivener coughed and gagged. “Nun’ a’ yer business kid. Ya can do the diggin’ if yous want. Might not like the answers. Might find someone else don’t want ya ta know them either.”

The scrivener made note of Rohm’s comment and decided to do some research when he finished the interview. “So, where did you go next?”

“Had only a few quid left to my name. Only thing I knew how to do wuz fight an’ like I said earlier, I intended ta cash in on them skills and get meself the high life I deserve. Now, outside a’ the Flak Towers, Contested Ground had a couple a’ settlements our cadre used ta go to on R&R. Learned all about whorin’ and boozin’ it up there. Dollymops were skanks, most a’ them, but got my first piece o’ ass there. They wuz all excited to see me an’ the others get the hell outta Flak Towers. One a’ them dollymops suggested I check out Mires End. Said I could make it big in Cripplecut – which wuz real popular there. Now, I didn’t ‘spect her to think with nothin’ but the brains between her legs, her an’ I just finishin’ a good fuck an’ all, but what she said made a bit o’ sense, so I got passage to Mires End.”

“Didn’t take me long to find Chain’s Gym and meet Luke Chain himself. Didn’t take me long to find the Hohler Gang either. After some quick negotiatin’ I did small time jobs for the Hohlers just to keep a roof over my head. All the while workin’ out at Chain’s Gym ta git Luke Chain’s attention.”

“Had me first offishul cripplecut fight at Shale Hall. I wuz there to soften up the crowd for the main bout. Heard I wuz supposed to be facing another fuckin’ punk with a 3-1 record. First time I laid eyes on ‘im wuz when we entered the ring. Saw that the guy’s wuz gleamin’ with stims an’ he wuz fucking bulked up on steroids. Thought to myself, ‘fuck – this ain’t gonna be easy.’”

Rohm leaned forward. “What does this fuck up do when the bell rings? He charges right at me. Missed me by a mile. I got outta the way and this fuck flies into the cage. Shoulda plugged him right there, but I had to get fancy an’ just studied his moves waitin’ fer him ta make another mistake.”

“Instead of charging me again, the punk circles around me an’ I goad him on an’ he charges again. The crowd went wild screamin’ fer blood. I dodged, but the punk fuckin’ feinted – tossing his knife to his other hand and slashing at my stomach. I got out of the way, but not before the fuck gashes my right thigh causing buckets o’ blood ta spray out and cover his knife, his arm an’ my leg. Could taste metal. Well, kid, I had had fuckin’ enough.”

“While I wuz gettin’ ready to plug ‘im, what wuz that fuckin’ punk doin’? Playin’ ta the crowd, that’s what he wuz doin’. Pumpin’ that bloody knife over his head an’ gettin’ the crowd ta scream fer even more blood. Saw hundreds of quid change hands and realized just how many in that crowd had fuckin’ bet against me. Pikers, all of em’.”

“The punk circles around me agin’ like a buzzard. I think he wuz hopin’ I would jus’ bleed out and drop so he could finish the job. I think he thought he won. By rights, I shoulda gone down like a sack o’ hammers kid, but I stayed standin’. Got my second wind. I swore this punk wuz not gonna gut me.”

“So, he charged again. He tried the same goddamn trick on me – probly thinkin’ I got no smarts fer fightin’. This time, I used me knife to knock his out of his hand, doubled back and shoved my knife straight inta his gut. Must have hit somethin’ big cause he almost exploded in a mass of blood and gore. His expression wuz one o’ shock and it didn’t change as he slid to the floor and drowned in his own blood. The smell wuz hideous. Years of eatin’ all a’ the garbage and filth the City creates collected to form a mass o’ bile in his body that coulda been harvested from the canals. I swayed a bit, trying to stifle the urge to retch. I looked up at em’ all, an’ raised me arms in the air. Couldn’t hear a damn thing. I had just won my first Cripplecut match and the roar o’ the crowd felt good. Good enough that it would quickly become a drug.”

“Did you make a lot as a cripplecut fighter?”

“Naw kid. Ya git shit. Bigger pile o’ shit than a grunt, but still shit. Still, I could taste the money startin’ ta come at me an’ all the stuff it brings – dollymops, wine, better weed an’ just plain better livin’.” Rohm took another long drag of his nebbleweed cigar. He gazed at the smoke as it swirled upwards, his mind swirling through other thoughts.

“Course, I had got pretty scarred up in the fight as well.” Rohm finally said. “I stitched up the leg myself right after the match. It wuz my first official cripplecut scar. It would forever remind me that one mistake wuz all that wuz needed. That shoulda been me they wuz now mopping and shovelling into buckets, not the punk. But I wuz just grateful I wuz still here.”

“So you met Luke Chain right after that fight?”

“Yeah, kid, an’ he came to me. Chain intro’ed hisself ta me after I left the locker room. He told me I showed promise and that he’d seen me around his gym. Wanted to train me. Said it looked like amateur hour out there and that he could train me to be a pro. What wuz I gonna say? No? I had been waitin’ fer this and I wuz finally getting my wish.”

“Chain trained me to be a pro cripplecut fighter. Said I had the makings of a great cripplecut fighter. I took to trainin’ as hard as I could. By the end of three months, I no longer looked like that thin lanky kid I once wuz. I wuz faster and stronger than before and all that trainin’ made me deadlier.”

“Next few bouts were still with worthless punks and I took em without breakin’ a sweat. Word wuz getting around Mires End that there wuz a new contender in town. An’ I even gots a room with an actual bed. Life wuz gittin’ better. On my way ta gettin’ the stuff I wanted. That is, until the Hohler gang butted its head in.”

“The Hohler Gang musta had it in fer me. Now I done stuff for them, and figured they wouldn’t a done nuthin to interfere with my new career. Thought I wuz good fer business. But the Hohler’s had different plans. They wuz blackmailin’ Chain. He wuz told to git me ta throw a fight against their guy so they can clean up in the bettin’.”

“So did you? Did you throw the fight?”

“What the hell do you think I am? A piker? I didn’t want ta throw it. Told Chain I wuzn’t gonna either. Not real good fer that rep and all. An’ Chain didn’t like bein’ bullied either. I told ‘em I wuz willin’ ta help him gak them Hohlers, but Chain didn’t want me involved. I knew Chain wuz plannin’ some big time retaliashun, but I wuzn’t part a’ dem plans till then. An’ if’n I didn’t throw the fight, Chain woulda been gakked or at the very least, I woulda thrown a wrench into Chain’s plans. I had too much respect fer him. He told me to do what I needed to do. So, I threw the fight. Crowd booed as I went down after getting my second scar across my chest. That scar is somethin’ I ain’t likin’ to discuss cause it is the only time I dissed myself. Somethin’ I ain’t doin’ again.”

“Couldn’t stay at Chain’s. Left a few days after on good terms. We had an understandin’. Didn’t have long ta wait fer him ta need my help, but that’s a tale fer another time. Didn’t even wanna continue ta fight in dat arena. Lost the taste fer Cripplecut if’n I couldn’t make it as a self-respectin’ arena fighter, I wuz gonna hafta make it another way if’n I didn’t wanna become a complete radge.”

“How did you ultimately become a Ghostfighter?”

“Turns out a coupla ghostfighters saw me fight. They could tell I threw the fight that night an’ got their booker to approach me fer a job or two. Did ‘em an’ did good, so they took me under their wing. Taught me more a’ whut I already knew – how to kill silent-like. Learned the basics of Markain and Demeloque from ‘em.”

“Is that about when you faced off against…”

“Yeah, kid, that wuz my first duel with a Ghostfighter on that job. Soon after that job, thought I wuz ready ta go it alone. Don’t make a fortune workin’ ta put whores in someone elses bed. So, I began hirin’ myself wherever I could as a Ghost fighter. Bodyguardin’, killin’, all the same to me. Give me a job, and I’ll do it if’n I can. Enough to put a roof over my head.”

“But you did work with others after this right? You met Viktor Kobb after you went out on your own, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, met him doin’ a job for a lostfinder o’ his acquaintance. Booker had set me up with ‘em. Very pro. I would trust ‘em with my back.”

“I hear you do pro-bono work every now and then.”

“Where the hell you been hearin’ this stuff from. I wouldn’t be goin’ repeatin’ that, if’n ya know what I mean.”

“So, it’s true then?”

“Yeah, kid, sometimes I do favors fer people once in a while. But I’d rather be linin’ me own pockets with cash. Don’t trust anyone who just does stuff fer others without some price. Everyone’s got a price kid, everyone. No one dines fer free. Someone who does sumthin’ fer nuthin’s got sumthin’ ta hide. Still, don’t hurt ev’ry now an’ agin ta helps them who can’t fight against sumthin’ stronger – that sumthin’ throwin’ its weight ‘round sumthin’ much. Kinda like, ‘first hits free’. Advertisin’, is all.”

“Okay, that leads us to what happened when you met, er, what’s her name again?”

“Kid, it’s getting late. Can we deal with that tomorrow. Got some stuff I need to deal with and you can’t come with.”

“Well, can I just ask one more question? I promise I’ll make it short.”

Rohm rolls his eyes and takes another puff of his nebbleweed cigar. “Fine, go ahead kid.”

“Have you ever seen you mother and step-father since?”

“No kid, ain’t seen either of them. Heard that he disappeared an’ that his head wuz found in a canal. Rest of the body never been found.” Rohm paused for a moment, gazing at the roof. “Slut of a mom died years ago. Found naked in bed the night after some whorin’ or some such. Died a’ some poison or disease or somethin’ like that. All the years a’ whorin’ an’ boozin’ finally caught up with her. Just heard rumours, though. Good enough answer kid?”

“Well, did you have anything - ”

Rohm leaned forward toward the scrivener. “Do you really want to finish that question, kid?”

The scrivener thought for a moment. “No, no sir. I’ll withdraw that question. I did promise only one more.”

Rohm sat back in the recliner and took one more puff of the nebbleweed cigar. “Smart kid, smart. You’ll live long.”

END