Those are words to live by. Words to convince yourself that not all things are as doom, and gloom as they look. But you've been sitting at the very bottom for a very, very long time now, preparing, and biding your time. With each passing day, it's getting hard to see the light.
If you try to describe the city, then the best you can do is to compare it to a machine. A system of cogs, and gears turning ever so slowly, creaking ever so loudly with the rusts caked on them. It's like the breathing of a dying beast, teetering on the edge of 'life' and 'death', but never leaning to either side. The Head who acts as the immune system, and the Wings responsible to keep the body working. The twenty-six Nests, basking in the lights of the Wings, and the twenty-six Backstreets, hiding underneath the Nests' skyscraping shadows, its path zigzagging with the familiar, unmistakable stench of apathetic despair. Feathers, each small, and big; meaningless, and meaningful.
But what do you know? That was just something you heard from someone else. It sounded profound enough to be believable, and someone who had the time to 'philosophize' was probably strong enough to support said 'philosophy'.
You, on the other hand, do not have such privilege.
But that's about to change.
You have worked, toiled, and labored until your muscles tear apart, and your bones crackle in agony. You have cheated, and pickpocketed, and murdered just to survive, to hope that your landlord would allow you to skim some rent so you don't have to worry spending the night without a roof, to add a few hundred Ahn into your wallet. You have starved yourself for days, dumpster diving for a bone gnaw on, and living off the shavings of your nails, and dead skins. At times, you'd stare at yourself, and find your mouth watering. Only good thing about this kind of living is the low tax the City applies on you — but even that low tax is still a significant amount. It's not ideal living. It's the type of living that would sooner leave you go mad or die in a ditch somewhere.
But finally, after years of misery, and suffering, and torture — you might finally get out of this hole.
In the Backstreets, there's really no going down when you're already on the lowest bottom rung, so you can only go up from there — but there are only three ways you can go up. A: Join a Syndicate; a proper one, not like the Rats. B: Get a Fixer License, and work for an Office. And C: One way or another, get recruited by a Corporation. Without a pathway paved by your father, and his fathers, and their fathers, Option C is straight up impossible. That leaves you with A, and B -- but Option A is much more likely to leave you moneyless, and skinless. Or brainless. Or boneless.
In reality, there has always been only one choice. There's a lot to say about Fixers; they act like they're the top dog, acting all high and mighty and shit, and just plain assholes all around who'd extort money for protection, but they all die the same regardless. But who's not, right? If you got a quarter of their pay, you would act like a shit too, and be proud of it.
But to do that, you need to get a Fixer License — which involves passing the Fixer Exam. You'll have to go through a myriad of physical, intelligence, and psychological tests — the last of which, you hear, is one of those "there's no wrong answer" type of test. It's supposed to be easy — though that's just a conjecture you've made. Most of the Fixers you saw passingly don't look all that strong, and the impression is only strengthened whenever you caught their headless corpses on the streets, courtesy of the Loud Orchestra.
The challenge, you've realized very early on, is not about passing the Exam itself, but to get one in the first place; to have your name jotted down on the list — and for that, you need to pay money for it.
Lots of money.
Opportunity struck in the aftermath of the Pianist. The Distortion took with it 80% of District 9, and while you've never gone far enough to the east of the District to get a glimpse of your 'neighbor', you've heard that it has been practically reduced into ruins. The Wing desperately holds onto its Nest, the very last 20% of the District, curling around it defensively. You've heard of the constant chaotic fighting as Syndicates fight against Syndicates against the Wing and against Fixers; a back and forth of takes, and keeps. Even here, the Pianist' aftermath could still be felt: the Loud Orchestra; a Syndicate boasting a large number of members, all in concert to recreate the Pianist' music — that hypnotic music which you could still hear in your dreams, serenading, drumming, and reverberating throughout your head; your fingers maniacally twitching, snapping, and reaching out for an instrument; for something, anything to make sound with.
You think you know why the Loud Orchestra has so many members despite being so new. Time has made this odd desire manageable — and ultimately, money is more important than music. You can't eat music.
Nevertheless, 80% of a District is a lot of people dead, and in such a short span of time too. And those 80% doesn't count other Fixers who were sent in to deal with the Pianist either. Paired that up with the monsters — some literal, some not — that have been coming out of the woodworks, it means that there's a lot of job requests, but not enough Fixers to take them on. In other words, Fixers were already in high demand, and now those demands are off the chart — meaning lowered skill entry bar, and less monetary requirement.
Well. You say "less monetary requirement", but that still means all the money you've toiled for all these years.
Forlornly, you stare into your wallet. It was something you nabbed from a recently mutilated corpse in an alley outside your apartment — its organs harvested by the Rats, or another in the broad daylight. Five-hundred-and-three-thousand Ahn with some changes attached to your name. If you decide to abruptly cancel your plan, and throw caution in the wind, you could live in relative luxury — HamHamPangPang sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, all toppings included, maybe even double-protein options — and even if it won't last long, maybe half-a-month, before somebody — probably Landlord Lin — noticed that you're living a bit too well, and decided to take all your money away, it would be the best half-a-month you could ever possibly live.
You could die happy.
Drawing out a long sigh, you snap your wallet shut.
—
Your journey across the District for the Hana Association was miraculously, and thankfully uneventful. While you know the Backstreets like it's the face of your parents' face — that is to say, some parts are depressingly blurry, but the other parts are remarkably clear — it doesn't make any waking moment outside any less dangerous. Sure, you could handle a Rat if they didn't stab you from the back; maybe two or more, though that'd mean hoofing it. But anybody above the Rats? You're dead — or worse. An Orchestra member might decide you'd make a pretty decent cello, and nap you. Maybe a Hatchetman likes to test out their newly sharpened hatchet, and you're conveniently there for them. Perhaps a Dreamer wants to see how many 'inspirations' in your head they could 'extract'. The gap between you and them would be akin to a toddler struggling against a 3-meters-tall fully augmented well-suited giant. It's just one of those things that could happen.
Fortunately, none of those things happened. Luck plays a huge part of it, but it's not just that. You scurried, and skulked, and hurried; head buried underneath your hoodie, lowered to worship the stained ground. People on the streets disregard you, doing the exact same thing you do. Keep your head dead, and hope that the other guy gets it.
By the fact that you're here, it seems that the other guy did get it.
Just one of those things, really.
Simply by association, the Branch Office of the Hana Association is in the highly graded part of the Backstreets. It's a chicken and egg situation; the Association being the chicken, who laid the egg; this high-grade sector of the Backstreets. Apartment buildings to actual houses, and streets brimming with people sauntering about; their back straight with a certain confidence in their steps. Here, and there, you see patrolling Fixers, garbed in uniforms a cut above from the common men, with weapons ready at their sides. Open stalls line the side of the streets, the smell of cooked food calling for customers. You catch sight of the HamHamPangPang chain restaurant, and your mouth waters. This place is basically everything you've dreamed of, where you don't have to always look over your shoulders. It's just way too expensive for someone like you.
… Apparent from the way everyone glances at you with disgust.
Just you wait, you add quietly, clenching your jaws.
The Hana Branch Office is easy to find. Normally, Fixer Offices apply only a single rented room – a single office, so to speak. But when it comes to Associations, that expectation flies out of the window. Even though it's "just" a branch office, it occupies a sizable lot in the form of a two-storied building. A small concrete awning stretches out, leading to the entrance. A golden-plated metal hangs over the building, over the blank wall below a window. On it the Hana Association symbol: a tilted golden square with black bars lining each side of the square, leading inward towards its center: the number "1". Below the symbol, "Hana Association Section IV" is carved over. If any other Offices were to do that, you're sure they'd get immediately raided by dozens of Syndicates, like moths would to flame.
Associations aren't just any other Offices though.
Your foot hovers in the air, gait stuck halfway through a step. Off in the corner of your eyes, you catch the HamHam PangPang's sign, taunting you. Once you step into that building, there wouldn't be going back. Reality sets in, squeezing your lungs. Either you pass, get your Fixer License, and have the chance – just the chance – to be more than Lin's errand boy; to be rich, to eat freely, and to sleep under a roof without fear of getting kicked out. Or you fail, and lose all your money, and…
You don't know what you'd do then.
Or you could back out. Get back to Landlord Lin and make it permanent with him. He doesn't need an assistant, not really, but he's old, and you're willing. You'd have to join a Syndicate.
You nearly double in laughter at the thought.
No. You've spent enough years to know what kind of life that would be, and why you wouldn't want it. At least, at the very least, you need to try first. Squaring your shoulders, you take a deep breath, and drop your foot into the ground – and then another towards the entrance. Maybe, hopefully, whether in celebratory or conciliatory, you'd have enough money to buy a HamHam PangPang sandwich for dinner.
The entrance's glass doors are thick and opaque enough that the only thing you can see is your reflection. You stand there for a moment, unsure. Then the light above it turns green, and the entrance slides open – and you're suddenly blown back by a wave of cool, clean air. Pristine, the word locks in, as you absently move in; a sweet floral perfume wafting into your nose. A beige carpet, so soft underneath your torn-up shoe soles, it'd probably be better than your bed. It is as though you've stepped into an entirely different world; maybe a glance into one, where everything seems so uncomfortably clean, and white. A billboard hangs on a wall, covered with posters, and brochures burying each other: Midnight Office, Scarecrow Office, Yin Office – they're advertisements for Fixer Offices, you realize, with a scant few searching for hires; most of them weathered, but couple or three looking freshly nailed.
"How can I help you?"
You jump, whirling towards the voice, tense. A glasses-wearing man sits behind the reception desk, blonde-haired, and wearing the Hana uniform; golden filigrees like lining the seams of his white overcoat, reaching further below his waists. Over his shoulders, you spot black lines running on it. Underneath is a white suit; white shirt, white trousers, and white vests. White verything, broken only by a black tie hanging around his neck. They look – no, they are expensive. Otherworldly, even. White is the easiest color to stain, you muse quietly. You have no eyes for these things, but you've gone on enough errands for Lin to understand the materials needed to make them; the blood people would spill – had spilled to acquire them. You've seen blades shatter against them. And the Hana Association have turned them into uniforms, bestowed them to whoever managed to become one of them.
The wearer himself doesn't look that much older than you, maybe two-or-three years older, yet you're more well than aware that he could snap your neck with ease. You think everyone in this building could. His lips curve, and as his attention bores into you, you notice the sudden absence of noise. Next to the desk, you spot a hallway, leading deeper inside, as well as another door on the other side of the room; "Waiting Room", the sign on it says.
"Well?" the man prompts, his tone airy.
You fidget, feeling a strange itch. Nervously, you dig into your pockets. "I'm here for uh, registering," you say haltingly. The man raises his eyebrow. You cough. "I wanna take the license exam, I mean."
"Ah, I see," he hums, before chuckling, arms crossed over the desk. "Well, you're in luck, then. But before that, it'll cost you 500-kay Ahn to take the exam," he cocks an eyebrow. "Do you have that?"
"Just barely," you mutter, pulling out your wallet. Staring at the stacks of papers, and pouch of coins, you can't help but tear up a bit. Some of the papers have been torn by its edges by time. All of these years, gone in just the matter of seconds. It's terrifying. Looks like it's rice and salt for dinner. "Here," you sag in defeat, sliding the money over the counter.
"Perfect," he grins, taking the money – and in turn, slides over a piece of paper, alongside a pen. "Here, fill this this in," he says, counting the cash. "Oh, and you're free to take the pen."
You nod glumly. "Right," muttering so, you scan the paper. It's a registration form; name, age, gender; skills, talents, and such. Picking up the pen, you roll it in your hand. It feels awkward, and as you press the tip to the blank line, you realize why.
Your hand is shaking.
Article:
Name:
[] Name
Appearance:
[] Picture or Description
Age:
[] 18 - 21
Sex:
[] Male
[] Female
Merit: (Choose 1 – Merits cost 15% less EXP to Level Up, and 5% less EXP to Skills under its umbrella)
[] Fortitude: You're tough.
[] Prudence: You're smart – and handy at tinkering.
[] Temperance: Being too sympathetic isn't necessarily a good thing, but… you're pretty smooth.
[] Justice: You know how to make decisions.
Demerit: (Choose 1 – Demerits cost 15% more EXP to Level Up, and 10% more EXP to Skills under its umbrella)
[] Fortitude: You, uh, prefer to be in the back.
[] Prudence: Honestly, you gotta admit it's a miracle you could read.
[] Temperance: You suppose you're a bit distant – that's not a bad thing, right?
[] Justice: … Just don't put you in a leader role.
Talents: (Choose 3 – Skills are listed below; Chosen Talents will cost 10% less EXP to Level Up, and start at Adept)
[] Skill 1
[] Skill 2
[] Skill 3
Stats:
Fortitude: Strength, Endurance, and Physical Prowess. Defiance. The Essence of Instinct; of survival in the face of fierce adversity. It is said that those of high Fortitude have lived their life surrounded by bloodshed, their face forced onto concrete by the legs of those above them. However, it's not enough to simply take those punishments lying down, swallowing the bitter tears of humiliation; they have to rise up, and fight back. Skills: Melee (Combat)s, Instinct, and Endurance.
Prudence: Rationality. Sanity. Mental Prowess. The Essence of Insight; to look further beyond what's allowed. It is not one's measure of Intelligence, but rather their Rationality — their Curiosity to uncover the truths, breaking down not just others, but also one's self; all the while, keeping their wits about them. Only by doing so can one walk tall, unweighted by madness. Skills: Technology, Insight, and Ranged (Combat).
Temperance: Patience. Empathy. Sympathy. The Essence of Attachment. It means to understand another's view; sympathizing with their opinions, and empathizing with their pains. It is Kindness, but it is not Generosity. Those with high Temperance are well aware of the Line's existence, the necessity to toe it, but to never cross it, for it would mean to be consumed by another's ego. Skills: Empathy, Negotiations, and Stealth (Combat).
Justice: Repression. Will. Power. The Essence of the Soul. It is a Scale that is required to be eternally in equilibrium, leaning neither right, nor left. The Expression of one's vision — those with high Justice is said to be unswayed, and unmoved by others; their Belief an indifferent straight, and narrow path. They know what Right is, and what is Wrong, and so walk their path without hesitation. It is one's right to enforce their Will onto another. Skills: Repression (Combat), Vision, Ego.
"I'm done," you mutter. Your fate has been sealed. You return the pen back to the counter – before pausing when the man shoots you a look. Shakily, you put it inside your pocket. "… Now what?"
The man hums, absent-mindedly as he takes the form, reading it. "Looks good," he nods, smiling languidly. "You can go inside there in the waiting room," he rolls his head to the side, eyes peeking over the hall. "The supervisor will come in to pick all of you up later."
All of you? You frown.
"You're not the only with the same idea, kid," the man points out lightly, smirking. "Like I said, you're in luck. The more people register the same day, the quicker someone will come and get it done."
"Oh," you mumble under your breath, stepping away – and towards the waiting room. You catch a peek of the hallway as your hand clasps against the door's handle. It leads deeper inside the building; pictures, and potted plants frame the sides. At the end, you catch a glimpse of the tip of a that white-golden coat. Chairs, sofas, and a glass table; a lounge, as well as another corner towards elsewhere. The white-golden coat-tip shifts, strands of green hair turning out of the corner – and you immediately turn the door handle, and step inside. "Uh."
Four pairs of eyes jump straight towards you – their eyes linger on you only for a beat; realization, and disappointment flashing in their eyes, before they look away. There's a distinct floral smell to the room, mixed in with what you can only best described as 'backstreets' from its occupants. Blank walls, and overly bright lights, flashing painfully from the spinning ceiling fan low enough to hit someone not paying attention. Chairs line up the sides of the square room, and the occupants consistently sit three chairs away from each other, except for two.
… There are not enough chairs for you to follow the pattern, meaning you have to sit next to someone.
Motherfucker.
Article:
[] Cool Girl. A dusky tan skinned girl, with dusty gray hair. Out of everyone in the room, she looks the most equipped; a plain buttoned-up white shirt underneath a blue coat. On her lap is a sheathed sword, exuding strange cold mist, and if looks could freeze… then those blue eyes would do it. Something about – well, her everything tells you that she's a cut above everyone in this room.
[] Hooded Man. Sitting hunched over the corner, there's a man wearing a long-sleeved orange hoodie; the image of a sewn-in tiger on its back. Even sitting, you could tell that he towers over you. Underneath the hoodie, you catch a sliver of curly red hair, and a pair of clenched jaws. On the back of his palm, just peeking from the sleeves, you see a tattoo – and you figure they're not the harmless sort. Everyone about the him pings off on your "Syndicate member" checklist.
[] Napping Boy. Leaning back on his chair, seemingly unaware, or just uncaring of the world, is a napping boy; arms crossed over his chest, and head lolling against the wall. Purple hair droops over his face – a bright neon blue streak cutting straight down onto his bangs. From the way he's smiling, he seems to be having a particularly nice dream. Good for him, you suppose.
[] Whispering Pair. Sitting next to each other is a boy, and a girl, whispering to each other – the boy more so towards the girl than the other way around. They look… out of place. The boy with blue hair exudes confidence, while the girl with pink hair seems to shrink into herself – but those themselves aren't odd. Rather, it's what on them. It's the vested suits, blue tie on the girl, and red tie on the boy. It's the large holstered knife on the girl's vest, and the pistol on the boy's – which that alone should be the dead give-away. But more than that, it's their skin: light as the Napping Boy, perhaps on the paler side, yet not as dusty as the Napping Boy, or the Hooded Man, or even the Cool Girl. They look… glossy. Healthy. You don't think they're from the Backstreets.
Voting Scheme:
[] Plan Name
-[] Name
-[] Appearance
-[] Age
-[] Sex
-[] Merit
-[] Demerit
-[] Talent 1, Talent 2, Talent 3
Health: 18 -- 18/30 (Injured -- -1 to All Physical Roll)
- Armor Resist: +4 (+2 Armor from 4 Endurance, +2 from Karrion's Armor)
Sanity: 7 (+5 from Food Buff) -- 7/25 (Terrified -- -2 to All Mental Roll)
- Mental Resist: +1 (2 Ego)
Stats and Skills:
Fortitude (Favored): III (0 / 1700) - You remember something... and that something is the fact that you're made of something spookier than you first thought. Still, that don't make you any less stronger, and sturdier. Other way 'round, really. So fuck 'em, fuck all of 'em. You're not gonna dwell on it too much. You're gonna use it. Wield it. And those that look down on you will fucking shit their pants.
Prudence (Unfavored): I (20 / 575) - You're not smart. Actually, you're dumb. You're not prideful enough to not admit that -- pride got no worth unless you could back it up, okay? Landlord Lin helped with that, begrudgingly. He's shit at it, but you suppose you weren't helping. At the end of the day, there's only so much smarts you could use. Up a certain point, knives and fists get things done easier. Being able to do some counting, and reading are more than enough.
Ranged: Untrained - 0 (0 / 110)
Technology: Untrained - 0 (0 / 110)
Insight: Rookie - 1 (0 / 220)
Temperance: II (0 / 1000) - Hah. It's fucking hard to believe, you know it, but decent people might exist in this City. Decent people that are pretty alright, and worth... worth whatever.Mao. Lily. Sun. Mori. Burke. Daniel. Six people you've met, some you're working with, and... yeah. You can work with them. Stand them, even. You don't gotta do this shit alone, as it happens. But if you can't... then...
Stealth: Rookie - 1 (0 / 200)
Empathy: Adept - 2 (0 / 400)
Negotiation: Adept - 2 (0 / 400)
Justice: III (0 / 2000) - To kill or be killed, to take or be taken -- that is the Law of the City. Winner takes all, no compromises allowed, or the penalty would be too high. But, is that all that there is to it? To you? Is that all that you're truly amount to, no different than a beast? An exceedinly fucked and pointless existence. Tell me, where is the Justicein that? (Memory Fragment Found. Recollection Will Begin Soon.)
Repression (Talent): Adept - 2 (0 / 360)
Vision: Adept - 2 (0 / 400)
Ego: Skilled - 3 (0 / 800)
Extra Skill:
Cooking: Rookie- 1 (150/200XP). Thanks to Sun's cooking lesson, as well as weeks being spent gorging yourself with the most expensive, and luxurious food your money could find, but mostly Sun's cooking lesson, you can cook. Like actually cook. Real edible food cook-like jazz, ain't some burnt shit. You ain't Sun, and you ain't gonna be adoptin' that mushy love shit, but you reckon you ain't half bad. You can learn two recipes.
Learned Recipe:
Mom's Shit Stir-Fry - the 'art' of not wasting food by throwing everything (and you mean everything) available into your preferable cooking vessel. What comes out of the other end is shit, predictably. Hundreds and thousands of explosions of flavors, but in a fucked up vomit-inducing way. Sweet, and sour, and salty, and spicy, and bitter, and just in general gut-curling. Yet, despite that, it fills you with great and addicting and deep Longing and Yearning. You've tasted this, so long ago, and it beckons. [-10 Sanity. Can't be recovered naturally.
+ 1 to Ego: Remember the Past.
+ 1 to Repression: Learn from the Past.
- 2 to Vision: Yearn for the Past.
Lasts for a Week.]
[Recipe Slot]
Perks:
Partners (Kai): Boundaries set, and expectations spelt. Partners. This is where you stand with Kai. Closer than colleagues, but not 'friends', though arguably much closer than 'friends'. Simply said, you have her back, and she has yours, and whether you realize it or not, she trusts her life in your hands, and you trust yours in hers. When fighting together, Kai and Lily works as a well-oiled machine. When one is in danger, or about to take a Fatal Hit, the other will reflexively take that hit. You get a much better read on Kai, despite her expression, or lack of one – Empathy Checks with Kai are significantly lowered, and yours she.
Fragment: Twice-Beating Heart (Fortitude III): You died, once. Actually died. Your heart had stopped fully, the fluid in your body reaching to an end flow, and your brain ceasing to function -- and something told you that it ain't a particularly nice death. But you're alive. You're not dead. Flesh twitching, heart beating, blood flowing, and brain braining it up. Somehow, someway, probably due to some fucked up shit you don't even know, you're alive. You got back the fuck up. And you got the feeling that the part you managed to remember ain't the first or even the last time that shit happened. And fuck, shit, and fuck, you got the feelin' that there's more about you that you don't fucking even. Once per Week, if your health drops to 0, however the circumstances, you will be revived back up to an "Injured" Health State. If Sanity is below "Nervous" State, will Recover up to "Nervous" State upon Revival.
Buff:
- Food Buff: Luxurious. +5 to Sanity. +1 to Instinct.
- 8th Grade Fixer. When facing those with lower experience, gain +1 to All Combat Rolls.
Inventory:
- Portable Stove: It's a stove that uses gas as fuel. It can also use Enkephalin Canister, but that's too expensive nowadays. [Unlocks New Meal Plans.]
On Person:
- Kitchen knife - Sharp, and cheap. It ain't perfect, and s'gonna break first 'fore it dulls, but it sure as shit better than nothing. (Weapon Damage +0. Breaks Easily.)
- Quality Crowbar - Fixer Fitted Weapon. It got good balance, and pretty sturdy. (Weapon Damage +1)
- A Hana Association Fountain Pen -- probably worth like, few hundreds Ahn, if you sell it. Otherwise, it's something you can write with, you guess. - A Pouch of Iron Pills (2x). The product of an old, abandoned, and almost-forgotten Singularity. According to Tori, it's the worst type of products. Still. It should still work, and you'll need everything you can get. Just don't swallow it more than one at a time -- or at too-short intervals. [Heals 2 HP per Pill.]
- Treely. A... sapling that you vomited out, after the effects of the Seven Seed expired... or so you're thinking. You name it Treely because it's a Tree (Kinda) and it came out of you. You might have to visit the workshop you bought it from, if you want some information, or make use of it somehow. Or... you could just plant, and raise it.
Equipped:
- Lily's Fixer Uniform (Karrion-Made, Scarecrows) – Tattered black tailcoat and trousers. Faded purple vest covered in equally faded floral patterns (lily), and white threadbare shirt, its top buttons popped out. There's a new addition: a badge woven into the breast of the coat; the image of a crow perched on a wide-brimmed hat. It's made from silk, or fabrics, harvested from sources that you have heavy suspicion on. You shiver at . +1 Endurance, +2 Armor Resist. Life Sap: Temporarily Heals 5 HP when Killing an Enemy.
- Knockbar (Right Hand) – A Crowbar crafted by Tor of Knock Workshop. A knockbar, if you will. It weighs, and feels the same as the crowbar made by Hana, and other than the carvings etched on either ends of it, and the changed color scheme from red to silvergrey, it also looks the same. Nevertheless, you gave it a shot on yourself, and... find yourself stumbling at the sudden knockback. Yeah. Okay. That's fair. +1 Damage. Applies Debuff: Off-Balance – On Hit, opponent receives -1 on their next move.
- Guntlet (Left Hand) – A Gauntlet that has a Gun installed with it: a Guntlet. It's a product of the SilverSteel Workshop, crafted by one Mander. Or 'Mandy', as Mao calls her. Living up to its Workshop's name, the Guntlet is silver in color, though you're not sure about its actual material. It's sleek, and clean looking. Segmented finger parts that ends in a sharp claw-like tip. The gauntlet itself reaches goes beyonf your wrist, reaching towards the middle-length of your arm. On them, there are words being inscribed, though they're practically nonsense to you, on the account of being written in a language that you don't even know exist. There's a trigger comfortably that sits perfectly in your grip, and there's some mechanism to it that you can't even comprehend -- a gun muzzle poking out of it. It just works, and even someone like you could make it work. Effect: +4 Damage per Shot. Uses Melee instead of Ranged. Requires Bullet to Use. 100,000 Ahn per Bullet. Can only Carry 12 at Maximum per Outing. Current Bullets: 1
- Red Ribbon (Hair Accessory). A gift from Karrion for a job well done. It comes in a pair -- one is with you, tied tightly on your hair, while the other is on Kai's. This symbolizes... well, you don't know what it symbolizes, but it symbolizes something. [Improved Coordination.]
- Time-Telling Wristwatch (Left Wrist). It's an green ugly-looking watch that's still in good working condition. Now, if you're ever late for something, you'll know. [Lets you tell time.]
Goal:
- Pay Rent: Collect Eight-Hundred-Thousand Ahn for your Monthly Pay Rent. Failure leads to either homelessness, or Favors to Landlord Lin.
- Pay Your Tax or Else – Pay 500,000 Ahn monthly. Failure to pay will induce penalty from The Head. Failure to pay three times, and the Head will visit you. This Goal will last as long as the Head exist
To preface, this will be the first time where I am I running a mechanic "heavy" Quest (discounting AGG, and the like), so it will be subject to changes – and I am always open to hearing inputs to make it better. There will be a lot of awkward moments where I try to write in this style. When all else fails, though, I will always fall back onto the narrative.
Stats, Skills, and Skillchecks
There are two main components to this Quest: Stats, and Skills. There are four Stats: Fortitude, Prudence, Temperance, and Justice – and they hold a certain narrative power in that they shape the Main Character in ways that Skills don't. For example, people with high Fortitude aren't just tough in body, but also in mindset; aggressive, and defiant. Consequently, people with high Justice are people with a high amount of self-import. They uphold their own belief, and follow their own Justices, rather than those that the City fed upon them.
Skills, however, refer to the technical side of things. That doesn't mean they don't get pointed out in the story, and that people won't note it – but they don't shape the Character's personality as strong as Stats. For example, people with High Prudence are smart, and curious intellectuals, and if they have a high Melee, then they're simply good at fighting in close combat as well – if that makes sense.
So what is the Technical Side of Things refer to? Here we go to Rolls. In this quest, all rolls will be rolled through a d10, and each Checks will have their own Difficulties which you have to roll higher, or the same to pass (i.e. rolling a 4 or 6, when the Check requires 4 will result in a Pass). Here Skills play an important role as a Direct Modifier relevant to the Check. Example: If a Stealth Check is to be done, and you have Stealth at 3, then you will roll a 1d10+3.
Stats also play a role here, not as Modifiers, but as Difficulty Handler. That is to say, the higher your Stat is, relevant to the roll, the easier the check is to pass. For example, say that you are about to be Ambushed. This corresponds to Fortitude and Instinct. Say that you have Fortitude I, then you will have to roll a Hard Difficulty Check, which requires you to pass 7. Meanwhile, if you have Fortitude III, then the Difficulty will be reduced to Easy, meaning you have to pass a 2. Higher than that, then you will simply Auto-Succeed.
Easy (3) - Medium (6) - Hard (9) – Very Hard (12) – Improbable (15) – Impossible (18) –
So to Summarize, Stats act as your Foundations; increasing them increases your Base Power. Meanwhile, Skills are your Expertise.
Stats:
Fortitude: Strength, Endurance, and Physical Prowess. Defiance. The Essence of Instinct; of survival in the face of fierce adversity. It is said that those of high Fortitude have lived their life surrounded by bloodshed, their face forced onto concrete by the legs of those above them. However, it's not enough to simply take those punishments lying down, swallowing the bitter tears of humiliation; they have to rise up, and fight back. Skills: Melee (Combat)s, Instinct, and Endurance.
Prudence: Rationality. Sanity. Mental Prowess. The Essence of Insight; to look further beyond what's allowed. It is not one's measure of Intelligence, but rather their Rationality — their Curiosity to uncover the truths, breaking down not just others, but also one's self; all the while, keeping their wits about them. Only by doing so can one walk tall, unweighted by madness. Skills: Technology, Insight, and Ranged (Combat).
Temperance: Patience. Empathy. Sympathy. The Essence of Attachment. It means to understand another's view; sympathizing with their opinions, and empathizing with their pains. It is Kindness, but it is not Generosity. Those with high Temperance are well aware of the Line's existence, the necessity to toe it, but to never cross it, for it would mean to be consumed by another's ego. Skills: Empathy, Negotiations, and Stealth (Combat).
Justice: Repression. Will. Power. The Essence of the Soul. It is a Scale that is required to be eternally in equilibrium, leaning neither right, nor left. The Expression of one's vision — those with high Justice is said to be unswayed, and unmoved by others; their Belief an indifferent straight, and narrow path. They know what Right is, and what is Wrong, and so walk their path without hesitation. It is one's right to enforce their Will onto another. Skills: Repression (Combat), Vision, Ego.
Combat Mechanic -- Note: May Subject to Change. It's a bit finnicky, and suggestions are welcome.
So. Combat. In Path of Greed (name temp), you will be fighting a lot. This follows similar Basis as normal Skill checks, with the exception that you will be clashing against enemy diceroll instead of pre-decided Difficulty Requirement. But if you're concerned about not having a Combat Skill, then you don't have to worry, as each Stat Umbrella has a Skill that would correspond as your Combat Skill. This means that you don't have to level up Melee, if that is not the type of character your MC is.
Fortitude –Melee; Great for Direct Clashes, Keeping the Enemy's Attention on you, and away from your friends
Prudence – Ranged; Opens up Ranged Options, though Requires Ranged Weapons. Always Attacks First.
Temperance – Stealth; Assassinations, and, Avoiding Clashes for One-Sided Strikes
Justice – Repression. Deals Sanity Damage, and perhaps Soul Damage as it grows. Loss of Sanity could lead to certain effects. Repression could be blocked or dodged, but if it gets through, the Damage can't be reduced through means other than Innate Mental Resist (Ego) or special circumstances (no Sanity, etc), or item (i.e. Moonstones).
Additionally, Health Points correspond to Fortitude, while Sanity Points correspond to Prudence. Without any increase from either Stat, you will have 20 HP and SP divided into 5 States to reflect your status, from Healthy/Normal, to Lightly Wounded, Wounded, to Heavily Wounded, to Critical. Each Rank Increase in the Stat adds 5 Points into the pool.
Of course, this does not account for other effects that augmentations, or Armor brings.
Update: Additionally, upon reaching a certain level of Injuries, you will receive a debuff. You receive no Debuff from Healthy, to Lightly Wounded, but upon reaching Wounded to Critical, you will receive a debuff to your rolls:
Damage is: Enemy Roll vs Your Roll. If defends, Winner Roll – Losing Roll – Armor. If Attacks, Winning Roll is damage – Armor. If Dodging, Roll Best of X (X being your Dodge Skill), and compare against enemy attacks. If win, no damage, but if lost, full damage. Unless enemy uses Stealth, or has Special Skill to ignore it, there will always be Clashes.
(Example: Lily and Ran both attack. Lily Rolls 7, Ran Rolls 12. Lily loses. Gets 12 Damage.
Lily Defends, and Ran Attacks. Lily rolls 7, and Ran rolls 13. Lily loses. Gets 6 Damage
Lily Dodges, and Ran Attacks. Lily rolls 8, and 7. 8 is taken. Ran rolls 7. No Damage.)
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0.1. Grilled Oxtail Soup Sprinkled with Fried Shallots, Served with Steamed Coconut Rice
[] Whispering Pair. Sitting next to each other is a boy, and a girl, whispering to each other – the boy more so towards the girl than the other way around. They look… out of place. The boy with blue hair exudes confidence, while the girl with pink hair seems to shrink into herself – but those themselves aren't odd. Rather, it's what on them. It's the vested suits, blue tie on the girl, and red tie on the boy. It's the large holstered knife on the boy's vest, and the pistol on the girl's – which that alone should be the dead give-away. But more than that, it's their skin: light as the Napping Boy, perhaps on the paler side, yet not as dusty as the Napping Boy, or the Hooded Man, or even the Cool Girl. They look… glossy. Healthy. You don't think they're from here, from the Backstreets.
Cool Girl, Hood-Man, Nap-Boy, and the Nest-Pair. Your eyes switch from to another, then next, only to go back again from the start. This sort of shit shouldn't be hard, but who knows what sort of stuff they're gonna pull if you sit next to them. There's a pretty good reason why they got a few empty chairs between them. Cool Girl makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, while Hood-Man looks seconds away from turning flying off the rails. Nap-Boy seems safe enough, but something about him unsettles you – meanwhile, the idea of sitting next to the Nest-Pair make your stomach roil.
Growling under your breath, you plop yourself next to the Nest-Girl. She lets out a barely audible squeak, drowned by the metallic squeak of your own chair; the sort that has a desk attached. You could swallow your bile; pride is a privilege you don't got, and the seat here's closest to the door. You lean back, and close your eyes, suddenly well-aware at the quiet of the room, broken only by the soft snoring of Nap-Boy. In the corner of your periphery, the pink-haired Nest-Girl shrinks into herself, hands pressed tightly onto her knees. Despite sheathed, the large knife on her vest seems to glint dangerously; there's a mark etched on the leather sheath – a Workshop's logo, though you're not sure which one.
"Hey, girl, you're scaring my friend."
Your eye twitches. Snapping your head to the Nest-Boy, you narrow your eyes. "And fuck does it matter to you?"
Nest Boy smiles. Ponytailed blue hair, and jade-green eyes. You blink. "Got your attention, didn't I? Name's Min," he adds, before tilting his head. "And this here's Alexis."
You stare at him. Min meets it with an expectant look. Your eyes narrow. "I ain't givin' you my name," you say. "Never asked yours."
Nest-Boy chuckles, raising his shoulders into a shrug. "Well, guess you got me beat, Miss Cranky. Can't force you to tell me your name, can I?"
"Cranky," you repeat, voice monotone. "… Fuck a pair of you Nest fuckboys doing out here?"
"Ah, gotta correct you there," Min chimes in, shaking his head. He smiles, teeth white. "I'm from this here Backstreets through, and through. Though my friend here's from the Nest. Say hi, Alexis."
Alexis looks less, and less like a human, and more like one of those curled up mouse. "H-hi," she whispers.
You give Min another look-over. If what he said is true, there's no visible sign of it. Glossy skin, and pearly white teeth. Bright eyes with no bags, and a holstered pistol strapped to his chest. "Not anymore you're not," you mutter bitterly. "Good for you."
It's barely a flash – a blink and miss it moment – but you catch his lips twitch. "Lucky me," Min repeats flatly, before shaking his head, his smile returning. "But as for why I'm here, then it's because I've always wanted to become a Fixer, y'know? Make something of myself; find a way to contribute to society."
You realize, as you stare at him, you're not sure what the fuck he's talking about. "Wanted to become a Fixer", "make something of myself", "a way to contribute to society" – each word of those sentences make sense, but combined into those sentences, they all lose meanings. You blink. "… And this girl is?" you ask when nothing comes into your mind.
"She's helping me."
"Is she," you blandly say to yourself, giving the girl a look. Under her hair, you catch her smile, nodding. You shiver. These two are fucking insane. You shake your head. "Only matters if you pass though," you point out, before snorting. "… Guess you could just pay to take the test again."
"Wait," Min suddenly says, blinking. His smile turns into a smirk, like he's hearing the funniest shit ever. "You don't know?"
You narrow your eyes, a growl rising to your throat. "What?" you bark.
Min giggles. "We already passed, Miss Cranky."
The growl in your throat dies. "… What?"
"Yeah," he grins, nodding ecstatically. "The moment you forked over your money over to Mr. Gold there, you're already a Fixer – just waiting for them to print out the license card."
"… Then what about the test? We got to do that, right?"
Min shakes his head. "There's a test, but it's not an admission test. It's a performance test," he corrects, and you turn to look around the room, straight towards the Cool Girl. She closes her eyes, head nodding. Hood-Man's head locks to Min, and you catch his eyes. Some relief that you're not the only clueless one here. "We're taking this test so they could figure out how good we are. If we're good, then we gonna get recommended to better Offices. If not… well," he smirks, and your eyes narrow. "Fixers come and go. You'll never go jobless, at least."
"… That's a cold way to put it, don't you think, Mister Min?" you look up from Nest-Boy, towards the Not-So-Napping-Boy. Purple hair, with a streak of neon blue running down to his bang. His body bounces up from the wall, back straight, his smile wide, too wide; blue eyes twinkling bright. "Saying that Fixers come and go like that –"
"That's the truth, isn't it…" Min trails off, his smile rigid.
"Merry," he answers proudly. "Name's Merry – Mom and Dad gave me the name so I could brighten up their days," he beams. "But sure, guess you're not wrong, but you're saying it like that don't apply to the "good" Fixers. They all die the same, you know."
Min frowns. "They're less likely to die."
"True, I suppose," Merry bobs his head. "But regardless of Grades, they're not as hopeless as you think you are. Those people have all struggled all the same, y'know. Scrounging for food, killing others for money, and having to live with it… just 'cause they're 'weak', don't mean they're actually weak. You get me?" for some reason, Merry's eyes lock with your when he says that.
"… Yes," Min answers, tone monotone.
Your eyes narrow back at Merry. He giggles, and –
The door clicks. Six pairs of eyes move collectively towards the door – the handle spins, and the door swings open. Open golden white coat reaching down to her ankles flapping at the sudden wind. Her hair a messy green thing, loose strands sticking out like spikes. You feel her amber eyes undress you, before they move to the others. Suddenly, you regret sitting so close to the door. She steps into the middle of the room with a wide saunter, one hand shoved into the pocket of her trousers, while the other cradling a stack of papers.
There's a long pause. Your skin prickles. Compared to the receptionist, she looks much older. Five, maybe more years older. If the receptionist could snap your neck with ease, you think this woman could turn you into mincemeat with a single kick.
"Right," she yawns. "Name's Ran, and I'll be your supervisor for the day. I got something else I wanna do, so let's get this done quick," she mumbles, waving the stack of papers like a fan. "Fill these in, and then we can move to the physical part of the test. Jin should give y'all a pen to use. Blondie," she turns to you, and your hands manage to barely catch the thrown stack of papers. "Everybody gets one. Chop chop."
"Hold up," Hood Man growls out, even as he takes a piece of paper, and send the rest to Cool Girl. "I got a question."
The supervisor raises her hand, taking the rest of the paper stacks from Cool Girl. "Shoot."
"That chucklefuck over there," he nods to Min. Min chuckles. Hood-Man growls. "Shithead there says this all's just for some performance test?"
"Yep," Ran answers simply, popping the 'p'.
"Fuck," Hood-Man seethes. "Fuck."
"Well," she says, scanning the room for another round. "Don't keep me waiting."
That's your go then.
Clicking the fountain pen, you look over the papers. It's two pages, filled with questions, and —
You're not sure what you were s'pectin', but these ain't them. Guess you were thinking something more along the line of number questions, or 'sai-ens' shit, or something. You had expected to fail this, maybe barely pass it if you got lucky, and compensate on the physical test, but these questions…
Article:
1. A client comes in with a job request, but the client does not have enough money to afford the cost. What do you do?
[] Take the job. Why?
[] Don't take the job. Why?
3. A client gives you an Urban Plague job. However, it appears to be on an Urban Nightmare in reality. What do you do?
[] Finish the job, and make sure the client pays it all.
[] Do not finish the job. Hunt the client or report them to your closest Hana Association.
6. During an encounter, you realize you've bitten off more than you could chew. You have a couple Fixers with you. Not all of you can retreat.
[] You'll retreat, and call reinforcement from your Office.
[] You'll stay behind and hold them off until reinforcement.
[] All of you stay will stay, and fight.
10. Upon completion of a request, the client pays you 120.000 Ahn. However, the agreed upon reward was 150.000 Ahn. What do you do?
[] Force the money out of them, one way or another.
[] Let them go. Why?
---
It doesn't take more than maybe ten minutes before everyone finishes, and the supervisor collects the paper. You struggled somewhat, not because the questions themselves are difficult – for the most part, most of them appear to be one of those weird "x happens what will you do" type of questions, with a few math questions that more or less involves what you've been doing for the last several years. The hard part was writing said answers down to make sure they're legible, but other than that? You're not even sure how they're going to grade it.
Regardless, the supervisor eventually leads you out of the Waiting Room, and deeper through the hallways. You couldn't see it before, but now with her back turned against you, you notice the six black bars on the back of her coat, each two pairing to form a black lline, and -- it's quiet, you can't help but realize. Too quiet. Sure, there's the tap-tapping from out front by the receptionist, but other than that? For a building sized Office where supposedly dozens of Fixers are working in, the Office building is oddly quiet. Perhaps they're upstairs, but even so, people make noise. Even at the quietest days in the Apartment, where families were evicted out to the streets, with only a few handfuls left, you could still hear people noises echoing through the walls.
It makes your skin itch, the unnaturalistic of this quietness. Nobody says anything. As Ran guides you downstairs to the basement, leading to a wide-open room with exercise tools, and weapons displayed on the walls, you realize nobody could even if they noticed – even if they wanted to.
From outside, the Hana Association Branch Office appears fine. Strong. Triumphant, even. But even though nobody would dare to raid an Association Branch Office, a façade is still a façade. There'd be only one possible answer on why the Office Building would be so deathly, clinically quiet. You could be hella way of the mark, but there's always that one line:
Fixers die all the same.
You shiver.
"Yeah, so," Ran claps her hands together, gathering your attention. She points at the walls of weapons. Swords, spears, knives, hammers, and more. "Take your pick. All of you are gonna come at me – and I'll score you from how many hits you can get in," she yawns, before cracking her fists. "Well, one hit should be enough for me to give you a commendation for whatever Office you wanna get in."
Yeah, that sound 'bout right. As you walk towards the wall of weapons, you keep Ran inside your periphery. She stands there on the middle, stretching her legs out. She doesn't have any weapon on her; just fists, and legs. You never asked what Grade she's in, but you have a distinct feeling that even if you know, it will matter zilch.
Article:
Choose your Weapon:
[] Write-in Melee Only Weapons
What's your approach?
[] Assault. Meet her head on, and do not hesitate. From the looks of it, Hood-Man and Cool Girl got the same idea. Maybe you could get some hits in.
-[] Aggresively
-[] Defensively
[] Duel. Challenge her on one-on-one. It might be stupid. It is stupid, but if there's one way to prove yourself, then here's how.
-[] Defensively
-[] Aggresively
[] Stand back. It'd be the smart thing to do. Like, yeah, you're not smart, but like. Yeah. Hope others would maybe tire Ran in, and then you could strike while she's open. Looks like Nest-Pair got the same idea.
Combat Mechanic -- Note: May Subject to Change. As it is, mechanic is somewhat experimental. Suggestions are appreciated.
So. Combat. In Path of Greed (name temp), you will be fighting a lot. This follows similar Basis as normal Skill checks, with the exception that you will be clashing against enemy diceroll instead of pre-decided Difficulty Requirement. But if you're concerned about not having a Combat Skill, then you don't have to worry, as each Stat Umbrella has a Skill that would correspond as your Combat Skill. This means that you don't have to level up Melee, if that is not the type of character your MC is.
Fortitude –Melee; Great for Direct Clashes, Keeping the Enemy's Attention on you, and away from your friends
Prudence – Ranged; Opens up Ranged Options, though Requires Ranged Weapons. Always Attacks First.
Temperance – Stealth; Assassinations, and, Avoiding Clashes for One-Sided Strikes
Justice – Repression. Deals Sanity Damage, and perhaps Soul Damage as it grows. In Order to Deal Sanity Damage, Physical Strike has to Hit. Repression does not modify Physical Strikes. Sanity Damage Cannot Be Defended Against, Only Resisted.
Additionally, Health Points correspond to Fortitude, while Sanity Points correspond to Prudence. Without any increase from either Stat, you will have 20 HP and SP with a partition of 5s to reflect your Status, from Healthy/Normal, to Wounded, to Heavily Wounded, to Critical. Each Rank Increase in the Stat adds 5 Points into the pool.
Of course, this does not account for other effects that augmentations, or Armor brings.
Damage is: Enemy Roll vs Your Roll. Winner Roll gets Substracted by Loser Roll, and Result is Taken as Damage.
Insane. Everything about this is fucking insane – picking a fight with a Veteran Fixer? Shit. Haltingly, you glance towards Ran, eyes twitching back and forth, never staying on the same spot, always ending on the outlines of her shape. It's scary. It goes against every fiber of your being. It's like fighting Rats, yeah? They're dumb, and way more starved than you are; scavengers who scurry at the first signs of danger. They don't got a goal like you do; they survive for the sake of survival. Kill two out of five, and the other three are gonna scurry like hell. Maybe one will stay back, trying their luck, before they got their shit kicked in. It's like that with Ran, except this time you're the Rats, and there's no way out. You might outnumber her 5-to-1, but she's not the one trapped here with you.
Shit, and fuck. You're sweating. Shaking your head, you manage to turn your eyes back to the walls of weapons, scrolling through them. Maybe if you weren't so distracted by the prospect of having your insides crushed, you might be able to appreciate them. They all come in different shapes, and sizes. Swords, spears, and axes. Daggers, and knives. Carpenter's hammers, canes, and bats, and – your eyes lock onto a crowbar. A jet-black thing of iron curved into a teethy crook, the other end a sharp narrow edge. There's a handle to it; some kinds of red synthetic wrap to keep it from slipping or blistering your hands.
As you swing it in your hand, testing its heft, days of breaking and entering come to your mind. Often, tenants do not come back home. After a day or two, Landlord Lin would keep an eye on it – but after a few days with no news, he'd deem the room abandoned, and the contract voided; the tenant out there somewhere, never to return. While he looks for a new tenant, you're tasked with a crowbar to break in, and clean it up, as well as collecting anything of value – which is almost never. At times, in that empty room, you would swing the crowbar around, shattering… worthless trinkets, and imaginary foes. Those are your usual main source of revenues, excluding the occasional delivery runs Landlord Lin gives you.
You bring up the crowbar to eye level, smiling. Between the teeth of the crowbar, Ran the Hana Supervisor stretches on the ground, and – Merry slips into view, his too-large grin caught between your crowbar's teeth.
"Heya," he chirps. "You look pretty when you smile."
You nearly choke. "Say that again, and I'll cave your fucking face in," you growl, bringing the crowbar to your side. You look around the room; large, and bland, lit up by a series of lamps on the ceiling, and – the boy's not going away. "Get away from me, you creep."
"Ouch, that hurts," Merry grimaces, placing a hand over his chest. He bounces back almost immediately. "But anyway, weird weapon there that you chose."
You look down to your crowbar, and then back up to Merry. "… You making fun of me, asshole?"
His eyes widen "No, no, no," he shakes his head quickly. "I mean, it's not like I have any say about it either," saying that, he lifts a carpenter's hammer to view, wooden shaft, and a metal head. He grins. "See? In the end," he adds, turning to face the others. "A weapon is just a tool we feel most comfortable with, right?"
Following his gaze, you understand what he meant immediately. Cool Girl has the sword she has been carrying, while Hood Man picked out a pair of spiked brass-knuckles off the wall. Min takes out his pistol, tinkering with it, while Alexis has one of those fancy large serrated knife in hand, her hold loosening and retightening, grip switching back and forth. You look back to yourself, and Merry. A crowbar, and a hammer.
You snort, scowling, before turning to Merry. "What do you want from me?"
Merry beams. "A name," he answers.
"A name," you repeat, flatly.
He bobs his head up and down excitedly. "Yep," he answers, popping the 'p'. "I figure that since we'll be working together from now one, we should know each other a bit. You already caught my name, but I haven't yours," he points out.
You raise an eyebrow. "What, that's all? And working together?" scoffing, you smirk. "You make it sound like we gonna work in the same Office."
"Well…" Merry says, stretching the word. He grins. "That's just a maybe, right? Even so, it's not a bad idea to know each other, right?"
He's not wrong. You sigh, nodding begrudgingly. "… Lily."
Merry blinks. "Huh?"
You close your eyes. "… It's Lily."
"… That's a really pretty name," he says, and you open your eyes, shooting him a look. He smiles. "Lily. I really think it fits you."
You shift from one foot, to another. "Dipshit, what did I tell you?" you growl, clenching your crowbar. "Say that shit again, and –"
"You'll bash my face in," Merry finishes, nodding wistfully. "Oops," he giggles sheepishly. "But I can't lie to myself, y'know? My parents named me Merry so I could brighten up their days. Yours must've named you Lily for a similar reason."
You open your mouth, and then closes it. You lift your crowbar, watching his unbudging smug-as-shit face, before dropping it down with a growl, jaws clenched. A knot forms inside your throat. "Just fuck off, you purple-haired fuck –"
"Right," Ran the Supervisor groans, climbing up to her feet. "I see you're all ready," she says, lips pressed together; amber eyes scanning from Cool Girl, and to you. You shiver. "And I'm all warmed up, so," she pulls out a hairband from inside her vest, and slides it over her head; messy, loose green hair stretched far to the back. A deep scar runs horizontally on her forehead. She lowers to a stance. "Come at me."
In the corner of your eyes, Cool Girl and Hood Man make a move; Min stays behind, his pistol held aloft. Quietly, you take a step back –
"Wait! Wait!" you almost jump in surprise. All attention switches to Merry, his hands raise. "Before you all start, can I ask for something?" he exclaims, bouncing on his feet towards the supervisor.
What the fuck is he doing?
Ran raises an eyebrow, a light undiscernible curve on her lips. "Ask away, boy."
"Thanks, Miss Ran," Merry chirps, nodding. "You're real kind. So. Yeah," there's a pause. "I wanna fight you. One-on-one. You and me. Mano-a-mano – "
What the fuck? You turn your head and catch similar expression on their face as they are on you.
Ran raises her hand. "I get you the first time, kid – "
"Merry," he chimes in.
"Merry," Ran nods, letting out a chuckle. That undiscernible smile on her face widens. "But you're serious, aren't you? Hah," she laughs, and from the sideline, you catch Merry beam harder. "You got guts, Merry. Dumb fucking guts that'll get you killed sooner than later. Heh," she laughs again, this time shaking her head. "You definitely live up to your name."
"Soooo…" Merry stretches out. "Is that a yes? Can I dance with you, Miss Ran?"
"Sure, I'll dance," Ran smiles – and you realize, belatedly, how unnaturally wide, and sharp, and thin that smile is. "But mind your toes."
"Guess it's a good thing my partner's super mature, and experienced!"
Ran laughs again, almost giggling. Merry walks forward, a jaunty saunter; a pep in his steps, as though he's not walking to his own doom. In contrast, Ran stands her ground, stance low. There's a pause as a Merry suddenly stops, inches away from Ran. Neither moves. Then, Merry swings his hammer. It's a pure, and simple hammering motion; from up to downwards. It's deceptively slow; deceptively telegraphed, like watching a downhill rolling cart from the wrong end of the street. Ran takes a step back, and the hammer barely whizzes her. Merry lets out a barked laugh, and swings again – but this time Ran steps in.
And what happens next is too fast for your eyes to even compute. One moment, Merry was right there, and in the next, he's gone. An explosive boom follows a second late, and stumble at the invisible wave, your hair blown back. Blood – the color registers immediately to your eyes, a pair of streaks running across the floor like Landlord Lin's brushwork. It originates from where Merry first stood before Ran, and – there he is, "standing" just besides Min, inches away from the blood-splattered wall. His body is covered with dribbling blood, pouring from every hole in his body. His feet look barely recognizable. He wobbles for a moment, eyes shooting wide open, coughs – or maybe it's a laugh – only to spill out more blood, and then tumbles forward like a sack of bring. He's still alive, by his slowed wet breathing. If barely.
"Nice," Ran remarks, and you slowly, and stiffly turn to her. She's rolling her wrist, a narrow slitted smile on her lips; a dark look in her eyes. "Very nice. Now," Ran looks up. "Any new challenger, or are you all going to come at me?"
Nobody answers, and that answers that question.
[-5 SP. 15/20 SP. You are Nervous.]
Oh God, you're going to die.
---
There's no preamble to the fight. In one moment, Cool Girl, and Hood Man stand still, and in the next, they charge straight. Quietly, you slink back, almost pressing your back against the wall. If there's one thing you're confident about, then it must be your strength. It's how you've survived. Rats have tried to take from you, and if you didn't know how to handle yourself, then you would have been another corpse with their organs harvested. Of course, being strong does not mean being the strongest; just because you're stronger than the Rats, doesn't mean you're stronger than the next Fixer. Before Merry volunteered himself to get fucked, you're already more than aware the gap between a Veteran Fixer is to someone like you. What Merry did, what happened to him – that only put things into the proper perspective.
As you reach the side of the basement, watching the Cool Girl and Hood Man "fight", you can't help but wonder what the fuck's going on inside their head. What Merry said comes back to you, about weapons, and familiarity. Your hand squeezes the crowbar. Hood Man swings his fists, hooking, and jabbing in the familiar motions of a brawler; his strikes are heavy. Underneath his flapping, his tattoos burn up akin to neon lights. In contrast, Cool Girl fights like… a dancer. Her sharp pointed sword flashes like lightning, and you notice the white fog covering it; the frost forming on her hand. There's precision in her strikes, and a certain beat and swings to her footwork that you can't help but stare at.
All the same, none of them could even touch Ran. She stays her ground, never moving back, never moving forward. Hood Man throws a haymaker, and it goes wide. Cool Girl stabs for the throat, and it whizzes past it. All the time, Ran's hands are a blur of white, and gold; her sleeves flapping. Her eyes are dark, and her smile a wide narrow slit.
You realize quietly then that Ran was playing with both Cool Girl, and Hood Man. She wasn't playing around with Merry. They both seem to realize that. Hood Man growls, and Cool Girl loses that curviness in her steps. You do not need to watch anymore, because it's your turn to act – Ran's back faces you.
When it comes down to it, when fighting against someone way above your league, then catching them off guard is always a good idea. It rarely, if ever, works of course. For the most part, they seem to always catch you first before you catch first. Ultimately, you're not a sneaky girl, yeah? Even if you know you can't, going right up front to someone's face is more your style. Pride, however, is a privilege that only the strong can have. To survive, you need to strip such things away.
You take a step forward. And then another. Neither Cool Girl, or Hood Man notice you. Ran's insistent to stand on her ground benefits you greatly in this regard. In the distance, Min seems to be looking elsewhere.
You bring up your crowbar, and swing. Ran does not react. The crowbar's teeth sink deep into her side. Ran stiffens, looking over her shoulders. Her eyes are slightly wide. You grin; trickles of salt dripping from your sweat-drenched face. "Got you," you declare, all teeth, and the like.
"Heh," Ran's eyes darken. "Got me," she acknowledges.
Your eyes widen. "Oh shi –" a blur cuts through the corner of your eyes. You bring up you hands up, and –
[-7 HP. 13/20 HP. You're Slightly Injured.]
— the world whips, your vision a blur of white, and concrete, and red, and blobbed colors. For one singular horrid moment of clarity, you could feel the terrible cracks, and creaks of your arm, travelling through your entire skeleton. Then you hit the ground, only to skip over it, airborne like a pebble thrown over a pond – and you realize how much you're going to get fucked. Your body twists out of control in the air, and you hit the ground again, but this time, you do not skip off it. Worse, you slide over it, breaking exposed skin through the concrete floor. Eventually, you simply stop moving, lain flat over the floor. Your heart beats so fast you feel like it's going to explode – and that might have been much more preferable to the explosion of pain which ravages your arm; the same arm you used to block Ran's strike. You open your mouth, and what comes out is only a dying gasp.
Grimacing, you roll over to your back, breathing in the air. "Holy shit," you cough, and gasp. You look down to your right hand. Somehow, the crowbar's still there. "Fuck."
Despite all odds, you're still alive. And all things considered, despite your body screaming bloody murder, you're not all that hurt. You try to move your left arm. Can't. Well. You've seen the other guy. Grimacing, you push yourself up with your good arm, allowing yourself a proper view of the fight.
Cool Girl lies down on her knees, her body slack, blood dripping from her mouth down to her chin. Hood Man lies flat face first to the ground; the concrete underneath him forming a web of cracks. Min stands on where he was before, his pistol smoking, and eyes wide. You blink. Shake your head. It feels as though you're forgetting someone. Merry – you blink again – Merry waves at you from where he sits, conscious but barely, back against the wall.
And oh, that's who you're forgetting. Alexis, flat on her back just next to where Ran stands.
"Right," Ran starts, clapping her hands together. "I think that's a wrap. Blondie there got one point. These two," she gestures at Cool Girl, and Hood Man. "Also got one. This girl," Ran turns to Nest-girl, before crouching down. You catch a smirk on Ran's face. "Got two. Heh," she growls out, more than laugh. "Merry there… half-point for still being alive, and conscious."
Merry raises his hand, before unceremoniously dropping it.
"And you," Ran grins, wide and narrow-slitted thing. She points at Min. "You got –"
Bang.
Ran sways to the right, and the bullet whizzes by. "— Zero."
Bang.
"Still zero."
Bang.
"Zero."
Bang.
This time, Ran doesn't avoid it. She moves; her leg cut into the air, and the bullet burrows down to the floor. "Zero."
Click. "That's not – fuck. Fuck," he growls. "Alexis!"
"W-wait!" you turn to the voice. Nest-girl climbs up to her feet, trembling. Ran tilts her head. "I could – I could share my –"
Whatever it is she's about to say, she never gets to say it. "Uh-uh," Ran shakes her head, hand clenched around Nest-girl's jaws. "I know what you're gonna say, so don't finish that sentence," Nest-girl scrabbles, her large knife scraping against Ran's hand, but it barely penetrates the sleeves. "And I'll let this be a lesson to all you rookies," her voice booms despite its calmness. "Out there, you may cheat, and fight dirty, and betray each other, or kill your own clients for no good reason, or destroy your own Office – I don't give a fuck. We, the Hana Association, do not care. But if we ever catch you – and I mean any of you – try to cheat our systems; to steal merits that you did not get, to take achievements you don't deserve, to share it when you had nothing to do with it, and then have that written to a report for us… to lie to us – we'll make sure all of you regret entering this career," she leans in close to Nest-girl. "Understood?"
Wide-eyed, face streaked with tears, and jaws held tight by a vise-like grip, she nods. You imagine that's the only thing she could do. .
"Good," Ran smiles, wide and narrow slitted. Giggling, she pats Alexis' head. "Very good."
--
Eventually, they patched you up – and when you say 'they', you meant Ran. In your hazy mind, you manage to recall back to the moment before the fight. The building was quiet then, and the building is quiet now. No, not quiet. Empty. Only a handful of Syndicates come to mind who could do that, and none of them are good news. You shiver.
[+2 HP. 15/20 HP. +5 SP. 20/20 SP.]
Well, you're now back to the reception room, along with everyone else. Excluding Min, none of them look any better than you do them. Wrapped up in bandages, and casts to the point all of you are more bandages than human. More so with Merry, sitting on the floor against the wall. You don't think he could walk more than what he already has. Sucks to be him. That's why you don't pull dumb shit like challenging a Veteran Fixer to a straight one-on-one duel. Hah. You shake your head, and stiffly turn back to the billboard.
Even though lots of the pamphlets look old, and weathered, they're all still hiring. Something about Offices don't stop trying to hire Fixers because they die off like flies. Those that aren't hiring are either one of those exclusive, high-ranked Offices, or just flat out dead.
Nonetheless, she told you all to pick whatever – and she'll commend you to them. Or something along that line.
[] Low Grade Office. You're familiar with these kinds of Office. In fact, there's one close to your Apartment, and the Fixers who bother to do patrols aren't what you would consider the best. They take all sorts of jobs, and well… yeah. High Experience Gain. Unsteady Income. You're considered expendable. Generally, you're on your own. Large team. No specialization. Takes all sorts of jobs.
[] Association-Affiliated Office. These are Fixer Offices that are affiliated with Associations. In a sense, they're akin to an Association's hand. Or finger. Doing jobs that the Association deems not as important, or beyond their reach. Regardless, this means stability to the job – though it comes at the price of doing whatever your sponsor wants. Low Experience Gain. Monthly Income in Salary. You're considered less expendable. You'll be well-equipped. When your Association tells you to jump, you jump. Mid-sized team.
-[] Shi Association -- Assassination
-[] Seven Association – Information and Investigation
-[] Zwei Association – Protection
[] Specialized Office. These are Fixer Offices who fill in those niche needs. Sometimes, it's more general, like protection, or warfare and such – but at times, it's more specific like dealing with Distortions, or… well, now that you think about it, they're not that different to the other Offices. They tend to be on the smaller side though, strong, and comes with the benefit of being individual. Mid Experience Gain. High income in Equal Cuts depending on Jobs. Quality over Quantity. Cool senpais. Somewhat specialized. Special Equipment.
-[] Distortions
-[] Combat
-[] Protection
-[] Hunting
-[] Write-in
First Trial: Merry Challenges Ran for a duel. Merry goes for a strike. Rolls 6 (3+2 Melee+1 Clash). Ran rolls to dodge 7 (3+4). Almost hits, but whizzes by. Merry goes for another hit, and Ran does the same. Ran rolls 15 (8+7(Melee+Clash+???). Merry rolls 12 (9+3(Melee and Clash)). Ran wins. Merry's Health: 20 – 14. 6. Ouch. Heavily Injured. Out of commission.
Gets horrified. -5 SP.
Cool Girl, and Hood Man Charge in. Lily rolls for Stealth. Hard Difficulty. 1d10+1. Needs 7 to Win. Rolls exactly 7 (6+1). While Ran is distracted by Hood and Cool, Lily goes in. 1st Strike is Free due to Stealth. 11 (9+2 (Melee)). 11 – 5 (Armor): 6 Hit. Ran looks surprised but looks barely hurt. Ran strikes with leg. Lily's defends: 6 (4+2). Ran rolls: 14 (6+8). 14 – 6 - 1(Armor/Endurance): 7 Hit. Health remaining: 20 - 7 = 13.
So Combat feels a bit janky, and taking get used to for me. But it feels fun. Continuing on that, I revamped on how damage works. That is to say, if Attack vs Attack, then you get the full damage in with only reduction from Armor. If Defend vs Attack, and Attack Wins, damage gets substrated by the result of Defense roll, as well as from Armor (? not sure about this bit ?). If Defend wins, next roll that the enemy does gets reduced (???)
The Scarecrow Office specializes in protection – specifically towards specific groups, or individuals. Bodyguards, when you get down to it. It's not a niche enough focus – the opposite really – to be the only Office in the market. The Zwei Association, for example, focuses on protection, though they lean more towards the "neighborhood" scale than "individual". However, that alone should tell you enough how profitable the "protection" job market is. It's all supply, and demand, right? More than anything else, people want protection – and Fixer Offices keep popping up here, and there, and the Zwei's long arms grow with each passing day, all to keep up with the demand.
If there's a place where you don't have to worry about not getting jobs, or not getting paid, or getting hungry, then the Protection Market is your meal ticket.
Your body aches, and your bandaged arm twinges every so often. Whenever you take a step, there's a disconcerting creaking noise coming from your body. Your wallet feels light; lighter than you could ever remember, and your stomach churns. Stale bread and sink water await you – any plan for a decent dinner dashed away. Today was the most scared shitless you've ever been.
You feel great. The crowbar in your hand feels right, and hefty – and the card deep inside your wallet feels heavier than any plastic sheet with your face on it has any right to be. On your way, people sneak glances at you. Some in disgust, and some with a scoff. But some, they look at you with wary, cautious eyes.
You're moving somewhere now – going up. At the end of the tunnel, the light seems to burn brighter. You're a changed woman, now.
Of course, the high could only last so long. Eventually, you reach your apartment building, and the smirk on your face dies away. Chipped walls, and peeled paint – your apartment building is a vast three-storied rectangular building, stretching wide. A line of square tiny windows run across the white concrete block; a few has their lights on, but most are off. There are five of them, and another five on the back of the building. There are twenty-five rooms here, but only seventeen of them are occupied; sometimes, that number goes up, but often, it only goes down. But they never stay that way for long, always balancing down to the old seventeen. A middle-aged man leans half of his body out against the window's railings, smoking, eyes dead, and sunken. He's not going to last.
You look away from him, and down towards the entrance, pulling out the keys from your pocket. Quietness assaults you, followed by the sweltering humid heat. Above, the dim light flickers. Rolling your shoulders, you step into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind you. One end leads to a dead end, while the other leads to the staircase. Your room is on the second floor. Reflexively, as you tiptoe on your feet, your eyes jump to one room. Landlord Lin's. Underneath, you see light peeking from the door. You walk past it, and –
"You're not going to greet me?"
You flinch, cursing under your breath. "Didn't want to bother you," you mutter back, turning around.
From a room by the other end of the hallway, Landlord Lin steps out. A long pipe hangs between his lips. Long black-and-pepper hair reaching down to the small of his back. Wrinkles mark the age on his face, and the greens on his narrow eyes are faded. Over his shoulders hang a loose purple robe, worn over a thin black bathrobe – a yukata, they're called, etched with the white shadows of birds. On his hand, a long cane supports him. You don't think he needs it.
Tap, it goes, as he moves towards you.
It's everything for you not to step back.
"How mindful of you," he retorts, voice raspy. His eyes seem to pierce through you. "But how did the exam go, then? Good, I'm suspecting," he muses, eyeing your crowbar.
You nod stiffly. "I'll be working for an Office tomorrow."
He slowly tilts his head. "You're not going to tell me the name?" you grimace. He snorts. "I'll figure it out eventually. Haah," he sighs, grey smoke wafts from his mouth. He looks almost disappointed. "Suppose I can't have you do my errands anymore now."
"… Suppose not."
He hums, closing his eyes. He rolls his pipe, taking another inhale, before taking it out between his fingers. "Do you know why – when your father, and mother died – I decided to take you in, instead of kicking you out to the streets?"
You frown. "… Why?"
"Well, they paid me in advance for one," Landlord Lin smiles; a crooked edge to it. "Three months in advance, time to get you on your feet. And for two, I owed them to some degree."
That perks your attention. "You owed them?"
"Something like that," he muses, nodding his head. He stares at the smoking pipe. "It's in the past now, but after those three months, I did not kick you out."
"You put me into work."
"I invested into you," Landlord Lin corrects, and you blink. He hums, inhaling another puff of smoke. "You see, I always consider myself as a businessman. Long term plans often don't pay out, even when they're theoretically more profitable. It's always a gamble see. You could be making a promising deal with someone today, but tomorrow they might end up dead in some ditch elsewhere – well, what's the point? Short-term works out best, in the end."
You try to keep up and fail. "What's your point, Landlord Lin?"
"Call it a flight of fancy," he says. "But I saw some worth inside you and decided to invest. Not for free, of course," he chuckles. "But look at you now. I've been waiting for this day."
Ah. You feel your stomach drop. "You're going to increase my rent."
"Increase?" his eyes glimmer. "No. I'm returning it to normal: eight-hundred-thousand Ahn at the end of every month.
Your eyes widen. "Eight hundred thousand –" you gnash your teeth, growling. "Fuck off, I know that should cost less. What's to stop me from just moving out?"
"Hm?" he tilts his head. "Well, yes. You can try finding another place. And eventually, you'll move out. But just as it takes you eight-years to get to today, it will not take you until several years before you can do that. Now, there'll be a new tenant moving in tomorrow, and I need to clean up the previous tenant's mess. Normally, I'd ask your help," he grins. "But I know tomorrow's your big day."
He turns around, showing you his open back – and for a moment; for a horrible, horrible moment, you're tempted to swing your crowbar over him. You do not. You shrink into yourself. "You'll get your money," you grunt out, before stamping your way upstairs.
Your room is a small, and plain cubicle team. There's a 'kitchen' to the side, mainly occupied by a microwave, and a bathroom; its door missing from its frame. You lie flat onto your thin mattress, staring at the ceiling. Over in the corner of your eyes, through the sinking sunlight filtering from your curtained window, you catch a picture of your parents. Well, 'picture'. It was simply the doodling of a small Lily of mom, and dad. A pair of shittily drawn stick figures; they both wear a hat. One has a 'stick' jutting out of their face, while the other has a pair of circles drawn on the chest area; lines that were supposed to resemble hair jutting out like freaky pins. They both appear smiling. The paper itself has been crumpled, and uncrumpled up, and the images faded from time.
The frame had cost you some pretty penny, and even today, you wonder what exactly possessed you to do it. Sure, it doesn't cost all that much, in the grand scheme of things. A wrap of HamHam PangPang toast would cost more.
You still can't force yourself to throw it out.
You never asked, of course. There's nobody you could ask. What they looked like, what they did, and why they –
You close your eyes.
--
The Scarecrow Office is located on the better part of the Backstreets. It's the kind of neighborhood that's considered safe by virtue of the amount of Fixer Offices based around here, their quality notwithstanding. Of course, a Syndicate could still just raid an Office, and the other Offices wouldn't bother to help unless they're going to get paid. Same with the people outside of the business, living in this part of the neighborhood. You think they know that too.
The Office itself lies on the second story of some building. The first floor looks to be restaurant of sorts. A sign hangs by the wall, on it the image of a head made from straws with buttoned eyes and everything; a crow seemingly roosting on top of it. You snort. That seems to defeat the idea of "scarecrow".
You shake your head, and head towards the side entry. There's a button for the second floor. You push it, and it's followed by a buzz, and a then a click as the door unlocks. You eye it for a moment, unsure. "Guess that's my cue," you mumble, stepping in – and climbing up a set of staircases. Eventually, you reach a door, the image of the straw head-and-crow plastered on the door.
Well, since they've buzzed you in – you twist the handle. "Excuse me, I'm coming in!" you call out.
You're struck immediately by the smell of something bitter – and is that? Music? You stop, trying to take it all in. Four pairs of eyes leap their attention towards you, and you catch a familiar tuft of white hair sitting on a sofa – her back against you. Speaking of, a set of sofas, and chairs and a low table sit in the very middle of the room. Two office desks not so dissimilar to the one inside Landlord Lin's office line up against the wall, each one no less cluttered than the other. Fake potted plants, bookshelves, and wooden floor. A set of entry to the side leading elsewhere. At the end of the room is another desk, larger than the other two, almost encompassing. Back against the closed, curtained, and blackened windows facing down the streets, someone sits there.
Reflexively, your attention couldn't help but focus on them.
… A burlap sack covers their entire head; a pair of eyes poking through the eyeholes. On the mouth, a stitched smile. A large, and black pointy hat rests on the top of their head. They wear black vest, and under it a white long-sleeved shirt littered with stitches, and patch-marks; loose strands sticking out. They sit there, slack, limp, and boneless. If not for the visible pair of eyes, you might've thought them a corpse. Unbidden, your eyes move to the crow perched on top of their hat's rim, blood-red beady eyes blinking at you.
"Ah, you must be the other kid Ran talked about," your attention yanks to the source. A slender-looking woman with ponytailed black-green hair who can't be a few years older than you. She sits slack on an armchair, almost horizontally, feet stretched over to the table. She doesn't have a burlap-sack over her head, but you're noticing a pattern in the uniform: a black coat ridden with patch marks, and stitches. Underneath that is a red-and-white squared shirt, looking no better with visible loose strands sticking out, and though you can't see them before, her blue jeans look well-worn, complete with holes as well. In her hand, there's a tiny fork – in the other a plate of cake. "And another girl too. Nice," her eyes glint. "Maybe our Office can stop being a damn sausage party, for once."
"And all it takes is for Marco to die," another wryly muses. It belongs to a large man hulking man, taking the better part of a three-people sofa on the left side of the sitting setup. A side-swept white hair, and a pair of amber eyes. Well-worn beige shirt the color of potatoes, looking as though it's made from the same components as the burlap sack. "Shame, that."
"He was bright," the last man speaks, sitting at the 'head' of the setup – right in front of the large desk, and the burlap-headed man. Dark messy hair forming a rat's nest, and dark sunken eyes. A black vest over a black shirt, patched up with yellows, and greens. His rests his chin on a hand. "So bright," he mutters, sighing. "I liked him."
"Got you that much, huh," the woman mutters, grimacing. "Well, look at the bright side," she gestures at you, and the familiar white-haired girl. "Now," she smiles. It's a lazy, uncaring thing. "Lily, was it? Cute name, by the way. How about you take a seat here too?"
"It ain't not cute," you lash out, before begrudgingly making your way to the sofa, and – yep, that's her alright. Cool Girl. You catch her glance at you, not a hint of surprise in her eyes. You drop yourself onto the sofa, cursing at your slip of tongue, and how soft the sofa is. "Don't call me cute."
"You got spunk, Lily," the woman mumbles, smiling. You flinch. "Not a bad attitude in our Office here," you catch a glint in her eyes as she swallows a bite of a cake. "But you're not used to being complemented, are you?"
You jump. "What –"
"Want a bite?" the woman cuts you off, and you stare cross-eyed, at the proffered bite of cake. You narrow your eyes at her. "Come on, you've been staring at it for a while now."
… Pride is a privilege that you don't have. Quietly, you take a bite. It's very sweet, and soft, and creamy, and a little bit sour from the strawberry jam, and very good. You sag back in defeat to the sofa. In the corner of your eyes, Cool Girl dips her head ever so slightly. You close your eyes and heave out a sigh.
Large Dude, and Rat Hair let out a slow chuckle.
"Enough teasing," you open your eyes; the voice belongs to the man with burlap sack. His voice is low; his tone heavy, as though the act of talking itself is tiresome. "Introduce yourself."
"I'm Mao," the Annoying Woman chimes in, grinning lazily.
"My Vice-Chief," Burlap Man adds, and with that – the position of 'Chief' is confirmed in your head.
"Burke," Large Dude continues, raising his hand.
"Sledgehammer," Burlap Man muses. Burke drops his head.
"And I'm Mori," Rat Hair smiles easily, raising his hand to a salute.
"…"
Mori sighs, dropping his head.
"If it's not obvious," Mao leans into you, 'whispering'. "I'm the Chief's favorite. If he dies, I'm gonna be the one taking over."
"Yes," the Chief confirms, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I am Daniel."
Uh.
"My name is Kai," Cool Girl stands up, bowing her head. Even though you didn't hear her speak a peep yesterday, somehow, she sounds almost exactly as you expected. Cold. Monotone. She sits back down. "I would like to work here."
"Straightforward," the Chief bobs his head.
Guess that's your turn. "Uh. Lily. Guess you know that already," you grumble. "But yeah," there's a pause. "Yeah."
"Awkward."
You stare at him. You're the first to look away. You face feels hot. "Yeah. Sure."
"Knock it off, Chief," Mao says, swallowing the last of the cake. She places the platter down, stretching her arms out with a groan. "So, how's about it, Chief?"
"Your decision."
Mao pauses, her stretched out arms hanging awkwardly. After a moment, she drops her feet down from the table, and lean forward to her knees. "Hm," she frowns, eyeing both you, and Kai. "Personally, I don't mind. It's always nice to have more people, y'know? And it's not like I'm doubting Ran's words either: if she says you're good, then you're good. Shame what happened to her people, but she's still alive for a reason, you get me?"
"… Is that why the Branch building was so quiet?"
You glance to Kai in surprise. She didn't speak a bit last time, and now she's suddenly talkative?
"Noticed it, huh? Awful shit, man," Mao sighs, leaning back to her chair. "Somebody really wants them dead. It's an open secret by now, but it's also one of those things you gotta keep quiet, you know? When it comes to Hana Association, reputation is everything."
You remember Ran's spiel yesterday – to never lie or falsify report to them. "Figured as much," you nod.
"So yeah, anyway, I'm thinking 'bout doing some trial runs," Mao says, after a beat. "Yeah. I know we still got a few Urban Myth jobs lying around – nothing that needs the whole Office to go out for. Was planning to do them today, but two birds one stone, right?" the crow suddenly squawks. You jump. If anybody else is bothered, they don't show it. "One of us three," she gestures at Mori, and Burke. "Is gonna pair up with one of you. Gotta see how you work, and all that stuff with our own eyes. Chief?"
"Sounds good."
Mao grins. "Then it's decided," she claps, jumping up to her feet. She walks to the side of the room. "Mori, go get the Urban Myth files on my desk. And don't you girls worry," Mao swings into view, a pair of similarly patched-up uniforms. Just as the ones they're wearing, they have seen better days. "We still got a few low-grade Fixer Uniforms on hand. We normally use them to gear up our employer, but until we decide to properly recruit you, these will do for now."
She throws one of them to you – and you couldn't help but both grimace, and marvel at it. Despite its rotten, loose-strands-poking-out appearance, they feel incredibly soft. You've slept in clothes that look in better condition than these, but this is something else. Guess it's true what they say about Fixer Outfits being special. For all that Mao called it 'low grade', you get a very distinct feeling that this would still cost you an arm, and a leg.
You're not sure about the design, though. It's one of those tight, and fancy looking office suit. Patched-up, torn-up, and stitched suit-thing with cut up vest, and half-a-red tie. There's one thing to be down on your luck loser, but there's another thing to costume like you're a down on your luck loser.
[Low Grade Fixer Outfit (Low Quality) Equipped: +1 to Armor.]
"Here," Mori smoothly interrupts, his voice carrying a humming quality to it. Onto the table, he slides out three thin files. "Take a looksie, ladies."
You share a look with Kai. Without so much as glancing, she picks out the one on the left, and read it.
Right.
Article:
Trial Run Time! Pick Someone to Go With!
[] Mao. Gun Specialist. She carries a long-ranged rifle, and machete as side-arm. "I'm pretty handy if you want someone to talk with," she chimes in. "Talk good, and you get job done quick, get me?" "No."
[] Burke. Sledgehammer, as the Scarecrow's Chief said it. "I'm big, and heavy. What else to say?" he grumbles defeatedly. "If there's anything you want to break, then I'm the guy." "Honestly, if you're that down on it, why do you even keep the sledgehammer?"
[] Mori. Stealth Specialist. "Well, not really. I'm good at sneaking around," Mori says, shooting Mao the stink eye. "But I've been working on my arm right here," he lifts his right hand. It unfolds apart into a nasty hook. "It's not as long-ranged, or powerful as Mao's baby there, but it's quiet." "So, a Stealth Specialist."
Choose one Job! It's considered to be an Urban Myth Request, though only barely. Dangerous, but not by much.
[] Lover's Quarrel. "Our client is a young girl named Sun somewhere in her twenties. She just broke up with her boyfriend, and it looks like the boyfriend's not taking this easy. Normally, this would be a Canard level – but it looks like the boyfriend hired men from another Office. I did some investigation, and it's just some no-name 8th Grade Office. Looks like the girlfriend's the bread maker of the two."
[] Three Days Just Can't Pass Sooner. "Our client is a father of two, and it looks like he got a big break recently – some job opportunity down in District 3. Problem is that it takes three days to set things up, and his children will be at home alone. One's a teenager, and the other's still kid; Carol, and Meryl. The father doesn't think there'll be any danger, but – yeah, it's basically a babysitting job. When you really get down to it, that's what we do. Normally, this'd be a Canard thing, but it gets bumped to Myth due to its length."
[] Family, Am I Right?. "Our client is one Mister Zhao, a local business owner down the streets, and he's been having bouts of paranoia. He thinks his family is out to get him – his wife would choke him to death, and his kids would cut him to pieces. There are probably some deep-seated family issues there, but that's not really our problem. He paid us to guard him for one night, from his own family. Enough to bump it up for a Myth level. He's apparently been planning to run away for some time now, and tomorrow's the day. Like I said, issues."
[] Mao. Gun Specialist. She carries a long-ranged rifle, and machete as side-arm. "I'm pretty handy if you want someone to talk with," she chimes in. "Talk good, and you get job done quick, get me?" "No."
[] Lover's Quarrel. "Our client is a young girl named Sun somewhere in her twenties. She just broke up with her boyfriend, and it looks like the boyfriend's not taking this easy. Normally, this would be a Canard level – but it looks like the boyfriend hired men from another Office. I did some investigation, and it's just some no-name 8th Grade Office. Looks like the girlfriend's the bread maker of the two."
The dangers of the Backstreets cannot be understated. Even though it's still late afternoon, Rats still roam the place looking for an unsuspecting schmuck to get gutted. Syndicates walk in broad daylight, sauntering around the place in groups, moments away from breaking into a fight with one another. Hatchet Men, Blood Liners, and Steel Flayers – different groups for different slices of the Backstreets. Butchers hiding in plain sight inside the innocent guise of their restaurants, milling around in the meat markets, sorting for a different sort of flesh to cook.
You haven't really considered what Mao meant by "a long-ranged rifle" until she takes it out and slings it over her shoulders. It's a great bulky thing matted in black. Strapped to her side is her machete, looking plain compared to the rifle. On her head, a round black hat with flat top, its room looking as though something had chewed bits and pieces of it. Around it, a split-up dusty white band. You know well enough that for annoying as she is, Mao is leagues above you – but it hadn't registered until now. The sight of Fixers like her on the streets isn't an uncommon sight, of course, yet it never ceases to terrify, especially this close.
You look down on yourself, and grimace. At least that does mean Fixers wearing ridiculous outfits like these also get less attentions.
"Not digging the suits, are you, Lily?" Mao prompts, and you almost jump. Without you noticing, she has slowed down to your pace, keeping up besides you. "It suits you just fine, y'know? Got that zing to it."
"Zing?" you mutter, before scowling. "It's too tight. I'm not used to it."
Mao raises an eyebrow. "Sure that's the only reason for it? These outfits are meant to be comfortable, you know," she waves her hand vaguely to the air. "Breathability, and all that."
"It ain't that –" you start, and then pause. You grimace. It really sounds like you're whining. You've worn worse shit, and she's right, it ain't even that tight. "It's nothing."
Humming, Mao turns her attention back to the streets. You reflect the gesture. "If that's the case, then lemme brief you a bit on our mission. Listen well, this is part of the test," the flintiness in her voice snaps your attention back. "Ms. Sun, our client, has recently broken up with her lover. Said lover unfortunately – or fortunately in our case – did not accept the breakup graciously. Over the last few days, Ms. Sun has been getting messages from him, each one worse than the last. Late yesterday, she came in requesting for protection."
You frown. "If she's been getting those messages for sometimes now, why didn't she come sooner?"
You're not sure you're super keen with the way Mao looks at you. "It's complicated," she sighs. "The breakup didn't just hurt the boy, you know? They've spent who knows how long living together. Ms. Sun thought about giving him a second chance. Third. Fourth."
"That's stupid," you mutter. Mao raises an eyebrow. "She broke up for a reason. Cut ties with him. It's fucking dumb if she's giving him 'nother chance – what even is the point?"
"I don't disagree," Mao shrugs, pursing her lips. "It'd be the smarter thing to do, but you ever fell in love, Lily?"
You make a face. "Fuck no."
She ducks her head, hiding it under her hat. She's having a laugh, you know it. "Ever considered it?"
"And what," you bite. "Set myself to get fucked over?" you shove your hands into your pockets. "No fucking thanks. I'm no idiot."
Mao hums, lifting her head. "Well, it doesn't matter," she smirks. "But to answer your 'why now' question, today's their anniversary. Ms. Sun thinks that if there's a day where her lover would go through with his threats, it'd be today."
"Anniversary?" you ask, furrowing your brows. "Like birthdays?"
"Like birthdays," Mao nods.
"Weird."
Mao snorts. "Don't say that in front of the client."
--
You arrive to the client's apartment soon enough. It's a two-storied affair, with apartment doors looking out open balconies – her room located on the second floor. It's way better than Landlord Lin's, and this slice of the Backstreets itself is better than where you live – then again, what's not? Taking the lead, Mao presses the ring button of Ms. Sun's door. Fuck, even her door got one of those fancy peepholes. There's a long, quiet moment. You frown.
"Maybe she's not –"
"Ms. Sun?" Mao calls out, this time knocking on the door. You stare at her. Her voice is shockingly soft. "My apologies, we didn't mean to scare you. We're from the Scarecrow Office. We talked together yesterday, remember?"
"M-Miss Mao?" a stuttering voice comes from the other end. There's a click on the door, and you're astonished at how easy that was. As the door opens, the piece of chain prevents it from fully opening. You could still easily break it if you want. A pair of wide purple eyes peek out. "Is that – it's you. Oh, thank God," she whispers, closing the door back shut, followed by another click, and finally swinging the door wide open.
Despite being pretty sure that she's older than you, Miss Sun is a small petite thing barely reaching the height of your shoulders, and Mao's chest. Sandy blonde hair going past her shoulders, and a pair of wide teary purple eyes. You do not miss the heavy bags in her eyes, the familiar deadness you've seen in your neighbor's eyes, fading at the sight of Mao. You recognize the sinking in her cheeks, her stretched skin covering her too-narrow chin. She wears a baggy, wide-sleeved sweater, practically swallowing a good 70% of her body. The moment the door fully opens, she practically throws herself to Mao, crying.
"There, there," Mao whispers, rubbing the small of Miss Sun's back. "… If you were this scared, perhaps I should've come yesterday, Miss Sun," she chuckles weakly. "Now I feel really bad."
"N-n-no," Sun steps back from the embrace, wiping her face with her sleeves. "I-I'm sorry –" she hiccups. "I lost myself there."
"I don't think you could be blamed," Mao says, chuckling. "But how 'bout we get inside? It's not safe staying out here."
"Y-y-yes," Sun stutters, nodding.
All the while, during the whole session, all you could do is stare at Mao – a terrible chill touching your spine. Just hours earlier, back in the Office, she was slouching onto a sofa eating cake. She talked about the jobs casually, and had you decided differently, either Mori, or Burke could've taken this job request instead. Now here she is, smiling, and laughing, and comforting Sun as though… as though… it's real? Professional? Double-faced? You can't even –
"Hey," Mao calls out, and you snap your attention to her. Standing on the threshold, you catch a raised eyebrow peeking underneath her hat. "How long are you gonna stand there, Lily?" she tilts her head inside. "Come on in."
Nodding numbly, you follow her in – making sure to click, and lock the door shut.
You stand there for a moment, taking the apartment room in. It's large. Larger than you could think an apartment room could be. And clean – the faint aroma of something sweet floating in the air. There's narrow mini corridor branching off into two ways; a door with a bathroom sign on it, and another further into a square room almost twice the size of your entire room. A low table lies in the middle, and both Sun, and Mao sit around it: her ratty looking hat resting on the table. Soft white-yellow crisscrossing patterned wall, hanging with paintings, and framed pictures, and photographs. A shelf to the side, filled with books, and all sorts of bits, and pieces. Another way leading to a proper kitchen, and then another leading to what you guess is the bedroom.
… What you wouldn't do to get a place like this. One day, you tell yourself, clenching your jaws. One day.
"Looked around enough, Lily?" Mao asks, and you nod stiffly. "Good. Take a seat," she gestures. "There's a couple things we need to discuss with Miss Sun here."
Sun tilts her head. "H-huh?"
Frowning, you take a sit. "What is it?"
"Well, it's nothing to worry about," Mao reassures, more to Sun than anybody else. She smiles. "We'd just like to know, if your boyfriend – and the people he hired came by – how would you like us to deal with them, Miss Sun?"
You blink. "What?"
"U-uhm," Sun fidgets. "I-I thought you would know…" she trails off, looking down.
"Of course, we know what to do," Mao says, and you notice how her hand reaches out to Sun's, squeezing it. "If push comes to shove, our priority is your safety, Miss Sun. But y'know, you're in this as much as we are, so I reckon you also as much voice."
Sun squeezes her eyes, shrinking into herself. "I-I don't know," she whispers. "I just want them gone. I-I don't want to see him again. M-maybe," she whispers, opening her eyes. "N-not on my porch."
Mao hums. "If that's what you want, we'll make it as clean as possible then."
You frown. "Wait, how the hell are we gonna do that?"
Sun flinches. "Sorry that's a bit –"
"We just gotta talk it out, Lily," Mao drawls, giving Sun's hand another squeeze. "Well. Talk them out of it."
You stare at her for a long moment. "You're insane."
"Am I?"
"Yeah," you nod, scowling. She's making you like an idiot. "Like how the fuck are you gonna do that? Don't Fixers finish the jobs they get?"
"Not all the time," Mao shakes her head. "Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor. More than that, how much do you think those Fixers got paid, Lily?"
You open your mouth, and then close it. "Hell if I know," you grumble. "I don't even know how much I'll get paid for this."
Mao smirks, rolling her eyes. "You'll get paid, don't worry. But I'm willing to bet that the answer is 'not enough'. Those Fixers probably thought that this is gonna be a Canard job; just mess up one girl – that shouldn't be too hard, right?"
Oh. "… But Miss Sun hired us. Well. You."
"Uh-huh," Mao nods. "They'll realize that they just got duped. Paid way less to deal with something way above them. It'd be a hit on their rep, sure, but it's on the account of getting duped, not because they didn't finish the job."
"… Still way too complicated. Why can't we just whack them off? 'Sides," you realize. "It ain't gonna stop Sun's boyfriend."
Mao sniffs, smiling. "Good thing you brought it up, Lily," you blink. Mao turns to Sun, pulling out a card – a business card from her coat, and slides it across the table. "If after today, our guest Fixers are too dumb to care about their own reputation, then you could go here, Miss Sun?"
On it is the image of a helmet; a large axe stuck into it. Lumberjack Office, it says on the front; an address written on the bottom.
"This is one of our Sister Offices. They specialize in assassination. I'll even tell them to come here, instead of the other way around."
Did she just –
Sun's eyes widen. "Assassination," she mouths, face falling. "Oh," for a moment, you thought she's going to reject it, but – her lips thin out, and you blink again. "I'll consider it. I need to get him out of my life."
"Of course," Mao starts, smiling. "If he's stupid enough to also come here, then we could deal with him for free."
"… Thank you, and –" her eyes widen, and she jumps to her feet. "Oh! That's right! Oh geez," her cheeks flush out. "Wait here for a moment, I almost forgot!" and just like that, she blitzes into her kitchen.
Mao shouts, craning her head. "Is everything alright, Miss Sun?"
"I'm fine!" Sun replies, her voice manic. "Just stay where you are – I've got something for you!"
"Ooh," Mao mouths under her lips, grinning. She turns to you then, noticing your look. The grin never leaves her face. "What?"
"… Everything," you mutter, frowning. "How you talked with Sun, and – aren't we just bodyguards?"
Mao stares at you for a bit before the corner of her lips lazily tick upwards. "Different people, different strokes, yeah? But bodyguarding ain't just 'bout keeping your employer safe, it's also about making them feel safe."
You furrow your eyebrows. "So was it all just an act, then?"
Her lips thin, eyes flinty. "No. I actually do sympathize with Miss Sun, so it's not an act. But you should know a line exists – ultimately, this is just business. I don't think you'll have that problem, Lily," and you're not sure what she meant by that. "But it's a good thing to keep in mind."
"I know that," you growl.
"Heh," Mao smirks. "How cute."
"Fuck –" before you could finish it, Sun waltzes in back to the room, and oh god. Your eyes widen. Carried between her hands, Sun returns with a large plate of – of pre-cut cake.Chocolate cake. The sweet smell you've caught before intensified tenfold, and drool forms inside your mouth. "What is that?" you whisper.
"I made brownies," Sun's smile couldn't have been brighter than her namesake. "I, um," she giggles nervously, placing it down onto the table. "I-I'm a baker so, um. Well. I was so nervous, and –" she gulps. "I forgot I was cooling it down in the kitchen, and I thought maybe, you know, since I would have guests, I could –"
"Breathe, Miss Sun," Mao reassures her.
Sun blinks, and then giggles. "Both of you look like you're about to leap from your seat."
"Ah. Well. You know how it is."
"Yeah," Sun says, her lips softening. "I know."
Mao hums, plucking a piece from the towering mass of chocolate. That seems to also be your cue, and – God. It's so delicious. You don't even know what chocolate tastes like, and if this is what chocolate tastes like, but it doesn't even matter. It's sweet. And melty. And. Hah.
"… Don't mind Lily here, Miss Sun," Mao chuckles. "You know how it is – the stomach is the fastest way to get a Fixer on your side."
You snap out of your fugue and give her a look. She ignores it.
"N-no," Sun says, ducking her head. "… It's fine. I mean, I knew you'd like, that's why I made it, and seeing people happy also makes me happy and – " she sighs. "I guess that's a bit wrong to do."
"Not," Mao turns to you, eyebrows raised. For some reason, your cheeks feel hot. "I mean, it's fine. It's food. It's delicious. It's weird it makes you happy, but whatever. I like it."
Mao sighs, chuckling. "Smiths of words, this one."
"Fuck off."
"Well, Lily here's not wrong," Mao says. "It's rare for us Fixers to get treated like this by our clients. But, hm," she tilts her head, plopping the chunk of brownies into her mouth, and – you realize belatedly, by the cake's decreasing amount, that's not her first one, and you barely got seconds. Fuck. "Since we'll be here for a while until someone knocks the door – Lily, got anything you want to talk about?"
You freeze, second piece of cake hovering just out of your mouth. "What?"
"C'mon," Mao tilts her head. "Bring up something."
"… Seriously?"
Mao gives you a look. "Seriously."
Fuck.
Article:
Choose Something You're Curious About, O Master of Talks! (Choose 1)
[] Why did Sun break up? Obviously, something bad happened, and from the sounds of it, the dude seems like a bit asshole. But you still don't get it. What happened? Your current theory is that the dude stabbed her in the back, but. Yeah.
[] How do people fall in love? How does anyone fall in love, really? Or what even is love, really? You got what it means, of course, but like – why would she even fall in love? People in general are assholes. They're gonna hurt you, stab you in the back. But at least you're expecting it, right? But to just open yourself like that, knowing full well that you're gonna get fucked over – that's stupid, right? You're not the only one, right?
[] There are Sister Offices? Well, you more or less got what Sister Office means, but you didn't know Scarecrow Office got a Sister Office. Offices, in fact. Maybe uh, Mao could tell you about that? Like Lumberjack Office does Assasinations. How about the others?
Additional EXP Votes:
You still have 600XP from last couple updates.
[] Plan "Something"
-[] "Number" into "Skill/Stats"
-[] So on and so goes
[] Why did Sun break up? Obviously, something bad happened, and from the sounds of it, the dude seems like a bit asshole. But you still don't get it. What happened? Your current theory is that the dude stabbed her in the back, but. Yeah.
You stare at Mao, frowning. She stares back, eyebrows cocked. God. What does she want from you? You can't figure her out. When you first saw her this afternoon, she was sitting slouched on an armchair, scarfing down on a piece of cake without a care in the world. But the moment you both met Sun, she acts as though the world itself revolves around the client. She said it wasn't an act, that it's real, but – ugh. Your head hurts just thinking about it. And now she wants you to speak up, bring up something. Bring up what? There's nothing you need to know, or want, for that matter.
You recall your little conversation with Mao on the way here. Maybe there's something. "How did it happen?" you ask, turning to Sun. She blinks. In the corner of your eyes, you catch Mao shooting you a look. "What made you break up with…" you gesture vaguely. "Him."
"Oh."
Besides you, Mao hisses out a sigh. "Of all things, that's what you want to ask? Really."
You scowl. "You told me to bring up something."
"Yes, and I'm quickly regretting my decision," Mao shakes her head. "Listen, Miss Sun," she says, softly. "You don't have to answer my brick of a junior's question."
"No," she shakes her head stiffly, staring down to her lap. She fidgets. "It's fine. I mean… you two deserve to know, right?"
"Not really," you say.
Mao purses her lips. "… It looks like you need to get it out of your chest."
Sun smiles, giggling under her breath. "You're right, I think. It's –" the smile vanishes, and she shrinks into herself. "Miss Lily, you asked what happened, right? Nothing happened," you blink, tilting her head. She smiles, a bitter edge to it. "His name's Moon, and – yeah, I know," she giggles at your flat look. "We laugh – laughed about it a lot, but it was too much."
You tilt your head. "What is?"
"Him," she whispers, her face falling. "He's too much. Moon's so sweet, and nice, and gentle, but – I can't. His love was so intense, like how we first met, but that was a long time ago," she raises her head, staring at Mao, and then at you. "And before I knew it, I realized I couldn't love him back."
You blink. "Wait, that's it?"
"… Yes," Sun mumbles, looking away. "I guess that's it."
Somehow, it feels like you just said the wrong thing. Call it instinct – or maybe it's the way Mao's staring at you from the sideline. "Well, it's just," you add quickly. "I mean, I thought he like, betrayed you or something, y'know? But by the way you put it, it's the other way around instead? I don't get it," you muse, tilting your head.
Sun fidgets. Then, her shoulders sag, eyes closing. "I don't either."
Mao sighs. "… Y'know, sometimes it feels like I'm working with emotionally stunted children – and you're not helping that impression, Lily."
You blink, surprised at the sudden edge in Mao's voice. "I'm not – " Mao shoots you a look. You frown, crossing your arms. "What did I do? I was just asking."
"Ms. Sun," Mao mutters softly, squeezing Sun's hand. "Please ignore my dense junior," you grumble under your breath. "Come on, look at me."
"… It's just – I don't know," Sun mumbles, opening her eyes, focusing to her attention to the table. "Did I do the right thing? It feels like it's not. Feels like I abandoned him. I couldn't love him back, but maybe I should've tried more. Tried to talk things out. Maybe –" her voice breaks. "Maybe none of this would've happened."
"No, please don't say that," Mao shakes her head. "You did the right thing, Miss Sun, and I'm not saying that because it led you to hire us," she smirks, chuckling.
Sun smiles, but it's a dead glassy thing, you realize – like those eyes your neighbors have.
Mao lowers her head, her free hand toying with the rim of her hat. "Love is complicated. It's not exactly something I could put into words, but if I have to try –" she pushes her hat away, splaying her palm wide open against the table. "It's business; a transaction. Kinda like this worker-client thing we got," she gestures at Sun, then at herself and you. Sun's dull glassy eyes follow them. "You pay us accordingly, and we protect you accordingly. But, say that we're being paid for a Star of the City job – no way in hell can we deal with that level of threat, can we?" she muses aloud, tone dry. "It's the same with love. If his affection was too much to handle, and you can't even try to return it… then you see where I'm going, yes?"
You blink, and – and you realize you do. You knock your knuckles against the table, and Sun's attention jumps to you. "Mao's right," you still don't get 'love'. Like, you understand what it means, but why anyone would go for it befuddles you. Why anybody would 'open up', and the worth of 'affection'. It seems to only lead into a world of hurt, and disappointment. Shit, from how Sun puts it, that 'hurt' doesn't even have to come from getting stabbed in the back. But if there's one thing you do know – did know, it's gratitude. Feelings of indebtedness.
Landlord Lin flashes to mind. You hate him, but long before that, there was gratitude. A feeling of indebtedness and wanting to pay it back. And then you started drowning in it. "If you did nothing, he'd drown you with that 'affection'. It adds up. Piles up, to the point that you're trapped. He'd hold power over you, and there'd be nothing you could do," you mutter, scowling. "… I still don't get it, but I was wrong. It ain't just 'that's it'. And 'sides, you just reminded me. Dude sent you threats, and now hired a buncha Fixers to hurt you," you point out. "Guess the reason don't matter ultimately, 'cause it sounds like you dodged a damn bullet."
Mao hums. "I was about to remind you that, yeah," she nods. "From how you talked about it, and how your ex reacted, that relationship was inevitable to get poisonous."
"A-ah," Sun hiccups, a broken-up laugh. Her eyes look suspiciously wet, but at least she's not going to burst into tears. She runs her wide sleeve across her face instead. "T-thanks. I – it feels like," she shakes her head. "It's weird. But it feels like I needed to hear that. From both of you. Thanks."
"Whatever," you grumble, looking away. "My bad for raising it up. 'Nuff with the sappy shit –"
"You're right," Mao cuts in. "Now's the time for juicy shit –" and at that, she leans into your side of the table; hand resting below her chin. "So, Lily, what's your preferences?"
You lean back, blinking. "Wha?"
"Y'know," she drawls out, wiggling her brows. "Boys, girls – maybe both?"
You choke, sputtering. You glare, gnashing your teeth. "The fuck? I ain't answering that shit."
"Ohhh," Mao intones flatly, her voice stretching the word. "So, you tellin' me you could dish out the dumb questions, but couldn't answer one yourself, eh?"
You growl, clenching your teeth. "Fuck off, that's not the same –" across the table, Sun covers her mouth. You shoot her a look, and she ducks her head instead, fucking giggling. "Well, how about you –"
"Girls," Mao answers. You blink. She smirks. "I like girls. Miss Sun?"
"E-eh?" Sun blinks in surprise. "I-I mean. Um," she looks up to the ceiling. "… Both?"
Mao turns back to you. You open your mouth, and then closes it. She grins. "Fine, if you're not gonna answer that, what's your type?"
You stare uncomprehendingly. "… Type?"
"Mine's tall, lanky, and nerdy to hell."
"Um," Sun fidgets, unprompted. "Someone who could eat, and likes sweets? I don't think I'll be looking for anyone for a long time."
You suck a breath in frustration. "Look," you growl, feeling your face burn. What even the fuck. "I don't know, alright?" Mao raises an eyebrow, and you groan. "I know what's handsome, and what's beautiful – but that kinda shit just never comes up, 'kay? Sorry, but not sorry. I don't know what I'm into, and I don't got a type."
Mao looks surprised at that. "Huh," she intones, blinking. Her lips immediately transform into a smirk. "Well, can't believe my little junior is this –"
The door rings. "Miss Sun! Are you in there?!" a rough voice calls out from outside.
Sun blanches, her smile slipping away instantly. You stiffen for a moment, before sagging in relief. "Fucking finally," you mutter, jitters coming in. "Here I thought they wouldn't come."
Mao hums, previous humor gone. "Sounds like someone you know, Miss Sun?" Sun shakes her head. "Thought so. It's too late for friendly vistations anyway. In that case, please hide behind me," at that, she pats the spot behind her. Belatedly, as Mao slings her rifle to her lap, you realize that Mao's position lets her to directly face the door. "And here, wear these," she commands, taking off her jacket, before placing her hat over Sun. "You're not going to need it, but just to be safe," she nods quickly, donning Mao's jacket, and scurrying behind her at the same time. Sitting down, you've forgotten about it, but now you're suddenly reminded just how tiny Sun is. If you thought her sweater was oversized, then Mao's practically devours her, and with her making herself as small as possible behind the Fixer, she's practically impossible to see even at your angle. "And Lily, go greet our guests."
"Me?" you ask in surprise, before shaking your head. You grin, feeling your blood pumping. 8th Grade Fixers are still one Grade above you. Head on, you could still die. But that's the kind of dangers the Backstreets have prepared you. If things were that easy, you would never have suffered. At the very least, compared to Ran or Mao, these people ain't shit. "I guess I'm closest to the door," you climb to your feet. "But then what am I supposed to do?"
"Miss Sun here wants to do things peacefully, but the ball is on your court, Lily," Mao chuckles. "Consider this where the real trial begins."
Your mind is at a whirl as you move towards the door. You run her words over, and over, trying to puzzle out some hidden meanings. You realize almost immediately the pointlessness of that activity. It only makes your head hurt. You glace to your side, down at your tightly gripped crowbar, and when you glance back up, you're already standing right in front of the door. Bang bang bang! The knocking grows louder. You can hear the people standing behind the door. You did not notice it before, but both the door's peephole, and even the slits beneath the door have all been boarded, and duct taped.
"Wait, that's it?" was that what you said? Ugh.
You glance back to the living room – and at this angle, you notice, Mao's rifle is well hidden, and Sun unseen.
"Miss Sun!" Bang bang bang! "We know you're in there," bang bang bang! "So please open the door – "
"Shut up!" you snap, scowling. "Stop knocking for just one second, for fuck sake!"
… You can take a few guesses what kinda face Mao's making behind you right now.
There's silence, at least. You feel the hair on your back rising.
[Instinct Roll. Medium Difficulty: Roll 5 to Pass. You roll 6 (5+1).]
You could hear the hushed silence behind the door. The proverbial ticking countdown before they decide to kick the door open. Five – no, six people. That's a lot of people just to deal with one girl. Sun's ex must've wanted this something fierce.
Article:
[] Violence Hour. Sun wanted do end things as clean as possible, and – well, that's not your style. There's gonna be a lot of red by the end of this. Strike first and strike hard. You'll be like both a bulldozer, and a brick wall. If they wanna get through, it'll be your cold dead body. Fortunately, with a Veteran Fixer playing support behind you, you doubt it'll go that far.
-[] Focus on Defense – make sure they're not going to slip through you.
-[] Focus on Offense – they can't get in if they're dead. Genius.
[] Talky Talk Time. Sun wanted do end things as clean as possible, and – well, that's not your style. You could botch this up, but you guess it's worth trying out. If it fails, it'd sacrifice the element of surprise, and with you standing right in front of six odd numbers, it's going to be hell for you. But if it works out, then it works out. Mao'll back you up on this.
This update was a bit hard to write, and hopefully it didn't fall flat. Anyway, this will be my last update for quite some while -- I have an exam week(s) ahead of me, and I'll have to focus on that. See ya until then.
[] Talky Talk Time. Sun wanted do end things as clean as possible, and – well, that's not your style. You could botch this up, but you guess it's worth trying out. If it fails, it'd sacrifice the element of surprise, and with you standing right in front of six odd numbers, it's going to be hell for you. But if it works out, then it works out. Mao'll back you up on this.
Your blood boils. Talking is not your style – fighting is. You're not some Nest Bastard who talks in loops, and circles. You're from the worser parts of the Backstreets, and violence is how you survived. It's not like you enjoyed it, y'know? You're not like those freaks who go out of their way to get killed, or those freaks who get off from it. But you're a natural at it, and there are few things that are better than the rush that follows once you won your fight. It's that feeling of being at the top; a visceral proof that you're better than these idiots, that you're not at the bottom run, that you can go up, and – you know, it's just all a momentary illusion, lasting for only seconds; meaningless in the grand scheme of things. You don't take pleasure in it, but it'd be a lie if you don't take satisfaction in the violence.
More than anything, you need to blow some steam off.
But that's not what Sun wants – and you don't care what she wants. She even said that it's ultimately your choice. Resorting to things that you're not good at only leads to dying, and – ugh. Guilt, and shame are something you need to throw away to survive. They're just baggage dragging your feet down. But that doesn't mean you don't feel them, alright? There. You fucking admitted it. You feel fucking bad. Rats can go die, you don't give a shit about Fixers, and your neighbors… they've given up a long time ago. But Sun's not like them. She's your client, duh, but she fed you brownies. Who does that? She certainly did not have to, and more than that, she didn't force you to do shit, or make you feel like a piece of shit. No instead, you made her feel like shit. Even worse, you made yourself feel like a piece of shit.
Sun wants to do this clean, and stain-free like. Corpses are easy to clean – you can just chuck them off onto the middle of the streets, and the Sweepers will do their thing. But blood? Blood's a different kind of beast. Sweepers don't care about those. And they stain, stick, rust, and smell. They're also fucking hard to clean, especially if they get on more than just metal. By Landlord Lin's demands, you've spent hours just trying to scrub the walls, and floors clean. Days even, trying to scrape the blood off while at the same time not destroying the surface they're stuck on. Sun would've to hire janitors for that, and even then, the stain would never truly go away. Even though Landlord Lin had gone the whole way to repainting the hallway that one time, you could still see them behind your eyes.
Sagging you turn to over your shoulders, meeting Mao's eyes. "We'll do this your way," you mutter.
Her eyes widen for a bit, before she smirks, shooting you a thumbs-up.
Grumbling under your breath, you turn back to the door, unlatching the chain-lock, and twisting the key. As you twist the knob, you let out a deep sigh, before swinging the door open.
Just as you suspected before, six people stand right in front of the door – and out of them, only two stand out immediately. The first one stands right in front of you, wearing a large grey-beige open long-coat, underneath it a plain brown buttoned shirt, his collar splayed wide. Tall like Mao, towering you by a head, but bulky unlike Mao; his shoulders squared up. Old, you continue, but not too old. He can't be a decade older than you, but his hair is already turning gray, black sprinkled with white salt. Lines, and wrinkles on his face, and bags underneath his flinty brown eyes. You recognize the dead-tiredness in his eyes, like the ones you see in your fellow neighbors. At your sight, his frown deepens.
The four in the background wear similar looking clothes, but without the long coat – a cap on their head and collared up brown clothes on their body with too many pockets. The second person that stands out stands surrounded by the four. Wispy white-blue hair, and a pair of wide red eyes. Unlike the others, he wears a simple shirt-and-trousers combo; something that you wouldn't bat an eye over in the streets. It's something that you would wear.
You might be stupid, but that doesn't mean you're blind. He must be –
"Where's Sun?" the man steps forward, voice raspy, and hoarse. Looks like you're on the mark. "Where is she – Sun!" he shouts, taking another step forward. "I know you're in there! Please, show yourself! It doesn't have to be like this, we –"
"Not another –" before you could finish your sentence, the large man shifts his feet, blocking Moon from stepping closer.
"Not another step, Sir," he speaks, voice low, and heavy, tattered with worn. He sighs. "Wait until this is over – until we finish the job, okay?"
Half-hidden behind the man, you catch a frustrated look on Moon's face.
"Now," the large man turns to you, looming. His eyes glance to your side, and yours to his. A tonfa inside the sleeves of his coat, not quite hidden. You call back to yesterday, to what a certain purple-haired maniac said. Shit, what was his name again? "I suggest you step aside, young girl. Our client's business is not with you."
He's not attacking immediately. That's good. "I suggest you all leave instead," you retort, and the man raises his eyes. What was it that Mao told you before? "You're all not getting paid enough for this."
"Is that so," he drawls out, sighing. "And why is that? As I see it, we've come prepared – and two against six?" for the first time, you catch a semblance of a smile. It's dead cold thing. "We'll take our chances."
[Negotiation Check. Medium Difficulty (5 to Pass). You Roll 3 (2+1). Fail.]
Uh. Okay. Point. What's next? You shift on your feet. Oh, right. "Ya sure? We're from a Fifth Grade Office," you smirk. "Scarecrow Office. You think you could take us on?"
"Yes," your smile falters. He snorts. Behind him, the four Fixers laugh. "Even if I do believe you, I would even still say yes. I have never heard of a Scarecrow Office – and even if I'm wrong," he leers. "You don't look like a 5th Grade Fixer. I can smell the green off you, and I bet your partner there is no better."
Well, shit. If he doesn't believe you, then there's not much else you could do. You could at least say you tried. Lifting your hand, you catch the man's eyes narrow, the tonfa in his grip sliding – behind him, the four Fixers pull out their weapons: batons, and clubs. This is going to hurt, but –
"I'd suggest you rethink that, Victor," Mao drawls, her voice somehow piercing. Everything stops, and your crowbar hangs stiffly halfway from raising it up. You feel a pull, almost reflexive, forcing you to look over your shoulders, but you don't – keeping instead an eye on Victors, catching the surprise on his face. "Victor from Vic's Office – quite the narcissistic, and plain name, I'll admit. You'd think it's the other way around, but, ah, excuse my junior's lack of persuasion skills. Somehow, she manages to make the truth sound like a bluff," Mao chuckles.
You grumble under your breath.
"How did you –"
"Ap," you could almost feel Mao raising her finger when she said that, waggling it around. "I'm not done. Ah, what was it, again? Right. Victor, Mellie, Asoka, Miriam, and Vallete. Ninth Grade Fixers, except for the boss himself; an Eighth Grade Fixer. Coming from the Western side of our District, I'm not surprised you don't know us –"this time, you could hear the grin; like a cat playing with a cornered rat. Mao chuckles. "But we do. Jack of All Trades, in the business for ten years. Quite the experience there – why I'm only in this business for at least four years. I should call you my senior," she laughs. "By the way, I am actually a Fifth Grade Fixer."
… Y'know, it's interesting the various expressions one could make under growing terror. Especially when that someone is a supposedly stoic, but undoubtedly stronger-than-you Fixer.
Victor recovers, jaws clenched tight. His face is a shade paler. "… This little girl here is still green. New. I'm not wrong on that front. She'll die quickly."
You narrow your eyes. "In your fucking dreams," you growl. He's right, though. You lost the element of surprise, and he stands there right in front of you. While Mao's stronger than him, he's still stronger than you. You'll hold, but it's not going to be easy.
"My junior is a newbie," Mao answers lightly, and you bristle. "In fact, she just graduated yesterday – but if you have to think twice again. She's not at all green. In fact, she's red."
… Huh. "She's right, y'know," you growl. "You might be able to finish me, but by that time, you'd all be dead."
As if on cue, you hear a click from behind you; something heavy settling onto a wooden surface – and if you thought you saw pale, then you haven't seen this one. They all stiffen. "My junior's too generous. You'd all be dead before then."
"If," Victor starts, then pauses. "If you think death scares us…"
Mao hums. "Oh, pretty sure it does. But we're all Fixers here, right? Death is part of the job; I'll give you that. What can you do, right? But it's good to remember that it's still a job, and if this one's worth dying over."
Defeat. Plain as day even you could see it, cracking through his pale, yet still-stoic expression. "… Fine. What do you want?"
"What?!" Moon chokes. "No no no," he shakes his head. "You've gotta be joking. We're not – I'll triple, quadruple your pay – !"
"Please, Sir," Victor strains out, grimacing. "Even if you could pay us by that much, this is not something we're equipped to deal with."
Moon opens his mouth, and then closes it with a whimper, hugging himself. "Sun!" he shouts. "Please! I just – I love you so much, and I just want to see you again, so please I know you're in there, and you can hear me so –"
"Well," Mao cuts him off, her voice perking up. "You all could leave, but I don't see why Moon has to. I'm sure Miss Sun wants to see him."
"Yes –"
"No," Victor cuts Moon off, grabbing the man by the collar. "We will leave, but not without our client."
"… Even if it means you'd all die?"
Victor clenches his jaws. "This is one thing we will not budge."
"Well, sure. Leave, then."
You watch Moon flail as the Fixers beat a hasty retreat, dragging the man unceremoniously.
You let out a breath that you didn't realize you have been holding. Shoulders sagging, you close the door – doing all the locks over again. You turn around, staring at Mao staring at you with a grin. "Good job," she remarks.
You grimace, dragging your feet. "… I did fuck all," you point out, heaving out a growl as you deposit yourself to same spot as before. "Sun?" you call out.
Mao hums. "We'll talk about that later," she nods, before turning over her shoulders. "Miss Sun? How are you feeling?"
Stiffly, Sun crawls out from the shadow of Mao's back. She looks exhausted. "I'm fine," she smiles tiredly. The corner of her eyes looks wet.
"I'm sorry, Miss Sun," Mao mutters, and you're faintly surprised by how remorseful she sounds. "Even though I had the chance, I missed out on finishing your ex."
"N-no," she whispers out, shaking her head. "It's fine. You protected me, and…" she turns to you. "I'm sorry."
You blink, jaws clenching reflexively. "… Sorry? For what?"
"You almost died, Miss Lily, because of my selfish request," she mumbles out, ducking her head. "I know," she continues, before you could add a word in. "It's part of the job, but that one request… it wasn't."
"Ugh," you grimace, shooting her a scowl. "Look. Who the fuck says I did it for you? I did that for myself."
"Oho," Mao smirks, like a cat who caught the canary. "You should see your face in a mirror, Lily. It's really, really red."
"Hehe," Sun giggles. "Thank you, Miss Lily."
"Holy shit –" you strain out, burying your face into your palms. "Just fuck off, okay. I did it for myself."
"If you say so, miss 'I can dish it out, but can't take it'," Mao laughs. Without looking up, you raise your middle finger. Mao laughs again, this time accompanied again by Sun giggling. You bury your face deeper. "Anyway, looks like our job here is done – but just to be safe, would you mind us standing guard here over the night, Miss Sun?"
"H-huh? But I only paid for…"
"Psh," Mao snorts. "It's fine. Consider it our "First Time Client" bonus – you don't have to pay extra…" she trails off. "Though more cakes would be nice."
Sun giggles. "Well, in that case…"
…
You're the first to watch for the night, sitting alone by the table under the unlit room. Sun is probably already asleep in her bedroom, Mao inside there to watch over her. It's a weird thing to do, but she's the one who's been doing this for years, so who're you to say anything. Like what Mao said, you don't expect anything to happen. It'd probably take days, if not weeks, for Moon to come again with more Fixers, and by then, none of this would be any of your business. You sigh deeply, pressing your palm against your face. What a fuckup.
"You did good, Lily."
You glance to your side, barely surprised as Mao sits right next to you. "Ya sure?" you snort. "I did fuck all. Just fumbled my words – you're the one who did everything, while I was just standing around like an idiot."
Mao raises an eyebrow, before humming. "I disagree. It wasn't just 'standing around', you stood your ground," she says, staring at the door. You scoff. "That's why you passed, by the way."
You blink. "Whu?"
"Wait," Mao turns to you, smirking. "Did you forget why you're here in the first place?
Oh. Right. "… No?" Mao snorts, and you grumble under your breath. "Whatever. You said I passed? I'm not complaining, but why?"
"Like I said," Mao drawls. "You stood your ground. Five Fixers in front of you. Experienced, and well-equipped. And you, just one day from getting your Fixer's License. You didn't take a step back – in fact, you were prepping to strike them."
"I just wanted to strike back," you grumble under your breath. "Not much else."
"Well, regardless," Mao continues. "Had you taken a couple steps back then; gave those Fixers an opening to go aroundyou, I would've failed you. I said before, that even if our job is filled with death, it's still a job," she muses. "You have to consider each one if they're worth dying over or not. That rule applies little to us Scarecrows."
"Us, huh," you snort. "But how do you mean?" somehow, you think you already know the answer.
"We Scarecrows specialize in Protection – that means putting others first before ours," she explains. "It's one thing to refuse it beforehand, but the moment we take the job – provided our client does not knowingly set us up – even if it means we have to face threats leagues above what we were supposed to deal with, what we can deal with, we don't back down," Mao closes her eyes, stretching her torso across the table. "We're Scarecrows. The moment we're staked to the ground to protect the field from crows, we don't move. We don't budge. Compared to the farmers, to the field itself, our lives are nothing. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yeah," you sigh out, closing your eyes. "I think I get it."
There's a long pause. "If you don't think being a Scarecrow fits you, you could leave. I won't hold it out against you. I'd even contact one of our Sister Offices, recommend you to any which one you think would fit you best."
You glance to her. "You're weird, y'know that, right?" you mutter. "You're strong. Stronger than me, and I guess that grants you the privilege. And you're super annoying, but…" you scrunch your brows. "Even when I mouth you back, you didn't –" you grimace. "I've only worked with you for less than a day, but – ugh," you plant your face to the table. "I can't say it."
Mao snorts. "Cute."
You glare.
Mao smirks. "Nobody cares for the scarecrow. Everyone thinks they're dumb. Foolish. Even to their companions, they're there to be laughed at, not with. Nobody understands them. That's why," Mao muses. "Scarecrows have to stick together, because they're the ones who understand themselves."
You snort. "You're really milking it, aren't you?"
"Well," Mao shrugs, before sighing, closing her eyes. For a moment, she doesn't say anything. When she opens them again, they pin you down like a force of gravity. Her eyes, a golden amber thing, seem to glow. "So, what do you think? I'm giving you a choice. An actual choice."
Article:
Choose 1:
[] Join the Scarecrow Office. What else is there to say? You've chosen this Office, and you're not backing out of it. You stand your ground.
[] Do Not Join the Scarecrow Office. You can't be a Scarecrow. You value your life too much.
-[] Yellow Path Office, Specializing in Information, as well as "Lost and Found"
-[] Lumberjack Office, Specializing in Assassination
-[] Lion Office, Specializing in Team-based Warfare
[] Join the Scarecrow Office. What else is there to say? You've chosen this Office, and you're not backing out of it.
For a long moment, you stare at the door. You once met a Fixer; a silent black mask drenched in blood, culling everything down in his path. Black Silence, he was called, and you always wonder what it takes to be that powerful. To have so much strength that everything in his way simply parted apart. You never figured it out; too few times to consider it, not many chances to practice it. It's barely been two days since you received your Fixer's License; less than a day of actually working as one, barely a step forward – but it's still a step forward, and you think you can see the edge of your answer.
"What kinda question is that," you scoff, smirking. "I'm already knee-deep in the shit, don't I? I don't do backing down. 'Specially when I'm this close at the finishin' line."
"Hah," the seriousness seems to fade from her eyes, replaced by a twinkle. Mao laughs quietly, her lips curving into a smile, throwing an arm around your shoulder. You twitch. "Then welcome to Scarecrow Office, Lily. We'll make it official tomorrow."
You shoot her over-extending arm a look. You roll your shoulders, but it seems stubbornly attached. In the corner of your eyes, you catch Mao's smile widening, crooking into a smirk. You scowl, growling under your breath. You shrug the hand off again. It stays. "Please don't make me regret what I just said."
If anything, that only makes her smile even more crooked. "Oh, Lily-girl," Mao singsongs, pulling your head to under her arm. You grunt at the sudden swerve of vision. "You can always regret what you chose, or said, but there are no backsies."
You try to pull your head out, but her grip is a vise thing. "Ugh," you groan in disgust. "An' here I fucking thought you were nice."
"Ah, so you thought I was nice," you couldn't see her face, on the account that she's put you around her armpit. Mao chuckles, mussing up your hair. "Well, I think you're pretty neat too, Lily."
You growl, glowering, but she ignores it as expected. Grumbling, you sag in defeat. This close to Mao, you could taste the scent of blood, steel, and that bitterness you smelled back in the Office coming from her – but there's something there, as you dig deeper. Something woody, and old, like papers. You can't put your finger around it.
"… Are you sniffing me?"
"What?" you jump, only to fail when her vise-grip barely budges. "Fuck no," you make a gagging noise. "Look," you growl, frustrated. "You pull me this close to you, and sure as shit I'll smell your weird shit."
"Well, I'm not the one who's sniffing like a dog," Mao points out.
"A dog –" you choke. "I ain't a fuckin' dog –"
Your eyes widen as Mao's grip suddenly leaves you. You're falling, and before you could recover, your head falls to the ground. Or not. You blink, glaring at Mao from her lap. She grins wide. You quickly push yourself off her, grumbling, refusing to even consider the fact that her lap is softer than the pillow you have back at home.
Mao hums, chuckling under her breath. "Maybe not a dog," she admits, and you glance to her, eyebrow raised. Groaning, she leans over the table again, back splayed. "Maybe a tiger."
"Tiger sounds good," you nod begrudgingly.
"A tiger cub."
You close your eyes, cursing under your breath. "This is fun to you, don't it," you open your eyes, glaring.
Mao smiles wryly. "Do I need to answer that?" you cross your hands, hunching up. "'Sides, you're not making it easy for me either," Mao points out. "I'm living up to my name, y'see. Dangle me a bait like that, and I can't help but leap over it."
You roll your eyes. "Sure."
Mao barks out a single 'hah', before trailing into silence. And for a long moment, Mao doesn't say, peeling herself off from the table. You take respite in the silence, crossing your arms, glowering at the door. You blink and realize that your eyelids have grown heavier since. Today's been a lot.
"Well, it's my turn for watch now," she tells you, before nodding towards the bedroom. "Don't think anything weird'll come out, so you're free to take a nap. I'll wake you up when the sun goes up."
You turn towards the bedroom, before shaking your head. "Nah," you mutter, falling to your back; before your head hits the floor, you cross your arms together, forming a pillow under it. "I'll take my nap here."
Mao hums. "So what did you smell?"
You shoot her a strange look, but she's not staring at you, and you can only see her back. It's big, you muse. No wonder Sun could hide behind it easy. "Just blood, and steel," you mutter, staring at the dark ceiling, blinking. Once, twice, and you yawn, closing your eyes. "That bitter smell from the office. And papers."
You get the impression that she's nodding along – weird, that, you have an impression when you only met her for less than a day. Exhaling, those thoughts empty themselves, and you find yourself drifting to sleep.
"… Papers, huh. Well, good night."
...
Just as Mao promised, she wakes you up as the sun comes up, a good four hours after the Night in the Backstreets – the Sweepers, strange monsters in dark air-tight suit with fearsome red goggles – going in, and out, cleaning the streets, only for them to be smeared once again in the coming hours. Rinse, and repeat. Sun greets you in a cheer that you didn't expect she could pull. She's not bouncing off her steps, but it's odd to think that the girl who's shaking like a leaf from yesterday, is the same as today. Even the bags under her eyes look less visible.
"Thanks," she says, once again, as you and Mao stand in front of her apartment's porch. And once again, you're not sure how to take that. For all that Mao said about standing your ground, you still did little else. It was Mao who did the heavy lifting. And that's discounting your own shitty-ness that still makes you feel shitty if you linger on it.
"We're just doing our job, Miss Sun," Mao answers, shaking her head. In her hand, she waves an envelope. "'Sides, you paid us. That's better than thanks."
Sun giggles, waving her hand as the two of you move to leave. "See you again, Miss Mao, Miss Lily."
Soon enough, you're back on the streets – away from Sun's highly-graded neighborhood, and only going down from there. "Again, huh," you eventually mutter.
Mao hums, nodding. "Well, just in case, we're keeping an eye on her."
You scrunch your eyebrows. "Seriously? Why? Not that, y'know –" you make a floppy gesture with your hand. "But I thought once we're done, we're done – whatever comes after is out of our hand."
Mao sniffs, smirking. "You're not wrong – and if Miss Sun contacts the Lumberjacks to deal with Moon, barring further complications, I'll expect that'll be the last of it. But bodyguarding isn't a one-time-done-deal kind of job. Sometimes it is, but for the most part, we look for long term ones. Repeat customers, see? 'Course," Mao continues, nodding. "Miss Sun don't seem the kind to look into trouble, but…"
You could connect the dots from there. "In case trouble comes looking for her, we can offer our protection to her," Mao nods at that. You frown. "Y'don't think she'll do it, do you?"
"Honestly?" Mao turns to you. "I can't really say. She said she'll consider it, but… people are complicated. Especially those who are – or were in love."
"Ugh," you grimace. "So it's back to that again."
Mao hums. "It doesn't hurt either way. If she contacts the Lumberjacks, then that's that. But if she doesn't, she'll come to us," at that, Mao smiles, stretching her arms out. "It'll be a win-win-win for us."
"… That's one too many wins," you point out.
"Last one's for me. Us, maybe," Mao grins, and you grumble under your breath. "Miss Sun's a nice girl, and as a human being, I don't want her to get kidnapped, and treated a fate worse than death. 'Sides, I reckon if we get to work with her again, we'll get more cakes to bring home," at that, she lifts the plastic box of brownies.
You look down onto your own side, with your own box of brownies. You smile, despite yourself. "Guess so."
---
The walk back to the Scarecrow Office feels faster than the walk from, and soon enough, you're back to the neighborhood with dozens of Fixer Offices occupying it. You're back to the building with the scarecrow head sign hanging off the side, where the windows lining the second story has been painted black to keep any light, or onlookers from looking in. You're back to the glass door who has been given the same treatment as the windows outside, and back inside the surprisingly softly-lit room of brown sofas, and black desks, where that thick bitter smell seems to linger as strongly as yesterday. The Boss sits at the head of the room, at his own desk, seemingly unmoving from last you saw him; the crow perched on the rim of his hat.
"Welcome back," sitting on the same armchair as yesterday, Mori raises his hand into a salute, a tired smile on his face. "… Well, you two looks just fine, and dandy huh."
You raise an eyebrow at that. You spot Kai sitting on the sofa, and shrugging your shoulders, you sit next to her. Her eyes meet yours for a moment – compared to Mori, Kai's tiredness is less pronounced, but it's difficult to miss the tatters on her clothes, or the bandage patch over her right eye. She nods at you, and you nod back.
"You look like shit."
Kai closes her eye, sighing. "Yes."
"Huh," Mao intones, crossing the distance to her own armchair. She eyes Kai with a frown. "Shit luck on the job?"
Mori grunts, wincing as he settles back to his chair. "Shit luck's one way to put it. Burke's not gonna come back in a couple days, so Boss, can I start the debrief."
From underneath the burlap sack, dark eyes blink. "Debrief start."
"Right, yeah, so," Mori sucks in a breath, before exhaling. "Where to start... okay, so we were right in thinkin' that Zhao was just being paranoid, thinkin' that his family's gonna tear him apart or something. We even asked the family, and his neighbors – the family was scared on the account that Zhao's hired us and has been acting weird. The neighbors didn't care and slammed the door on us. What we didn't expect, however, was that something else was at play," saying that, he pulls out a red wax candle from his pocket; one-fourth of it burned.
Mao frowns, leaning forward to stare at it. She turns to Mori. "What am I looking at?"
"Smokeless, odorless, and flameless – it caused one of Zhao's youngest to Distort."
Silence. Your eyes widen, and you don't need to look around that Mao has the same reaction. A bated breath hangs in the air, teetering at the edge. Distortion – y'don't know the details of it, but they're people who've turned into monsters. It has been a few months since the Pianist destroyed a good chunk of District 9 – a music so loud, and powerful you could hear it when it happened; so mesmerizing that if you even think about it, you could hear its beautifully heinous tune. Your fingers would twitch ever so lightly, flexing beyond your control, playing an invisible soundless instrument.
The Aftermath of the Pianist was not any less messy than the incident itself, perhaps more so, since you never stepped a foot outside of your own District. The Loud Orchestra, a Syndicate the same age as the Pianist, formed around that singular urge to play music that the Pianist had left behind; its number growing with each passing day, and 'play'. Distortions, people turned who have been driven into insanity, becoming literal monsters.
"Yeah," Mori whispers, his voice so quiet you could hear a pin drop, yet somehow so loud you think you've grown deaf. "Some bad shit there. Kai there should take most of the credits," he tilts his head to her direction. "She's the one who figured out something was wrong and found the candle. I took care of the Distorted youngest. Zhao's unharmed, but they're taking it badly."
"… Contact Hana, send the candle," the Boss grinds out, and Mori nods. "After that: verdict?"
"Yeah, like I said," Mori groans, leaning back again to his chair. He smiles. "If it ain't for Kai here, I wouldn't have noticed something was wrong. She's rigid, and stiff, maybe a bit too much – but girl's smart."
"Accepted. Welcome to Scarecrow Office, Fixer Kai."
Kai bows her head. "Honored, Chief Daniel."
A snort. "Rigid," the Boss repeats.
"Weeell," Mao groans, breaking the silence. "Great. Now our mission's gonna sound like shit compared to Mori's. Why you gotta be like this, Mori?" Mori snorts, laughing. "Still," she sighs, smiling. "Good to know you're both fine."
Kai doesn't say anything.
"Aye," Mori pops up a thumbs up. "So how did yours go?"
You grimace as Mao goes over what happened. Miss Sun, then Moon and the Vic Office, how they were dealt with, and – Mao's right. It sounds unimpressive as fuck, and you know it's not a competition, and that unimpressive is good – but you still did fuck-all; nothing. Maybe if you contributed something, you could live with it, but you just stood there like a fool. Sure, you stood your ground, or whatever, but nothing's nothing. Compared to that, Kai did more than nothing. It's annoying; frustrating in ways you couldn't even begin describing.
What's the point of power if you can't use it?
"Good job. Verdict?"
You snap your head back to Mao. Her eyes meet yours, and her smile is a large and wide thing. Your eyes widen, mouth opening. "Lily-girl here's a bit dumb, awkward, can't read the room for her life, and super easy to tease with. They're good things, mind."
Your lower your head, burying your face inside your hands.
"And she got guts, and when it came down to it, she stood her ground in the face of five Fixers way above her," Mao nods, satisfied. "I already unofficially welcomed her in –"
"Of course," Mori dryly cuts in.
"—But I say we make it official. Chief?"
The crow lets out a caw. "Official it is. Welcome to Scarecrow Office, Fixer Lily."
"… Yeah," your word is muffled through your hands. "Thanks."
"Welcome."
"Hmhm," Mao hums. "Oh, and here's your cut, Lily," you blink as she slides you an envelope.
Your hands are shaking when you pick it up, and inside –
Holy shit, you're rich.
[+ 250000 Ahn]
"You, uh," you blink, and then count it again, just to make sure it's correct. "Uh," you look up to Mao, straight to her expectant smile. That could mean either good, or bad. "You didn't count wrong?"
She smirks, raising an eyebrow. "Two-fifty-kay, right?" you nod stiffly. "Five fifty-kays?" you nod again. "Then nope, I didn't count wrong."
"Oh," you look back down to the envelope of money, before pinching it. You bring it up to your hand, and stare how thick that makes. It's not that thick, of course, but that somehow makes it all the more impressive. "Huh."
"Well!" Mao suddenly jumps to her feet. She grins to Mori. "Now that we got two more members into our Office, y'know what this means, right?"
He looks down to his right arm – the prosthesis he had shown you earlier, capable of shifting into a hook gun. You notice only now that there is blood leaking from the seams. "Workshops?"
"You're damn right," she claps her hands together. "You two – " she whips back to you. "Now that you're both Scarecrows, we can't have you be bringing in shit-reps by being underequipped. So we're all gonna go to the Workshop Streets – get our Tailor to fit you with something better."
You don't think you appreciate the look on Mao's eyes. "Now?"
"Yeah, now," Mao nods, crossing her arms together; a hand propping pinching at her chin. "Mori here's gonna need some maintenance on his arm –"
"Yep," he dryly muses. "First time using this, and – well, Santiago's gonna tear me a new one, I could tell."
"— And we can treat Little Kai here for her injuries."
"… I'm not little."
You snort. "You'll get used to it."
She turns to you; cold blue eye searching, before closing with a sigh.
"Yeah," you nod.
"I can hear both of you, y'know?" Mao chuckles.
You roll your eyes. "Whatever."
Mori snorts. "Well. I'm also starving – itching for a good chicken rice porridge, honestly."
"Yeah, same. I'm starving," Mao nods wistfully. "Jian's on the way back."
"Jian's great."
You open your mouth – Mao looks at you – and you close them back down. She just ate a bunch of sweets last night, and in addition to the freshly baked brownies this morning, Sun had also toasted the both of you simple sandwiches. You're not complaining about more food, of course, but…
"Bring take-out," Boss Daniel chimes in. "The Usual."
"Sure thing, Boss. Now," Mao turns to the door, grabbing her hat and coat by the hanger. "Up and at them. Day's not over yet."
[+500 XP]
Article:
On the way to the so-called "Workshop Street", you find yourself standing side-by-side with:
[] Kai – Mao and Mori walk ahead of you, and that leaves you back with Kai. She doesn't say anything – and compared to the chatterbox that was Mao, you find Kai both comforting, and unsettling. But if you're going to work with her, then you're gonna have get used to her. You're reminded to how she fought back then with Ran – maybe you could ask her about that?
[] Mori – With Mao talking "Little" Kai's ears off, that leaves you back with Mori. Compared to Mao, you find Mori easier to talk with, and he seems to sympathize with you. Honestly, you're also a bit curious with how his prosthesis, and augmentations worked.
[] Mao – Even though it's only been a day, it feels as though you're cursed to be forever stuck with Mao. Throwing her hand around your shoulders, and practically dragging you ahead of the road, she talks about… Distortions, about the Loud Orchestra, and other Syndicates. You feel goosebumps rising across your skin. That's not a topic you expected from her.
When you arrive at the 'Workshop Street', what interests you the most? (Choose 1)
[] Augmentations – technologies; sometimes old Singularities which patents have expired, and never renewed, to actual Singularities like nanomachines that are being sold. Augmentations are technologies that allow your body to perform incredible feats. Often, it's just to strengthen your body, but as those tattoos from Hood Man showed, they could do more than that.
[] Weapons – You like your crowbar. You don't think you'll be changing that, but that doesn't mean your crowbar has to stay as is. Just as there are augmentations to the body, there are also augmentations to the weapon. Kai's sword, for example, you know well could do something funny.
[] Gadgets – as you've been told along the way, apparently there are more to Workshops than just weapons, and armors. They also have other tools, kinda like carpenter hammers, but for Fixers. The way Mori, and Mao put it, it's waaay more complicated than that, but there's probably something you could work with, right?
Next update should be the last one for the prologue -- then we can jump right into the meat proper.
