War Drums On The Horizon

I pointedly didn’t gulp or shuffle as I finished reciting my report once again, though the maggots in my throat still wriggled in agitation as I met Cerikon's unnervingly knowing look. I imagine he had practiced that expression quite a bit, made sure to curl his smirk just right and make his eyes hold just enough intensity in the given lighting. There was something about his almost literally fiery gaze that was quite unsettling, especially combined with the knowledge he could almost certainly tell I wanted him dead.

In his case it wasn't personal, like Markus, but simply for the fact that the only significant concrete piece of information I had about his abilities was an unacceptable threat. Every second he drew breath in my presence was one more chance for him to decide my hate and grudging fear were sufficient cause to put me down. Then again, considering what I knew of his power the mere fact that I don’t particularly hate him despite my likely obvious trepidation and less obvious murderous intent may actually help to mask the danger I pose.

That, or he just thought I wasn’t a threat; the hatred of a rodent was not something I would have ever put much stock in when I was human, either.

Regardless, I managed to meet his gaze without visible unease. I had never gone into acting in my old life, but life provided numerous opportunities to learn how to maintain an even expression in the face of unpleasant circumstances. My eyes didn’t so much as twitch as his smirk widened into that same plastic smile he had at dinner, “Well, that is quite the story. We’ll need to send people to verify if any of it is valid, but should they-”

Markus cut him off, “If there are Eight Points Gang members in our territory we do not have time to wait for further evidence before we react. Send your investigation team, but we’re ramping up security and doing a full search. I don’t care if we have to go street by street and house by fucking house to rout these bastards out.”

Cerikon raised an eyebrow, his face otherwise utterly unmoving. “That feels a little drastic, boss. People are going to be very unhappy if we send doorkickers to every house; not just the squatters themselves who will undoubtedly resist with lethal results, but people with the power to make their misgivings known might not be best pleased by such actions. Not to mention what the surrounding gangs will think of such a visible and drastic action.”

Markus clenched his fists, visibly restraining himself from lashing out for a moment before taking a deep breath through his nose. With a grunt he leaned back in his chair, “You have a point. Besides, the boys themselves might not be too keen to kick down their friends and families doors.” He gave an easy and, to my eyes, obviously fake smirk at his words, his lax expression contrasted sharply by his tensed muscles.

Cerikon’s smile didn’t move, “Indeed, that would be rather suboptimal.”

Rokharth snorted, “The hands and eyes of our organization turning on us might be less than a totally good thing? Why, I never would have guessed~.” Markus rolled his eyes, blowing a puff of smoke at the smirking monster who merely laughed in response.

“Alright, alright, let’s get back on track,” Markus pulled a cigar from somewhere under his desk, lighting it with a few sparks produced from a snap of his fingers before taking a long drag. I assumed such tricks amounted to little more than very minor cantrips for proper mages and might be possible for just about anyone of sufficient power, but the fact he could apparently produce sparks with such low effort clued me in that he likely has fire based abilities. Not that such was truly hard to guess, really, what with the incendiary weapons and methods the Burnpikes are apparently known for. Of course, I knew better than to assume what I see is all there is; anyone halfway clever would likely present false strengths and weaknesses. For all I know, he could be a fucking ice mage or a muscle wizard or something underneath his facade of gunman and pyromancer.

I kind of doubted it, but that’s rather the entire point of such trickery, isn’t it?

My eyes remained on the blonde gang boss even as my thoughts wandered, preventing me from embarrassing myself when he jabbed his burning but rather short “scepter” my way unexpectedly, “If what our newest hitter here has told us is indeed true, we’ve got an unacceptable amount of enemy forces in our territory.” He swirled the wine in his glass, staring into the red whirlpool for just a moment before grunting, “For the record, any amount of enemy presence is an unacceptably high amount, but Merthoux being so deep in our land is nothing short of an incredibly bad sign.”

Rokharth chuckled darkly, “I could deliver him back to his boss, put him on a real nice pike jutting out of that fat prick’s burnt up bed?”

Korin sighed from where she sat sprawled sideways across a comfy looking armchair, “Why don’t we just gather up some muscle and just fuckin… just kill everybody? Pike their bodies at the border, so… so nobody else thinks of trying anything.” Her voice was listless, sounding somewhere between exhausted and completely detached from reality; the dark bags around her eyes explained the former, and the heavy track marks on her arms rather effectively covered the latter. I wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about an apparently high ranking member of this gang being an obviously depressed and drug addicted wastrel; while in the long term having a weak link in the hierarchy would make repaying my warm welcome much easier, having a clearly delirious and incompetent leader weighing in on and making vital decisions could well get me killed.

The fact she immediately followed up her statement by gagging into her hand and puking into her already empty wine glass did nothing to help my assessment of her mental -and physical- state.

Cerikon’s placidly knowing smile didn’t so much as twitch even as a brief flicker of disdain passed across Markus face; Rokharth didn’t even bother hiding his amusement, openly guffawing into his cup. “Ha! I take it back, the broken doll’s got some good ideas rolling around in that black ocean between her ears!” My nose twitched as I struggled to keep a sneer of disgust from my face as the smell hit me, though the odor was only a fraction of the cause for my disdain.

Markus blew out a cloud of smoke in a long breath, though he didn’t quite sigh outright, “A gang war can be beneficial, but any fight with the Eight Points Gang is going to be a long and bloody one.” He drummed his fingers on his desk, taking a sip from his glass even as embers from his still smoking cigar glowed in the dim and smoky office. “Much as I’d like to wipe those bastards off the face of the map, we can’t afford the losses we’d take even if we win; we’ve got more than one unhappy neighbor who’d be eager to jump on us if they think we’re weak.” At this point I’m beginning to think they’ve forgotten I’m here; I rather doubt Markus would want a relatively new and barely tested recruit hearing such a frank and potentially damaging assessment of the organization’s position.

Though, as soon as that thought entered my mind, Cerikon’s blazing orange eyes flicked to me for a moment before returning to his boss.

Rokharth grinned, his unnaturally sharp teeth gleaming dangerously in the dim candle light, “I could cause some distractions amongst those assholes; a few bombings here, a couple assassinations there, and a scattering of well placed false evidence and we could stir up some chaos amongst them. Hell, maybe even start a few wars to keep them properly busy.” He chuckled, tinging the tips of his claw-like nails off the edge of his glass, “Come to think of it, maybe that’s happening to us right now?”

Markus blew a puff of smoke out his nostrils as he sat back in his chair, slowly tapping his fingertips against each other. “Hmm, I can’t entirely dismiss the idea, but I doubt it. Snorky’s always been too ambitious for his own good, I wouldn’t put it past him to think he could push in on us.” The gang boss took another long, slow hit, the embers casting odd and shifting shadows across his face as his eyes brimmed with memories.

The orange haired Shrikeson spoke up, “We should take care to note that we aren’t certain anything has happened.” He gestured to me, “Until we verify this recruit-”

Rokharth cut him off, “Ah ah ah, the ickle rat’s not a recruit anymore, he just got blooded this morning; he’s a proper Burnpike now.” His tone was still darkly teasing as it always seemed to be, yet there was a hint of something more serious lurking in his voice that told me he took the distinction seriously.

Cerkon seemed to ignore him, though he did alter his speech, “Regardless, until we verify this cutthroat’s story, we have no actual proof that anyone has breached our territory.”

Markus hummed, finishing off the last of the wine in his glass before gently setting it down on his desk. With a flick of his fingers, he tapped ash from the end of his cigar before taking a long, slow hit. I could see his pupils dilating behind his closed eyelids as he slowly released the lungful of smoke in his chest, “There may not always be fire when there’s smoke, but many a man has lost more than his life when he ignored the smell of ash in his home. If we aren’t being invaded, we’ll lose nothing by taking precautions; but if we are being invaded, we could well lose everything if we do nothing.”

Orange eyes didn’t so much as blink, “Technically, we could suffer losses by taking overt preparations; if our neighbors see this and draw the potentially not entirely wrong conclusion that we are making ready for war, they could preemptively attack on the assumption we intend to attack them.”

Rokharth snorted even as Markus ran a hand through his greasy hair, “I suppose it’s good we decided not to kick down everyone’s doors then. Still, until and unless we discover Merthoux is definitely not currently operating in our territory, we should hunt for the crazy bastard; increase patrols throughout our territory and send multiple groups to search for any signs of unwanted activity.” He raised his hand to forestall any responses, “This isn’t up for debate; if that lunatic is on our soil, I want him delivered to me in fucking chains.”

Cerikon simply nodded, showing no signs of the resistance he had kept up till then.

Eyes that burned with an unearthly and unendingly hateful fire gazed across a sea of shacks and rundown buildings, evaluating and ignoring the thousands of scenes of tragedy and joy playing out before it. An insidious mockery of a consciousness merely observed, judging and dissecting the souls of those that fell within its alien perception. It watched light pour from windows and sounds pour from throats, seizing the gaseous disturbances and tracing their meaning though twisted thoughtforms and winding ideas until it came to something only the utterly mad would call understanding. Metal teeth clicked and ground in a vile mockery of humour as it vanished from its place wreathed in the smoke slithering from a chimney.