Warmth. Kinship. These are the core values of the Liu, an Association that specializes in all-out warfare utilizing martial arts and flame-based weaponry.
Ishmael just wants to eat her extra-large bowl of premium spicy beef noodles garnished with fresh green onions in peace, but Fixer work and her infuriating boss keep getting in her way.
(A series of Slice-of-life/Foodie/Action stories, starring Liu Association Ishmael and the rest of the Limbus Company employees, set in the Mirror World of the Liu Association.)
Synopsis: Ishmael goes out to eat at her favorite restaurant on her day off. Unfortunately, her lunch is interrupted by a work request, and now she has to destroy an entire Syndicate single-handedly. In other words, just another ordinary day of life in the City.
Tales From the Liu Association
SHE SETS THE CITY ON FIRE:
Prologue: "A Soup For Every Season"
The first rays of dawn filtered through the drawn shutters, falling onto the back of Ishmael's head as she slept.
Her long tresses of voluminous knee-length orange hair were spread out across her futon and the floor. One arm was sticking out of her covers next to her head as she laid curled up on her side. A small trickle of drool worked its way down the side of her freckled cheek.
Ishmael's eye twitched as the light hit her eyelids.
She grumbled and rolled over, but to no avail. It was brighter on that side; the sun's beams striking her directly in the face. She laid there for a moment, slowly waking up as her brain registered the red glow penetrating through the shield of her eyelids. She groaned and rolled onto her back, flinging one arm over her eyes to defend them against the encroaching sun. Gradually, she started to fall back asleep.
Ishmael's 8AM alarm rang, the digital clock blaring and flashing on her desk. Ishmael's eyes snapped open, before she immediately tossed her covers aside and stumbled to her feet. She staggered over to the desk, slamming her hand down onto the top of the clock to shut it off before sitting down heavily into the office chair as her brain started to boot up.
She blinked, before clambering upright again and heading towards the bathroom in her single-room studio apartment. She tossed open the door, before walking over to the sink and turning the faucet on.
Ishmael splashed her face with cold water, waking herself up fully. She took in a deep breath, before raising her head and looking at the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her groggily. It took Ishmael a second to recall something important.
"Right. Today's my day off." Ishmael said to herself.
She peered more closely at her reflection in the mirror, before grimacing. She'd drooled onto her hair again. Ishmael turned the faucet back on, and began the laborious process of washing the matted-together locks and wrangling her huge mass of ginger hair into shape.
Ishmael went back into the main studio to grab her rope headband, before heading back into the bathroom and easing it onto her head. She adjusted the white ribbons on either side to line up perfectly above her ears, before brushing her bangs to the side.
She stared into the mirror for a second, before nodding. That was satisfactory.
She shuffled back outside over to her fridge, inspecting its contents. There were some left-over pork buns in a styrofoam take-out box. It was Friday, and her fridge was almost empty.
Ishmael hadn't needed to shop for food by herself in months. Her Director, Rodion, had the strangest habit of dragging her along on food-shopping trips almost every week she could arrange for their days off to line up, and Ishmael always ended up carrying more food home than she could stuff her small fridge with.
It had gotten to the point where Ishmael had seriously considered buying herself a second fridge, but then she wouldn't have an excuse to beg off of more shopping.
It was odd, being… friends with her boss. It was nothing like any of her old workplaces.
She sighed, grabbing the box of pork buns out of the refrigerator. It was important to eat a balanced meal, so she grabbed a jar of pickled vegetables to eat on the side. She placed the items on the dining table beside the refrigerator and opened up the take-out box, before fetching a spoon from a drawer in the small kitchenette. Ishmael also stopped by her work desk to grab a binder full of forms and an ink pen. Even though it was her day off, she still had paperwork to catch up on from earlier.
She sat down at the kitchen table and grabbed a pork bun from the box with one hand, as she flipped the binder open and pulled the first sheet of paperwork out onto the table.
She took a bite as she worked, before adding some of the pickled vegetables on top. The slightly salty sweet-and-sour taste of the chopped fermented carrots and napa cabbage added a fresh tangy flavor to the savory honey-glazed pork. The firm crunch of the carrot also contrasted wonderfully with the soft, fluffy texture of the rice flour bun.
Ishmael finished her first pork bun and reached for another one. Before she knew it, the entire box was empty, and half of the paperwork in the binder had shifted to the other side of the table.
She brushed the crumbs on her hands off and threw the box in the trash, before emptying the rest of the binder out onto the table and looking over the forms remaining.
There was a routine equipment condition update for the weapons and armored uniform the Liu Association had issued her, a business expense form she needed to fill out to be reimbursed for her work lunches this month, after-action reports for each of the solo contracts she'd completed this week, and a thick sheaf of accounting forms held together by a paperclip.
...That last one was new. She couldn't recall taking those home from her desk at the office. Had she grabbed them from someone else by mistake?
A slight frown spread across Ishmael's face as she picked the sheaf of papers up and rifled through them. A sticky note on the back of it fell off and floated down to the wooden floor.
"Huh?" Ishmael scooted her chair back and reached down under the table to grab the piece of paper, knitting her brows together as she read the loopy and hastily-scrawled handwriting. Hey, Ishmael~
Sorry to spring this on you last-minute, but upper management needs these forms done by Saturday, and my schedule's all packed till the end of the week.
I already put my signature at the bottom of each form, so if you could do me a huge favor and fill them out, that'd be really great!
I'll buy you a bowl of beef noodles later to make it up to you, how's that sound?
Love, Rodion~
A vein on her forehead twitched. Ishmael closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose, before letting it all out in one short, angry huff.
…Ishmael didn't mind being told to do additional work by her boss. She was used to it from her old employer, but something about the tone of the note annoyed her to no end. Couldn't she have at least handed it to her in-person?
She breathed in angrily as she spread the sheaf of papers across the dining table. "I don't need you to buy me noodles." Ishmael muttered furiously to herself. "I can buy my own beef noodles."
How was she even supposed to get these done? Ishmael didn't have access to Section Four's accounting records-
…And there they were. This was a blatant breach of document security. Ishmael could be fired for even having these.
They seemed to be photocopies of the financial records, at least. Ishmael could only imagine the storm and the ensuing headache it would cause for her if the originals were found missing.
She shut her eyes tight, sinking her elbows down onto the table as she started to massage her temples. It was Ishmael's day off. She shouldn't have had to put up with this. Ishmael let out a defeated sigh, before casting a half-lidded glance at the clock in the corner of her vision.
It was 12 PM. Lunchtime.
She was going to go outside to eat, and handle this tomorrow at the Office.
Ishmael walked in through the doors of the noodle restaurant. As she entered, the scent of cooking oil and a cavalcade of savory smells washed over her. Wontons, pan-seared beef, fried rice and a wide variety of soups and appetizers greeted her from the tables and the billboard suspended above the bar.
The place was packed during the lunch rush, the loud buzz of casual conversation and the press of bodies filling up the building. Ishmael pushed past the crowd, weaving through the mass with practiced ease.
She meandered over to the bar and rested her elbows on the table. One of the cashiers noticed her and walked over with a rehearsed customer service smile. Ishmael tuned out the words as she gazed at the menu.
She stared up at the board, deep in thought with a slightly glazed look in her hazel eyes, her mouth hanging partly open as she carefully thought over her selection.
"A platter of fried Jiaozi, and an extra-large bowl of premium spicy beef noodles." Ishmael pointed at the menu and stated her order decisively.
The cashier punched her order into the register, the number on the LED display going up. "Jiaozi for an appetizer and XL spicy beef noodles." He repeated her order back to her. "What sauce would you like with your fried dumplings?"
Ishmael thought about it for a second. "All of them."
"Anything else?" He asked. "No, thank you." Ishmael shook her head.
The cashier handed her one of the table placards and pointed her towards one of the windowside booths. "Please sit at table four, your food will be out shortly." He smiled warmly at her.
She didn't know the cashier's name, but somehow, most of the restaurant staff seemed to know her. The Liu Association was rather well-regarded around these parts. Ishmael figured that most of it was probably Director Rodion's work, but the Liu also had a tendency to eat in large groups, as well as throw parties at local bars and restaurants to celebrate victories.
From a business perspective, she reasoned, it only made sense to treat them well. If a member of the Liu Association was left with a favorable impression of their restaurant, there was a high chance that they'd end up inviting their colleagues as well next time.
Ishmael had done just that here on several occasions, although admittedly, she mostly ate alone. This was one of her favorite restaurants, but her co-workers seemed to have gotten tired of the place.
She didn't understand how someone could get bored of beef noodles. They were the perfect guilt-free comfort food, covering all food groups with a hearty combination of starches, meat, and vegetables. The delicious broth was packed full of nutrition, as well as a medley of flavors from the spices, vegetables, and most of all the meat.
After a long day of hard work, it was warm and comforting, providing the fluids, electrolytes, and protein that a Fixer needed to recover from the strain of combat and maintain muscle mass. You could prepare, garnish, season, and serve it in a dozen different ways to keep it from getting old.
Hot-and-spicy Sichuan noodle soup, delectable pan-seared beef served with white noodles, garnished with scallions, mustard greens, and warm rice on the side.
Braised-beef noodle soup simmered with star anise, tomatoes and garlic, with thick chewy wheat noodles.
Beef noodle salad served cold during hotter weather, seasoned with a fragrant dressing of sesame oil, garlic, and soy sauce; crunchy and refreshing with strips of thinly-sliced carrots and cucumbers.
There was a beef-noodle soup for every season. No matter what her colleagues' opinions might have been, Ishmael swore to herself that she would never get sick of beef noodles.
She took one of the table placards with a number on it and went to sit down, sinking into the leather upholstery with a heavy exhalation as Ishmael let herself finally unwind. She shrugged off her armored Liu Association coat, before folding it and laying on the seat next to her.
The route she took to get from her studio apartment to the restaurant mostly went through the safer parts of the Backstreets, but even the nicer neighborhoods weren't entirely secure.
Fighting could erupt at almost any time or place in the Backstreets. Skirmishes between rival Syndicates, Fixers carrying out contracts, opportunistic murders-slash-muggings- the list carried on and on. Outbreaks of sudden, deadly violence were an everyday occurrence, which was why Ishmael rarely went anywhere without her armored uniform and her weapons.
This shopping district was under the protection of the Zwei Association though, which made it about as safe as it could be in the Backstreets. The vendors all paid a cut of their profits to the Zwei, which meant that the Association also had a vested interest in stopping anything that might slow down business.
"Appetizer for table four, m'am." The platter of fried Jiaozi arrived at her table, along with the bill. Ishmael glanced upwards from her thoughts. "Ah, thank you."
The waiter was carrying a tray of patterned chinaware sauce cups, expertly balanced on one hand, which he deftly lowered and placed in front of her before bustling off into the crowded venue.
She grabbed the pair of disposable wooden chopsticks from the tray, shucking off the paper wrapping before breaking the pair into two.
Ishmael closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of fried dough and pork with a sense of contentment.
She took a second to look over the selection of sauces on display, a multi-colored array of flavourful condiments laid before her. After hesitating for a moment, she made her decision. She picked up one of the potstickers with her chopsticks, before dipping it in the light soy sauce.
Ishmael bit down onto the golden-brown crust, the caramelized exterior providing a crispy crunch that contrasted with the soft, springy insides against her teeth the moment she chewed through it.
The pork and cabbage filling was tender and succulent, seasoned with fresh scallions and a pungent hint of sesame seed oil.
The soy sauce added a satisfying, tangy umami note that enhanced the full flavor of the meat and left Ishmael craving more.
She ate another three dumplings with the light soy sauce, before turning her attention to the honey-sriracha dip.
Specks of creamy, orange sriracha aioli sauce were suspended in the golden red-tinted honey sitting in the shallow cup. With a hint of amusement, Ishmael noticed that the china had patterns of royal-blue dragons running across the pale white exterior.
Ishmael ran a potsticker through the porcelain sauce cup, before biting down onto it. The honey was smooth against her tongue, a satisfying syrupy sweetness accentuating the faint, creamy taste and mild heat of the sriracha sauce.
It was a bit too mild for the image of dragons to herald, though. Something hotter would have been much more fitting.
The slightly sour flavor of the mayonnaise and lime juice helped to offset the rich creamy sugariness of the combination, adding a diverse blend of flavors to the savory fried dumpling.
The next sauce cup was soy sauce again, but filled with toasted minced ginger. She tried it and found that it added a zesty, warm, almost spicy kick to the soy sauce. Ishmael wasn't entirely sure if she liked it, but it was something new to be sure.
She dipped a dumpling in the next cup and placed it in her mouth without looking at the contents. Ishmael let out a full body shudder at the unexpectedly pungent taste of sesame seed oil mixed with garlic powder.
She finished chewing and swallowed quickly. Ishmael enjoyed the taste of sesame seed oil in moderation, but the entire dumpling had been coated in it. The garlic only added to the overpowering aroma of the greasy sensation that covered her tongue. Ishmael had to rinse her mouth with the complimentary glass of ice water several times before she managed to get rid of the acrid taste.
She scarfed down the next few plain to help cleanse her palate. The fried dumplings were still enjoyable enough on their own that Ishmael didn't mind. She went back to the soy sauce after that, alternating between it and the honey-sriracha aioli sauce.
Ishmael eyed the pinkish-red colored sauce in the last cup cautiously, but her curiosity won out in the end. After glancing around carefully, Ishmael surreptitiously dipped her finger in the sauce and put it in her mouth.
…It was ketchup mixed with mayo.
It tasted perfectly fine, it just hadn't been what Ishmael was expecting. The mayo added a creamy, savory aspect to the sweet and tangy ketchup. Ishmael made a note to try making it at home later. She ate another dumpling with it, before going back to the honey-sriracha sauce.
It was her favorite of the bunch, Ishmael decided. The soy-ginger sauce came in a close second, but she could make it herself easily enough.
The rest of the platter disappeared before she knew it, and she sat back with a contented sigh.
She sat there with her eyes closed for a minute, resting and relishing the feeling of a good meal as she waited for the rest of her food to arrive.
Ishmael's phone rang in her pocket, causing her to startle slightly as she fished it out of her pocket and checked it. She groaned as soon as she saw the number. It was one of the handlers for Section 4. The only reason he could possibly be calling her today was to give her yet another contract on her day off. Lately, she'd been tasked with an unreasonable amount of urgent last-minute missions.
They always told her that she was the only one they could trust to get the missions done. Ishmael was starting to realize that this was one of the hazards of being good at her job.
Gregor always grumbled that the reward for good work was more work. At the time, she'd scoffed. More work was an opportunity for Ahn and advancement, not something to be shied away from.
That was the reason why Ishmael had risen through the ranks all the way to Section 4, while Gregor was stuck at the bottom in Section 6, despite them joining the Association at around the same time.
It was a good sign that the section viewed her as a valuable asset. Putting in extra work and taking the effort to ensure it was done well was a fast-track to promotion, alongside better pay and equipment. Right now, though, she was starting to regret some of her decisions. Staying on-call was starting to get tiring, especially when the Association kept phoning her into work when she was supposed to be resting.
She considered ignoring the call, but a streak of paranoia shot through her. What if it was about the classified section accounting files in her folder? If they were launching an investigation into the files, it wouldn't look good if Ishmael suddenly dropped out of contact, especially when she usually accepted calls during any time of the day. Actually, it would look really, really bad. In their place, Ishmael would have likely assumed that she'd stolen the files and ran for it.
She took a deep breath and stood up, motioning the waiter over. "I need to go. Can you tell the manager to wrap my food up and keep it for me?"
The waiter nodded and politely said something vaguely sympathetic that Ishmael tuned out and brushed past with a perfunctory "thank you".
She navigated towards the exit through the restaurant's crowded interior, raising her phone to her ear as she accepted the call with a beep.
Ishmael stepped out of the beef noodle restaurant, holding her phone to her ear with an annoyed frown.
"Ishmael speaking. So, what was so important that you needed to call me during lunch hour?" She grumbled.
"We've received a time-sensitive request straight from the Hana Association, Ishmael. It needs to be completed urgently." The handler stated apologetically.
It was always urgent. In spite of herself, Ishmael couldn't help but let out an audible sigh. At least it wasn't about the files.
The handler continued onwards without losing momentum. "A small-time Syndicate, the Thorns, have been getting too ambitious as of late. They've been raiding a large number of small rookie Fixer Offices recently." He informed her. "The Hana Association wants you to wipe them out and torch their base of operations."
"They're heading back from a raid right now. If you hurry now, you can catch them off guard while they're still roughed up from the battle." He explained.
"Got it." Ishmael tersely huffed. "I'll try to make this quick. Where's the base?"
The handler rattled off a series of coordinates. The base was in the ruins of L Corp's former Nest, Ishmael briefly noted.
The Liu Association was currently embroiled in the war for the fallen Wing's territory on behalf of the Index, fighting the Thumb and several other Syndicates under their sway, in addition to a handful of independent Fixer Offices hired by the opposing side.
Luckily, the base's location was far enough away from the current frontlines of the war that she wasn't overly concerned about running into the Thumb or any of their subsidiaries.
"Alright then. Hopefully my soup won't get too cold. The noodles'll get really soggy if they soak for too long." She sighed mournfully, before hanging up and kicking off into a sprint.
"So, this is the place then…" Ishmael muttered to herself under her breath. "Looks like a real dump."
The Syndicate base was in one of the former L Corp's industrial warehouses. This part of town had a large number of such abandoned buildings, nodes of the extensive logistical network that the Wing had possessed.
A slight grimace found its way onto her face. A concrete building would be difficult to burn by itself. Hopefully, there would be more flammable materials to be found inside.
Any of L Corp's precious Enkephalin that the storehouse had once held was probably long gone though, between looters and the Syndicate members that had set up shop there.
The front entrance was guarded by a pair of gangsters. Their arms were ringed with coils of green vines with sharp thorns sprouting from them. She hadn't seen weapons exactly like this before, but they didn't phase her all that much.
Neither of them looked especially tough to her. Their faces and bodies were lean and hollow, sharp and angular in the way that spoke of lives full of chronic malnutrition and hardship. Ishmael was willing to bet that the pair had been Rats before being recruited by the Thorns.
It was a fairly common practice for low-level Syndicates like this. Rats were as common as their namesake in the Backstreets, and the combination of ruthless cunning and reckless desperation made them good minions for organizations that favored quantity over quality.
Ishmael nonchalantly walked past the building with her hands in the pockets of her coat, before crouching down and leaping up into the air, kicking off a windowsill midway and landing on the rooftop of one of the neighboring warehouses.
She crept over to the edge of the building and peered down at the pair of guards, gauging the distance between herself and them.
As she watched, the taller of the two was in the middle of lighting a cigarette, sparks flying from the cheap plastic lighter. His partner nudged him in the side with an elbow. The tall one side-eyed the shorter one, before grudgingly fishing out a second cigarette and offering it to his partner.
Ishmael vaulted over the rooftop's edge right as the cigarette was changing hands.
Her elbow struck the back of the taller man's neck, fracturing his spinal cord and killing him immediately, while her torso landed on the back of the second man, knocking them both to the ground. The shorter Syndicate member wheezed breathlessly, before a swift rabbit punch to the back of the skull cracked his forehead against the pavement in a shower of sparks.
A small pool of blood started to accumulate on the ground beneath his head. His scalp caught fire as well, filling the air with the nauseating sulfurous stench of burning hair.
Ishmael rose to her feet and brushed the sleeves of her coat off, before turning around to face the front entrance of the Syndicate base.
The door flew off its hinges into the building, trailing flames behind it as it slammed into the far wall. Ishmael rushed in behind it, taking stock of the situation.
The room seemed to be some kind of garage, with a metal shutter serving as an entrance for the vehicles off to the side, and a short set of stairs leading up from the tarmac floor to a raised concrete platform. There was another door up there which probably led towards the rest of the building.
As she swept her gaze to the side, she saw three Syndicate members seated at a table in the corner near the shutters, watching some sort of Fixer reality show starring the Cinq Association on a wall-mounted widescreen television. By sheer luck, their backs were facing Ishmael as she entered. They startled and began to turn around at the sound of her entrance, but Ishmael was faster.
She closed the gap between them in the blink of an eye, before sending the table flying into the gangster across from her with an explosive front kick. The table slammed the man into the television with a deafening crash accompanied by the sound of shattering glass.
At the same time, she lashed out with a flaming palm strike to the cheek of the man sitting next to him, causing his head to violently snap to the side as the skin on his face blistered red. As he staggered and shrieked, Ishmael followed the strike up with a roundhouse kick to his nose, causing it to snap with a sickening crunch. The man limply toppled backwards to the floor.
"OH SH-" The last Syndicate member at the table scrambled to get up as Ishmael reversed her leg into a hook kick aimed at his face. He managed to raise his arms in time, and the blow slammed into the thorny vines wrapped around his forearms. He hissed in pain as the flames generated from the punch licked at the vines, causing them to shrivel and blacken.
Ishmael stomped her left leg down as she threw a right jab into his guard, pressuring him and forcing him to keep his guard raised.
He started to back away, but Ishmael caught him in the side of the knee with a swift right kick as he retreated, causing the joint to give out as the fabric of his pant leg caught fire.
She pounced forwards as he stumbled and slammed an elbow into the right side of his head, before ramming her knee up into his ribcage and boxing him in the other side of his head with a burst of flames. Ishmael took a step back as he stumbled into the wall, before driving a flaming uppercut into his exposed chin and shattering his jaw into a spray of bone shards and tangled shreds of cooked meat.
Ishmael shook some ash off her sleeve, as the mangled corpse slumped lifelessly to the ground against the wall. She turned around and headed towards the door leading to the rest of the building.
The Syndicate member who had been slammed against the television earlier groaned as he shoved the burning table off of him, pushing himself to his feet with a tinkling of shattered glass.
"You…" He started forwards unsteadily, his breathing heavy and uneven as blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Ishmael dropped him with a side kick to the head before he managed to do anything more than take a few steps.
She grabbed the unconscious gangster and dragged him for a few paces, before hurling him through the door leading to the rest of the warehouse.
Ishmael stepped through the open entrance, casually slamming the back of her fist into the face of a Syndicate member lying in wait behind the door frame as she entered the room. The backhand smashed his nose flat and scorched his skin with a fiery blast, knocking him into oblivion.
The other Thorns surrounding the entrance at a distance tensed up noticeably. There were about ten of them in the room that she could see currently, including the man she had just rendered unconscious.
"...So, you people are the Thorns, right?" Ishmael asked, eyeing them up. She was certain these were the right coordinates, but it never hurt to make absolutely sure.
"What does it look like?" One of them snapped back, brandishing the vines on his arms. Sure enough, the abnormal plant growth was full of bristling thorns.
"Just checking." She sighed. "Haaah, they weren't playing me for laughs when they called this Syndicate small-time."
The Syndicate member gritted his teeth as he stepped forwards. "...Hey. Where do you think you get off-"
One of the others tugged on the back of his shirt, stopping his fellow. "Wait up a minute." He squinted at Ishmael, looking her over.
"That coat… those flames. You're with the Liu Association, aren't you?" He murmured, his eyes widening.
She glanced at the one speaking, her eyes filled with an almost indifferent mien. "Huh? Yeah."
"...I can't believe it. One of the Assoc-" He started to mutter.
Ishmael didn't wait for him to finish his sentence. Before anyone could react, Ishmael rocketed forwards into his open guard and delivered an explosive palm strike to his jaw, snapping his head backwards and flinging him across the room into the opposite wall.
The back of his skull crashed into the concrete surface with a sickening crunch, leaving a bloody red streak against the gray backdrop as his limp body slid to the ground.
She swung an elbow at the man who had been standing next to him, who managed to react just in time. "Ghrk-!" He grunted as he blocked the strike on his gauntleted forearms, skidding backwards across the concrete floor from the sheer force of the blow.
Ishmael twisted her entire body as she struck with her knee at his lower body. The Thorn managed to raise his upper thigh in time to prevent the blow from slamming into his gut, but the forceful impact knocked him off-balance as his pants briefly caught fire, forcing him to backpedal to keep from falling over while shaking his leg furiously to put out the flame.
He found his footing just in time to meet Ishmael's renewed onslaught head-on with a right hook. Ishmael blocked the blow with her left arm, before pushing her right arm inside his guard and sweeping both arms outwards, shoving his arms out to the side before swinging an elbow back into the side of his exposed face.
She grabbed his shoulder as he staggered and struck him repeatedly, each blow accompanied by another shower of flames. Ishmael smashed him in the face with her elbow again twice, first with a vertical strike to the eye, then a horizontal blow to the nose, before driving her knee into his gut and slamming her elbow down onto the back of his head as he doubled over, causing him to collapse like a burning puppet with its strings suddenly snapped.
Ishmael sidestepped as another Thorns member snapped his vine at her like a bullwhip. The man cracked the whip to the side as he pulled back, forcing Ishmael to raise her right arm to block it. The vine wrapped around her upper arm, the sharp green thorns failing to penetrate her coat as they dug into the Workshop-grade fabric of her red-and-gold Liu Association Fixer uniform.
Ishmael scoffed, before sharply yanking back on the vine, pulling the man towards her. She brushed his haymaker off to the side as she drove a flaming roundhouse kick into his ribcage, breaking several ribs and sending him staggering backwards.
She reeled him back in again, delivering a fist to his gut before kicking his knee in and stepping behind him, wrapping the vine attached to her arm tightly around his throat.
He gurgled as the piercing thorns dug into the tender flesh of his throat, fingers scrabbling desperately against his skin as he tried to work them in between the whip and his neck.
Ishmael moved him in the way of another Thorns member's blow, the whip-crack striking him in the gut and tearing the front of his shirt open, leaving several bloody gashes across his chest.
"Damn it!" One of the other Syndicates swore. "Go that way! We have to surround her!" He shouted to his fellows.
The Thorns hastily began spreading out to either side to encircle her, but their movements were slow and unpracticed.
Each Association had its own unique specialization. The Liu Association's was all-out warfare. While almost all Fixer Offices and Associations were combat-oriented to some degree, the difference was that the Liu was specialized in fighting against large groups whilst in formation.
Their flame-based weaponry and sweeping area-of-effect attacks allowed them to exercise unparalleled control over the battlefield, spreading an all-consuming blaze across the enemy ranks and denying vast swathes of the environment to the enemy.
Ishmael was a bit of an oddity among her colleagues. Her fighting style lent itself more to closing with the enemy and swiftly demolishing them with explosive short-range power, rather than fighting in formation as part of a group. Because of that, Ishmael was used to fighting vastly outnumbered and surrounded on all sides.
In her experience, the best way to break a formation made up of fodder like this was usually to charge right in and decapitate the enemy's leadership- and Ishmael went ahead and did just that.
She identified the shouting man as some sort of officer, causing her to pounce at him while raising her captive between them as a human shield.
The Syndicates scrambled out of her way in an effort to encircle and get a better angle on her. It was a bad move. It would have been a much better idea to close ranks and attempt to drive her back, rather than split up even further.
She closed with the Syndicate leader in an instant, tossing the body at him and ducking low. The thrown Thorns member struck him in the chest, forcing him to stagger backwards as she rammed her elbow into his solar plexus, before seizing his shoulder and driving her knee up into his crotch.
The man let out a breathless wheeze, falling to his knees as Ishmael shoved her weight onto his shoulder, allowing her to slam her elbow down on top of his head and cave his skull in with an incendiary flash of bright fire.
The other Syndicate members shouted and began frantically backing away, raising their weapons and eyeing her cautiously as they moved to surround her.
Ishmael pulled the vine wrapped around the now motionless Thorns member's throat taut with her right hand, before bringing a flaming knife-hand down and severing it. The former captive's lifeless body thudded onto the ground beneath her, as she took a stance with one arm extended downwards and an open hand raised in a guard in front of her face.
She gestured at them with an open palm, beckoning them forth. "Come on, then. I haven't got all day now. My noodles are getting soggy."
Ishmael did a quick headcount. She'd cut their numbers roughly in half from when she'd first entered, with only five remaining.
"N-no way." One of them muttered quietly, clutching at her makeshift spear. "It's only been a minute and twenty-five seconds."
Another took a few shaking steps backwards, before turning to run. "Screw this! I'm out of-"
Ishmael slammed into the fleeing Syndicate member's open back, driving him into the ground with her elbow before crushing his skull with a well-placed stomp.
"I'd prefer it if you didn't run." She sighed. "Then I'll have to chase you down, and it's just more work for me that way."
The scrawny-looking girl dropped her spear. It fell to the ground with a clatter that echoed throughout the warehouse.
Ishmael sized up the surrendering girl for a second. On a closer examination, the girl was older than she first looked. Probably in her twenties, or maybe even her early thirties. People in the Backstreets tended to age faster, but her face clearly bore the tell-tale lines of stress and age.
She was short, and her light blonde hair was messy. The roots at the top of her head were dark brown and frizzy, giving her head a slightly burnt appearance. Her voice was calm, but Ishmael could detect a hint of desperation in her pale blue eyes.
"What? Damnit Lenny, we can't-" Another gangster with a knife hissed at her.
"Shut it, Pete." She hissed back.
Lenny turned back to Ishmael and continued speaking calmly, with her hands in the air. "You can take whatever you want from here. We'll get out of your way, and you'll never see us again-"
She flinched backwards and attempted to duck, but Ishmael seized her by the collar of her shirt as she slammed the back of her elbow into the shorter woman's throat. Lenny's windpipe and spine gave way with an audible crunch.
"The terms of the contract won't allow me to accept your surrender." Ishmael stated plainly. "Sorry." She added as an afterthought. She released her hold on her shirt and stepped back. Lenny fell limply, collapsing into a boneless heap on the floor.
The three remaining Thorns staggered backwards away from her with various expressions of shock written large on their faces.
"Dammit, Lenny…" Pete gritted out between clenched teeth.
One of the Thorns with dark skin turned to him with a panicked look in his eyes. "P-Pete! What should we do, man?"
Pete gritted his teeth, glaring at Ishmael. His grip was shaking as he kept the blade pointed at the Fixer, who had calmly taken a ready stance and was waiting patiently.
"Just… GET HER!" He shouted, before charging Ishmael with his knife. The dark-skinned Thorn hesitated, while the other one suddenly bolted for the exit.
That was all the encouragement the hesitant gangster needed to follow after him, deserting their comrade to face off against Ishmael alone.
Mang-Chi ran.
He was bad at a lot of things, and down-right useless at others, but he sure was good at running.
Then again, every Rat who grew up in the alleyways of the Backstreets was either good at running, or dead.
Before he'd even run more than a couple dozen feet down the street, the Liu Association Fixer suddenly burst out the door behind him, already finished killing Pete. Time seemed to slow down in that split moment, and his entire life flashed before his life.
Mang-Chi'd known Pete for a long time. He'd been part of the same Rat Pack with Pete and Lenny for years, before the Thorns had shown up and given their recruitment pitch.
Shoulda just stayed on the streets. He lamented. He woulda shouted it too, but his lungs were too busy heaving for air.
Pete'd always had big dreams, talking about how he wanted to join a Syndicate and become one of the Five Fingers someday.
That was what'd made him push Lenny and Mang-Chi into accepting that creepy library invitation they'd found inside some office-worker dweeb's intestines. He called it an opportunity, said that Rats like them couldn't afford to pass something like that up.
Mang-Chi had listened, like the idiot that he was, and some Grade-9 with a dumb haircut and a black suit had bashed their skulls in with a baton within five minutes of them being taken to the place.
Mang-Chi could still remember the sensation of his arm breaking in half, before the baton descended on him and his world had been filled with a short, skull-splitting agony.
After finding himself back in the Backstreets alongside Lenny and Pete with no recollection of how they got there, or how he'd even survived having his bloody skull caved in, he really should have ditched 'em first chance he got.
But Mang-Chi didn't know anybody else, didn't know anywhere else to go, or any other way to live than how he'd been living for his entire life. He'd been born a Rat, and he'd never known anything other than the streets.
Lenny had been the same, though she and Pete had never gotten along again after that.
She'd get furious whenever she heard Pete calling himself the leader of their Rat Pack, or whenever he tried giving her orders.
Pete hadn't changed one bit either, and he'd jumped at the chance to sign up with the Thorns when word got around that they were recruiting Rats. He'd managed to somehow convince the rest of their Rat Pack to join up with him, too.
Mang-Chi was against it from the start. It'd seemed too risky to him, but Pete had talked him around like he always did. Lenny was reluctant too, but she'd eventually agreed that living in the Backstreets weren't any safer than being in a Syndicate.
Mang-Chi wasn't good at thinking for himself. He knew that. He was too much of a scaredy-cat. A nervous wreck- but maybe looking back, that mighta been what'd kept him alive all these years.
At first, when things were just getting started out, it'd actually started to seem like a great decision- more food, better weapons, cash too- but things had gotten worse like they always did. The jobs turned more and more dangerous over time.
Then the Thorns had started raiding Fixer Offices, losing people in huge numbers with every raid. They'd pulled new Rats off the street each time, replacing the guys who died like they didn't mean nothing. It was a miracle they'd even survived this long.
He woulda left then if he'd had half the chance, but Mang-Chi had nowhere else to go. Besides, there was no leaving the Thorns. Not alive, at any rate. Better yet, he never should've joined at all, or started following Pete in the first place.
He'd been against the idea from the start. He should have listened to his instincts.
The other guy saw the Fixer too and split off in another direction. To Mang-Chi's relief, the Fixer went after him instead of Mang-Chi.
His relief was short-lived, though. Barely three seconds later, the guy let out a bone-chilling howl of terror and pain, before being abruptly cut off mid-scream.
He bolted down an alleyway, taking as many sharp turns as he could to try and throw her off. His blood suddenly ran cold as he skidded around a corner, his eyes briefly angling upwards mid-swerve.
The Fixer had leapt into mid-air above the buildings. As he watched, her eyes swept across the alleyways from above, before catching sight of him. Mang-Chi almost froze up on the spot, but more than a decade's worth of running from people and other things stronger and scarier than him just barely kept him moving.
She landed on one of the nearby rooftops, before vaulting over the edge into the alleyway behind him. Mang-Chi's heart and lungs felt like they were pounding their way out of his chest. He doubled down as a burst of adrenaline spiked through him, making him sprint faster than he ever had before in his life.
There was a cold, heavy feeling in his gut that told him that it still wouldn't be enough.
The Fixer was bounding after him in long, powerful strides that launched her further and faster than Mang-Chi could ever hope to outrun. Time seemed to slow down, as the absolute sureness that he was about to die settled in his heart like a hunk of cold iron.
He sprinted towards the end of the alleyway with every last drop of energy he had in him. It felt like he was moving through molasses.
Every moment was like a small eternity to him, the mindless fear in the depths of his soul stretching out each second in his brain like play-dough, until it was on the verge of breaking.
Mang-Chi slammed into something, someone hard and sprawled onto his back. He covered his face with his arms, for as little good as that would do him.
Figured this'd be how I'd go out… A moment of remorse flashed through his mind.
A voice that he almost recognized growled at him. He looked up through the cracks in his fingers to see one of the Thorns' lieutenants scowling down at him with a furious expression. "Yo Mangy, just what the hell do you think you're-" The man's expression suddenly switched to a look of panic as he began backpedaling far too late.
The Fixer crashed into him with a flying knee, shattering his ribcage and hurling him across the pavement as the blow folded the man in half.
Mang-Chi scrambled away frantically, as the Fixer landed on her feet and paused to take stock of the situation.
Out of curiosity, what are some of your favorite foods?
It's really hot here right now, so I'd like to eat some mochi with ice-cream filling. Red-bean would be okay, but right now I'd really like some mango, or maybe straw-berry flavored ice cream mochi.
I like the way that the outside is chewy and the inside is soft and creamy. Sometimes the powdered sugar on the outside is too sweet, but I've got a bad habit of wanting to lick up all the powdered sugar from the bowl or from my fingers. It's not good to eat too much sugar, especially since my parents were both pre-diabetic, but it feels like such a waste to just leave it there.
Fried plantains sound really good. I don't think I've ever actually had them before, but I can imagine the crispy exterior meshing well with a sweet, gooey inside in my mind.
After googling it, I realized that I'd always thought they were something you cooked on a grill for some reason. I think it's because I saw them cooked that way once in Penguins of Madagascar when I was little, although I guess those would be grilled plantains?
I didn't realize that you could pan-fry them, but now that I know, I really wanna try it out someday. If you don't mind me asking, how much oil do you use to fry them? Is it just enough to coat the pan, or do they have to be submerged partially?
Also, I can't believe you killed Lenny. You monster.
Sorry, but she had to do it to her. The terms of Ishmael's contract were very clear. It was very quick, though, so she probably didn't even feel a thing.
If it makes you feel any better, Lenny probably would have died sooner or later even if she had survived today. Rats don't exactly have the highest life expectancy in the City, as Ishmael has and will continue to demonstrate thoroughly.
In all seriousness though, this version of Ishmael just isn't the sort of person who would let someone she'd been hired to kill go on a whim, even if they were helpless, unarmed, and surrendering. She cares too much about doing her job well.
Ishmael isn't a bad person, at least not by the standards of the City. She isn't a sadist, a criminal, or even a battle junkie. She doesn't particularly enjoy violence, especially compared to some of the other Sinners.
By the standards of the City, Ishmael is a perfectly ordinary, fully-licensed Fixer who does her job with methodical diligence and effeciency. Everyone knows what she does for a living, but violence is embedded in the foundations of the City so deeply that being a professional mercenary is considered perfectly normal.
Working for an Office that exterminates Rats on a daily basis is considered as ordinary and socially acceptable as working for an Office that files accounting and tax forms. It's that blue-and-orange morality and utter apathy towards human suffering that defines normal people in the City.
Re: plantains: honestly, I'm not sure- I've never made them myself. Maybe I should learn, then I could have plantains more often…
Re: Lenny: I probably should have added a /j or a :< because yeah, the Rat gang was dead the moment they showed up. It just made me a bit sad, because I like the Rat gang.
I do wonder what they did to piss off the Hana though. They're Urban Plague at most, probably lower.
Re: plantains: honestly, I'm not sure- I've never made them myself. Maybe I should learn, then I could have plantains more often…
Re: Lenny: I probably should have added a /j or a :< because yeah, the Rat gang was dead the moment they showed up. It just made me a bit sad, because I like the Rat gang.
I do wonder what they did to piss off the Hana though. They're Urban Plague at most, probably lower.
It comes up later, but what they did wrong was that they carried out too many Office raids in too short a period of time. The Hana Association's main clientele is made up of Fixer Offices and Associations. They charge licensing and registration fees, in addition to distributing contracts.
Raiding Fixer Offices is considered a quick way to gain notoriety and rise through the rankings for Syndicates. But while it's nothing out of the ordinary for a few Offices to disappear, it's bad for long-term revenue growth if someone goes around systematically crushing small-time Fixer Offices in an area before they become successful enough for the Hana to profit off of them.
Their main mistake was doing too much, too fast. If they had only destroyed a small handful of Offices they would have been fine, but they pushed too far and started to threaten the Hana's bottom line.
Chapter Three: “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you were trying to hurt me.”
Chapter Three: "If I didn't know better, I'd think that you were trying to hurt me."
Ishmael evaluated her opponents with a calm demeanor, tucking one hand into her coat pocket and leaving the other hanging loosely at her side as she stopped to observe them.
There were about twelve Thorns standing in the open street in front of Ishmael where the chase had led her, in various states of combat readiness. Even at a glance, she could tell that these members of the small-time Syndicate were at least a cut above the ones that she'd fought in the warehouse.
Most of them were wounded to some degree, mainly with light or insubstantial injuries. Two of them were too wounded to stand on their own, and the Syndicate members helping them walk cautiously lowered them to the ground behind the group as they sized her up.
Ishmael fell into a wide horse stance facing the group at a slight angle, with her arms raised and elbows bent. This was probably the raiding group that the manager had told her about.
They were larger and better dressed than the ones from earlier, albeit with the usual displays of wealth and power that only Syndicate members who were one step removed from poverty by stealing from the poor would consider putting on.
Tacky tattoos mimicking the shape of thorny vines were displayed on bare skin, alongside ostentatious gold jewelry and gems that she identified as mostly being cheap imitations.
The Syndicate members wore a mixture of dirtied and blood-stained leather jackets, as well as other clothes that were only slightly nicer than normal for the Backstreets; offering no real protection except from scrapes and grazing cuts.
They were certainly bigger and better armed than those that she'd fought in the base, but Ishmael wasn't intimidated in the slightest, even without factoring in their wounded and partially exhausted state.
Her discerning eyes could pick out the details that an ordinary citizen wouldn't be able to see; the way some of them wore baggy clothing to conceal a lack of well-defined musculature, the low quality of the few augmentations that were on display, the flaws in their hasty combat stances and their embarrassingly sluggish response time as they reacted to her arrival.
There were two of them that stood out as potential officers to Ishmael, with special badges bearing the spiked green emblem of the Syndicate woven into their clothes.
What seemed to be their leader was standing in the midst of them with a pair of gargantuan fists raised, thick vines bristling with a dense layer of razor-sharp thorns wrapped around both of his massive tree trunk-like arms.
The man towered over his subordinates at more than nine feet tall, and his frame was wide and bulky in an unnatural manner which suggested the presence of subdermal augmentation. She wouldn't have been surprised if he had intentionally purchased augments that would make him larger on purpose in a bid to seem more intimidating.
"Who the hell are you?" The Syndicate Leader rumbled at her, an annoyed scowl fixed on his face. He didn't so much as bother glancing toward the body of the man that Ishmael had killed earlier.
"Sh-she's from the Liu Association! She-" The Thorn she had been chasing wheezed out between heaving breaths from his position on the ground.
The Boss interrupted him, narrowing his eyes and rolling his neck to the side with an audible crack. "Asked her, not you. You got a name then, Fixer?" He called out.
Ishmael shifted her stance, considering her plan of attack as she went through the motions of empty banter.
"Call me Ishmael." After taking a closer look, the vines on the arms of the Syndicate officers were slightly different from those on the rank and file.
They seemed sharper, with the thorns jagged and razor-thin in a way vaguely reminiscent of serrated teeth on a chainblade. Ishmael thought that her uniform should hold up well enough against them, but it was best not to leave it up to chance.
"Pleasure to meet ya, 'shmael." He drawled. "What's a big-shot Fixer from one of the Associations doing skulking around this part of the City?"
The officers would have to go first. The other members of the Syndicate didn't seem like anything but chaff, although it was possible they could get in her way at a critical moment.
"Carrying out a contract." She curtly replied.
One of the officers was standing right next to and slightly behind the Syndicate Leader, glowering at her with a murderous scowl. The other was behind a wall of Thorns members, eyeing her up more cautiously, as he questioned the Thorn who had fled in a quiet voice that she couldn't quite make out.
"Huh." He finally turned his gaze to the Thorns lieutenant whose chest had been caved in earlier, and was currently slumped against a concrete building on the side of the street, before sparing a brief glance backwards over his shoulder at the still-standing sole survivor hiding behind the wall of Thorns.
Ishmael would prioritize killing the officer standing next to him. She'd switch to thinning the chaff next, while limiting her engagement with the Syndicate Leader.
"Well. Dunno why you were chasing one of my guys down. Frankly, I don't really care." He shrugged his shoulders without lowering his fists.
Ishmael would ordinarily have preferred to rush down their leader to break their formation, but his augments seemed to be geared towards durability and endurance.
Prioritizing him might allow the others time to surround her, allowing them to either rush her all at once, or wear her down with ranged attacks while she was occupied fighting their leader.
It would be faster and less risky to reduce their numbers first, before focusing on him.
"You're outgunned and outnumbered, now. You sure this is a fight you wanna pick?" He drawled, voice filled with supreme self-confidence. The Thorns' members around them seemed to rally with their boss's bravado, sneering at her with hateful eyes and brandished weapons.
She scoffed. "That didn't stop me earlier."
"Boss." The officer behind the enemy ranks called out. "Seems like she attacked the base. Mang-Chi's saying that she killed almost everybody."
The rank and file shifted uncomfortably at that, their gazes suddenly taking on a new light as they stared at Ishmael. The lieutenant standing to the right-hand side of the boss seemed to be trying to make her spontaneously drop dead with his eyes alone.
"...Huh." The Syndicate Boss ground out from between gritted teeth. "Welp. Scratch that, then. Guess we're gonna have to kill you."
Part of the vines from his right arm unwound without him reaching towards them, letting the whip-like length of barbed plant matter dangle freely from his hand.
He exhaled heavily, before chuckling to himself. "Guess that's what I get for hiring Rats and letting them guard the base."
Several of the Thorns noticeably bristled at that comment. A handful of Ishmael's colleagues likely would have taken advantage of the moment, poking and prodding at the perceived slight to try and inflame tensions in the enemy ranks. Ishmael didn't see the point in bothering. The time for words was already over.
She took a step forwards, baiting the Syndicate Leader. He lashed out at her with the thorned vine in his right hand as predicted, and Ishmael ducked under it to the left as she sprung forwards.
In the corner of her eye, Ishmael saw the rank-and-file Thorns behind him begin to spread out and edge forwards, waiting for an opening.
Ishmael darted across the distance between herself and the Syndicate Boss in an instant, leaping over his gigantic spike-coated left fist as he swung at her, before striking against his right guard with an explosive flying kick that charred the vines at the point of impact and drove him backwards across the floor.
She used the impact to propel herself backwards, landing on the pavement as the Syndicate Boss's armored boots scraped to a halt against the concrete.
The lieutenant beside him rushed in with a furious swipe, a serrated blade-like vine extending from his arm as he slashed at Ishmael's face. She leaned backwards and twisted her entire lower body, the plant sword whistling narrowly above her scalp as she rammed her knee into the sternum of the charging officer.
The officer stumbled for a step, before punching at her with another vine-sword extending from his left wrist. Ishmael pushed forwards past his guard, ignoring the grass blade as it scraped uselessly against the armored fabric of her uniform.
She grabbed his wrist as he swung his other sword back in an attempt to decapitate her, while driving her other arm's elbow into the side of his head with a fiery explosion.
The Syndicate Boss charged back in with his whip raised, but Ishmael moved the captive officer between them and started backpedaling, dragging the right-hand lieutenant along as she hammered him with a rapid series of powerful knee and elbow strikes, each blow showering him in a spray of bright orange flames. He let out a muffled groan of pain, as he desperately drove the point of his blade into her armored side again and again.
When that failed, the lieutenant attempted to drive the blade upwards into her unarmored throat instead. Ishmael brought her forearm down in a hammer blow onto the inside of his elbow joint, halting the motion before it could gain momentum and causing his arm to spasm, before reversing and smashing her elbow up into his chin, snapping his neck backwards.
Ishmael felt much more resistance to her blows than earlier as she pummeled him to a crisp. The officers must have been more heavily augmented than the rank and file Syndicate members.
The Syndicate Leader finally caught up with them, face contorting in rage as he stretched out one massive hand to tear the reeling officer free from Ishmael's iron grip. She brought her arm back, before slamming her elbow into the dazed lieutenant's exposed throat.
Ishmael felt the bones in his neck give way, but she knew from experience that the blow hadn't gone in nearly far enough to kill him.
"Tch." Ishmael kicked the gasping man into the Syndicate Boss's grasping hands and leapt free, raising her arms in a ready guard.
The Syndicate Leader caught the lieutenant in his hands, before hissing and dropping him as the flames engulfing him seared his skin.
He froze up for a crucial moment, his gaze transfixed as the man writhed and burned in breathless agony on the concrete floor.
Ishmael rushed back in while he was distracted, slamming against his hastily raised guard with a powerful blazing right hook that caused trails of flame to spiral across his arms. She lashed out with a swift roundhouse kick into the side of his knee, causing his left guard to drop slightly as his leg spasmed.
Ishmael punished the opening with an elbow strike to the side of his neck, before driving her knee up towards his groin. He twisted to the side just in time for the blow to hit the outside of his upper thigh with a grunt, before swinging at Ishmael with a sweeping right hook.
Ishmael blocked the blow before it could build up momentum, slamming her forearm against his upper arm and knocking it aside with casual ease, before driving another elbow into his gut as she deftly side-stepped his furious left jab.
He snarled in anger, before bringing his arms down and around his abdomen in an attempt to catch Ishmael in a sharp spike-filled hug.
Ishmael ducked under his arms and darted backwards from the attempted grapple, before lashing out with a swift kick towards his now exposed face, catching him in the jaw.
The blow snapped his head to the side, but the Syndicate Leader bulldozed through it and threw a powerful right haymaker at Ishmael while her leg was still raised, forcing her to block it directly on her forearms.
The impact knocked her unbalanced form over, sending her rolling along the ground as the Syndicate Leader roared furiously. She got her feet back under her right as the Thorns' Boss swung a massive whip at Ishmael, causing the Fixer to leap back away and over it.
The other vine wrapped around the Syndicate Boss' left arm suddenly uncurled as he lashed out, catching Ishmael in the side and flinging her into one of the concrete buildings on the side of the street.
The wall cratered in a spray of rubble and dust as she slammed into the concrete surface. Ishmael mumbled a quiet curse under her breath as she pushed herself free of the indentation, just in time to dive to the ground and avoid a followup strike which smashed the wall apart into chunks of stony debris.
She rolled to her feet and came up in a combat stance. "Watch it." Ishmael raised her voice, narrowing her eyes as she glared at him. "Do you have any idea how long it'll take to wash all this dust off?"
"My bad." He growled. "Here, lemme dust you off!"
The Syndicate Leader lashed out at Ishmael with another scourging strike. She shifted to a wide horse stance, bracing her whole body. The massive spiked vine slammed into her raised guard, managing to drive her backwards half a step.
She seized the end of the whip before he could pull it back, before driving an explosive right cross between the needle-like thorns, right into the center of it. Her gloved fist exploded outwards from the other end as a blast of vibrant red and bright orange flames scorched through the vine's body, blackening and eating away at the green flesh of the plant tendril from the inside out.
As the Syndicate Leader reared back to strike again, the all-consuming blaze caused the charred vine to tear in half as Ishmael hauled back sharply on the other end.
He swore loudly as the creeping flames continued to spread up the part of the plant still attached to his arm, forcing him to rip the burning vines off of him and toss them to the floor with a heavy thud.
"Careful, now." Ishmael scoffed. She tossed the blackened and shriveled section of vine in her hand off to the side. "If I didn't know better, I'd think that you were trying to hurt me." Ishmael taunted.
The Syndicate Leader ground his teeth together, re-evaluating Ishmael with an appraising eye.
The crushed and burnt vines on his arms were slowly starting to regenerate, plant matter regrowing to fill in the empty gaps.
He glanced around at his subordinates, who had been watching the pair fight from the sidelines with a mixture of hesitant and frightened expressions. "...What the hell are you waiting for? GET IN THERE!" He bellowed deafeningly.
Jolted into action, the surrounding Thorns started to rush at Ishmael all at once in a loose semicircle.
Ishmael charged to meet them, aiming to collide with the left flank of their slovenly formation and roll them up from there. She bounded from side-to-side, alternately blocking and weaving in-between several lashing vine-whips as she closed the distance.
Her first target struck at her with a thorned vine as she bore down on him. She leapt to the side as she dodged the blow, before springing back at him with a raised fist.
He fell for the feint and brought his arms up, just in time for Ishmael's roundhouse kick to catch him in the abdomen and nearly fold him in half, slamming the man into the crumbling building next to him.
She ducked under another whip-strike from somewhere on her right, the snapping vine cracking into the brick wall right where her head had been a moment earlier. Ishmael seized the offending whip before the Syndicate member could draw it back and braced her legs, before reeling him in with a colossal heave that yanked him off his feet.
Ishmael moved forward to meet the flying man with a spinning horizontal elbow strike, smashing into his mouth with a powerful explosive blow that caved all of his teeth in and shattered his lower mandible.
She seized him by the hair, pulling his charred and bloodied face off of her arm before flinging him into another Thorn who had been trying to angle around him to get at her side.
A bladed whip slashed at her face, which Ishmael ducked under before moving towards the source. She weaved around several plunging strikes from the pointed tip of the weapon, identifying the current assailant as the officer from earlier who had been standing behind the enemy line.
The officer circled around her, adjusting his grip on the vine and lashing out at her with only enough slack to reach her, preventing Ishmael from seizing it and reeling him in as she'd done to one of his subordinates earlier.
Abruptly, Ishmael surged forwards, batting the blade aside with the sleeve of her slash-resistant uniform as she leapt straight at the Syndicate officer.
A pair of Thorns moved forwards to intercept her as she closed in. Ishmael threw a fiery right cross at the man on the right with blistering speed, which he barely managed to bring his arms together in time to block. She followed it up by ramming a flying knee into his stomach, causing him to double over.
She ducked under a swinging fist from the man standing next to him as her back foot made contact with the ground, before seamlessly shifting her weight forwards and driving her left elbow into his solar plexus, knocking the air from his lungs before she swung a right hook around his closed guard into the side of his head.
She used the impact from the punch to propel her right arm backwards, slamming the spur of her elbow into the left ear of the bent-over Thorn and driving him to the ground with a fiery blast.
As the pair of Thorns guarding him collapsed off to either side, the Syndicate officer lunged forwards with a piercing thrust aimed directly at Ishmael's eyes.
Ishmael caught the sword in one hand with her cut-resistant glove, before swinging a flaming knife-hand up into the flat side of the blade and shattering it into pieces.
Ishmael dashed forwards and grabbed him by the lapel as he stumbled back with wide eyes, flipping her hold on the broken end of the blade into an ice-pick grip as she raised it above her head to plunge it down into his neck.
She caught motion in the corner of her eye, causing her to release the Thorns Lieutenant as she spun about with her arms raised, just in time to tank the swinging blow from the Syndicate Leader head-on.
The powerful haymaker sent her skidding backwards across the ground for a short distance, the steel soles of her boots grinding against the concrete as she sank into a wide horse-stance.
The Thorns' Boss rolled his arm with a grimace, clicking his tongue in frustration. The vines wrapped around his forearms had regenerated fully from their partially crushed and burnt state. "That was horrible." He sighed loudly. "Guess I gotta do every-"
Ishmael rushed back in to close the gap before he could start to swing at her with another whip.
She smashed into his left guard with a flaming horizontal elbow strike, before driving a knee up into his gut. He retaliated instantly with a swift right hook that she ducked under, before darting forwards inside his reach and shoulder-checking him.
The shoulder strike knocked him momentarily off-balance, allowing her to slam a vertical elbow-strike down into his clavicle where his neck met his shoulder, causing the muscles in his windpipe to seize up.
As he reeled backwards and began making sputtering choking noises, Ishmael brought her left knee up into a position almost reminiscent of a batter's pose.
She stomped her left leg down as she pivoted on her back foot, while twisting her core and shoulders to generate as much rotational force as possible as she swung the side of her right elbow upwards into the base of his chin.
The blow snapped the Syndicate Boss's head backwards and set his hair on fire as it collided, lifting the hulking nine-foot tall augmented brute off his feet.
As he staggered backwards with shaky, dazed steps, Ishmael started forwards to rush him down, before being forced to swiftly lean backwards as a familiar plant blade plunged past her face and snapped back just as fast. She scowled at the last remaining Syndicate officer, who had climbed to his feet with a grim resolution in his gaze.
Fun fact, several of the martial arts sequences in this chapter were inspired by Omni-man from Invincible. Great show, can't wait for Season 3. Can you spot which moves are a tribute to our favorite mustachioed mass murderer?
The Syndicate officer stared at Ishmael with cold hatred in his steely blue eyes. He panted heavily, swaying on his feet slightly as he kept the tip of his sword pointed at her temple.
The child recognized that expression. She'd seen it countless times, after all.
Whether it was spite, or pride, or something else entirely…
Some primal emotion had driven the man into a single-minded state of suicidal determination. An indescribable compulsion to fight to the bloody end against unwinnable odds, despite every instinct in his brain pleading with him to try and run and save his life.
There was no sense in it, why some people ran, and others threw themselves against her in a meaningless, desperate last-ditch effort.
She understood one thing at least, though.
That was the look of someone who knew that they were about to die.
…Maybe someday, the child would finally grasp the meaning of that expression.
The next strike was telegraphed so clearly that Ishmael could have seen it from a mile away.
She side-stepped, deftly catching the blade in the split-second it stopped, as the slack in the whip snapped taut and the vine stretched out to its full length.
She pulled sharply and darted forwards as she had nearly a dozen times this evening before, but this time, the vines wrapped around the officer's arm unraveled, giving way in her grasp without resistance.
"Tch." Ishmael activated the ignition device in her palm with a twist of her wrist, burning through the slack vine in her hand as she closed in.
He braced himself with his other sword arm held in a low guard, before springing forwards to meet her charge at the last possible moment with a lunging thrust aimed directly at her eye.
Ishmael batted the strike aside effortlessly as she rammed her knee into his stomach, folding the man in half and flinging him across the street as his shirt caught flame. He rolled to his feet in an ungainly manner, legs shaking visibly as they trembled under the effort to keep him standing.
She sprinted towards him as he took another stance, this time with his sword in a high guard pointed straight at her chest.
Ishmael didn't bother blocking the blade this time, bulldozing through his feeble counterattack. The plant sword's edge skittered uselessly against the armored fabric of her vest as she charged in.
The man threw himself backwards, narrowly managing to dodge Ishmael's elbow as she struck at his neck.
She used the momentum to open her bent arm, unfolding into a horizontal knife-hand strike that slashed through the side of his neck as he tumbled away.
The strike opened up the front of his throat, carving through flesh and muscle as it nicked his jugular vein, before searing the wound channel shut with charred tissue as it cleaved straight through.
Flecks of burnt blood and bits of seared meat scattered from her outstretched hand off to the side as the man collapsed onto his back, clutching at his cauterized throat as he glared up at her with hateful defiance in his eyes.
She rushed forwards and raised her boot up to finish him off, but the remaining Syndicate rank-and-file had taken the time to surround her while she was focused on the last officer. One of them on her right side lashed out with a whip that wrapped around her arm, before heaving back and yanking her off-balance.
Ishmael was forced to abort the stomp and brace her leg against the earth to avoid toppling over to the ground. Another vine snapped out and lashed around her left arm, before pulling taut as well and keeping her in place. The sound of heavy footsteps breaking out into a dead sprint behind her alerted her to the Syndicate Leader charging at her exposed back.
Ishmael let out a grunt of effort as she twisted against the restraints, forcing the Thorn on her left to take a step forwards to keep his balance. She grabbed the vine encircling her right arm with both hands, before hauling it over her shoulder and yanking the attached Syndicate member off the ground as she dove out of the way, the Thorn on her other side unintentionally assisting her escape as he pulled on the vine to regain control.
The Thorns' Boss slammed down onto the spot where she had been standing with a double-handed hammerfist that smashed into the concrete with a resounding thud, sending cracks spreading like spiderwebs through the pavement.
The Thorns footsoldier who had been pulled off his feet slammed headfirst into the Syndicate Leader's gauntleted arm, the spiked growths goring him as they drove straight into his face and neck.
Blood slowly began to leak and trickle down from the innumerable puncture wounds as the towering Boss slowly stumbled upright, grimacing as he stared at the dying man skewered onto his bracer.
The man let out a whimpering groan of agony as he shifted slightly, opening the wounds up further.
The Syndicate Boss swore under his breath in a voice that was still loud enough to hear. "Damn it…" He gingerly pried the fatally-wounded man off of his arm, before laying him on the ground.
The Thorn who had fled from the warehouse earlier took a series of shaking steps backwards, before breaking out into a dead sprint away from the fight.
Ishmael rolled along the ground to her feet, before pushing off into a flying tackle aimed at the last remaining Thorn.
"No, no, SCREW THIS!" He screamed. The Syndicate Member used the vine still wrapped around her arm to fling Ishmael off course, before retracting the weapon and starting to flee down the street.
Ishmael slammed into the concrete Backstreet sidewall next to him shoulder-first, before pushing herself off it and chasing after the retreating Syndicate member. She caught up to him with a single bound, ramming her elbow into the back of his spinal cord between his shoulders as they collided.
The vertebrae in his spine gave way with an audible, grinding crunch as Ishmael struck the man to the ground, paralyzing him from the chest down. Ishmael stepped back from the frantically wheezing Syndicate member as she turned around, her fists raised and at the ready.
The Syndicate Leader looked up at her slowly, as he unsteadily climbed upright. The Syndicate footsoldier on the ground beneath him pulled in one last, desperate heaving gasp, before falling still and silent as the pool of blood beneath him grew past the point of no return.
Ishmael made a brief assessment of the situation, confirming it with a sweeping glance at her surroundings. All of the Thorns she had encountered had been eliminated, save for the one who had retreated. The Syndicate Boss was now the sole target still standing.
He was on his last legs. The fire had burnt away almost all of his hair, leaving sections of his scalp seared to a black char, with patches of scorched and blistered pink skin hanging on. There were tell-tale burn marks on his palms where he'd been forced to put the flames out with his bare hands.
His neck and throat were seared a livid bright red along the underside of his chin, and the sound of his breathing was hoarse and pained. There were countless other bruises and raw burn wounds scattered across his skin where Ishmael had struck him throughout the course of the fight.
His clothes were in a similarly mangled state, reduced to a tattered mess of tangled and burnt fabric that were barely holding together. Some of the gold jewelry around his neck seemed to have partially melted, causing the metal to fuse to his bare skin.
Every slightest movement seemed to cause him pain as he stumbled to his feet. He stood still for a moment, drawing in deep, heaving gasps of air as his bruised and bloodied eyes slowly focused on Ishmael.
"Guess… this is it, huh." He wheezed out. "But… why? What the hell did we ever do to you?"
The ones who had chosen to flee were getting further and further away by the moment. She should have finished him off by now and gone after them.
Ishmael didn't think that she had any pity left in her, but some strange sensation swirling in the pit of her stomach made her stay her hand for the moment and let him speak.
"Nothing." Ishmael sighed, leaning slightly to the side as she rested a hand on her hip. "The Hana Association gave us a standard Syndicate Elimination contract, that's all."
"The Hana, huh…" He muttered to himself. "Damn. We were trying to draw attention, make a name for ourselves, but this… it was the Office raids, wasn't it? Too many, too fast…"
"Yeah." Ishmael confirmed. "...If I had to guess, I'd say that it was bad for business. The Hana Association's clients are mostly Fixers, after all."
"So it's all just business in the end then, huh…" He chuckled, coughing up blood. "Guess that's just the way of the City."
He looked up at the gray, overcast sky. "This damn, bleeding City… it'll kill us all, someday."
Ishmael let out a weary sigh. "Yeah. Well, come on then. I don't have all day, now." She fell back into a combat stance.
"Tch…" The Syndicate Leader grunted, raising his vine-covered forearms. "I'm gonna punch you in the face, at least once. Those damn fancy threads you Fixers wear are such a load of bull."
He started forwards, breaking out into a loping run. Ishmael charged forth and met him midway.
The Syndicate Leader swung at her with one meaty fist. Ishmael ducked underneath it, but the man slammed a knee into her guard and drove her back.
He followed up with a left hook, but Ishmael caught the punch at the wrist as she lifted her boot up and drove a front kick into his open gut, knocking him over.
The Thorns' Boss raised his arms to block a boot aimed at his skull. He started struggling to get back up on his feet, but Ishmael caught him with a stomp to the solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs and setting fire to the remnants of his shirt.
His gauntleted arms thumped against the pavement to either side of him as Ishmael smashed him down into the concrete with another stomp, embedding his torso partway into the floor.
Ishmael raised her steel-soled boot back up and slammed it down onto his face, shattering the pavement beneath it as his nose broke and the bone underneath gave way.
She slammed her boot back down again and again, causing a spider-web of cracks to start to spread from the crater under his head, as the meat burned and the bone crunched and the concrete collapsed further with each repeated blow. Blazing waves rippled from the point of impact with each strike, causing the image to distort as the air twisted and bent from the heat haze.
Ishmael finished her work with a final stomp, before taking a step back and glancing around.
The Syndicate Leader's head was completely caved in, gray matter crushed and burnt down to scattered pieces of broken charcoal; destroyed beyond any means of recovery.
Sparks settled down and winked out of existence across the pavement as the scent of burning meat and bone marrow wafted through the street.
Corpses were littered across the ground, some still aflame, others having smoldered out. The wounded Syndicate members she had seen earlier at the start had crawled off at some point. Hopefully, Ishmael would still be able to track them down and the other remaining survivors, even with all the time she'd wasted listening to the Syndicate Boss's final words.
Ishmael sighed and put her hands into her coat pockets. Her stomach rumbled.
"...I'm starting to get hungry again." She mumbled. Ishmael hadn't finished lunch, after all.
"I'd better wrap this job up quickly, so I can finally go and eat." She grumbled, before bending her knees and leaping up onto the rooftops to start her pursuit of the fleeing Syndicate members.
Ishmael sighed, letting out some of the stress and tension after another long day of work. She rolled her shoulder, suppressing a wince as the bruises on her forearms twinged.
The restaurant was a little less busy and crowded than when she left. It made sense, lunch hour was over for most people. She could mostly make out a crowd of families and office workers- the normal kind, not Fixers.
She drew a few curious glances in her bright red and gold Liu Association uniform. She'd cleaned herself up a little bit before entering; dusted her coat off, shook some of the ash from her long tresses of orange hair, and removed her bloodstained black gloves.
It wasn't perfect- there were still bits of ash and burnt material caked onto the bottom of her boots, and the stains were still visible if you paid close enough attention to the red fabric, but it was presentable enough that she didn't draw too much attention as she approached the bar.
Ishmael would have hated to make a scene at one of her favorite restaurants.
The additional staff usually went home after the busy hours were done. It looked like the owner himself was the only one standing in the front now. He looked up as she drew near, his face lighting up with a cheerful smile as he caught sight of the familiar Fixer. "Ah, Ishmael! You look like you've had a rough day."
"Not especially." She exhaled softly. "Just long and somewhat tiring, is all."
He hummed. "Well, you can take it easy now that you're here. Come, sit down! I'll go and heat up your soup now." The owner bustled over into the kitchen to go and fetch her food.
Ishmael eyed the bar stools, before deciding to walk over to one of the empty booths nearby instead. She sat down on the bench, taking her coat off and laying it aside, leaving her in a plain creased white dress shirt and her red tie.
She leaned back, resting her head against the thin rice-paper privacy panel surrounding the booth. Ishmael closed her eyes for a moment, focusing on breathing in and out. It was warm in here, and the scent of spices, cooking meat and warm broth filled her lungs with a comforting presence.
Her brows knitted together as her thoughts drifted over today's work. She hadn't managed to catch them all, in the end. The two wounded Syndicate members were easy enough. One of them had left a conspicuous trail of blood behind him.
She'd found the pair of them helping each other stagger down some Backstreets alley. It'd been easy enough work, taking them out.
But the one who had fled from the warehouse had gotten too much time to hide. He'd gone to ground somewhere Ishmael couldn't find him, and no amount of searching or setting fire to the surrounding area had managed to flush him out.
After all that effort, she'd been forced to call it quits and hope that he would be sensible enough to ditch the rather distinctive vine weapons and keep a low profile.
She let out a tired huff. That was what she got for prioritizing meaningless sentiment over efficiency while she was on the job. She should have finished the Syndicate Leader off and gone after him right away. There was no point dwelling too much on it, though. Ishmael couldn't change what had already occurred, as much as she might have wanted to. There was only one thing she could do now, and that was learn from her mistakes and move forwards.
The warm orange light from the ceiling above passed through her closed eyelids. The low burble of patrons conversing filled her ears. She took in a slow, meditative breath, before opening her eyes.
She heard the restaurant owner call out from the kitchen. "Your food is ready, Miss Ishmael! Will you be eating here or taking it out to go?"
"I'll be eating here." She raised her voice, before settling her head back down in her arms.
She closed her eyes and rested for a moment as she waited for her bowl.
"Here you go, Miss." The clink of china settling on the wooden table alerted her to the food's arrival.
Ishmael opened her eyes and glanced at the owner. "Ah, thanks." She took her bowl and picked up the pair of chopsticks on the tray next to it.
Spots of reddish-orange chili oil mixed with the fat released from the stir-fried beef floated on the broth's surface, alongside a small handful of finely-chopped green onions sprinkled atop.
The appetizing smell of warm meat, hand-pulled wheat noodles, and hot spicy beef soup wafted up towards Ishmael's nose, causing her stomach to rumble hungrily.
She spun a bite-sized portion of soup-soaked noodles onto the utensils, before placing it into her mouth and chewing carefully.
Ishmael paused, before letting out an irritated grumble. "...The noodles are soggy."
"They were soaking in the soup for a rather long time..." The shopkeeper offered, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards in amusement.
She sat still for a moment, staring into her soup bowl quietly as she considered her current predicament.
…Her noodles were soggy.
Ishmael was saving up for a new CNS augmentation to speed up her perception and reflexes. As an added side benefit, the modified nervous system would also help prevent shock and unconsciousness while reducing her pain response.
The Workshop she had her eye on was one of the most expensive out there. Anything less than the best when it came to modifying Ishmael's brain was unacceptable.
Compared to the astronomical price tag of a combat-grade neural augmentation, the cost of a bowl of premium beef noodles was rather miniscule; but small purchases like this would start to add up over time.
Saving and budgeting was a process of willpower; spending extra Ahn on aimless luxuries would only harm her growth in the long run.
The food was still fine. Ishmael knew that there were plenty of people out there in the City who were unfortunate and desperate enough to quite literally kill for this bowl of soggy noodles.
Ishmael sighed. "Get me another bowl. I'll pay."
"Right away, Miss." The shopkeeper chirped happily.
Ishmael was tired. Tomorrow morning, she still had to go back into the office and do all that paperwork Director Rodion had assigned her out of the blue. There would be more fieldwork after that, and she wouldn't get another break until the end of the week.
She wanted a bowl of delicious, fresh, piping hot noodles, firm and tender to the bite with real green onions and spicy beef soup made with premium cuts of savory meat.
Ishmael was aware that it was a weak, irrational, almost entirely emotional justification- but she was only human, and hunger made human beings act irrationally.
In the meantime, Ishmael began wolfing down her first bowl of soggy noodles. There was no sense in letting perfectly good food go to waste, after all.
We're nearly at the end of SHE SETS THE CITY ON FIRE, the first short story in the series. There's one more epilogue chapter from Mang-Chi's perspective, then the thread will go on a short hiatus while I continue working on the next story.
I'm currently waffling between two different stories, the working titles for which are "Noodles and Barbeque" and "The Adventures of YumYum" respectively. It'll probably be anywhere between a week and a month until the next story is up, although there's always a chance that life stuff will come up and ruin all my plans.
Since it's my first story posted on this site that hasn't ended in dismal failure after a few chapters, I'd like to share my analysis of the lessons I learned from writing this story, and air out some of my thoughts about the process so far.
This story initially started as a writing exercise, something that I never planned to post. Ishmael would go into a warehouse and punch some Syndicate members, and it'd be a neat little exercise to practice my fight scene writing skills. The goal was to write as many words as possible, without getting bogged down in revisions and editing. Revisions are easy, while writing new content is difficult, so the concept was to write first while I still had the energy and revise later.
The writing exercise ballooned out into a 11k word long fight scene traversing multiple environments, from the garage entrance, to the main warehouse, to the open Backstreets. By that point, I decided to post it in the Project Moon Ideas thread to gauge interest. The response was a touch lukewarm, but I figured that was mostly because the thread was more geared towards discussing Limbus Company and lore theories than fanfiction.
I was worried about the quality, but I figured that since it was a compendium of short stories, if the first one flopped then I could take the lessons I learned from that initial attempt and use it to improve the next one.
I gotta admit, there was a lot of stress and anxiety when I first started posting this. I'd sunk about two months of summer break into this 16k word story, and it would have been absolutely crushing if it flopped.
Judging by the thread statistics though, I think the first story went fairly well. During the first week, about 1 out of 6 readers ended up watching, which I figure is pretty decent by the standards of internet web-forums.
It was a massive hit of dopamine whenever someone left a reaction or comment, and watching the thread numbers tick up was equal parts stressful and exhilarating.
I think I ended up learning a lot from this endeavor. I discovered that I like to assemble my stories piece-meal rather than writing scenes and chapters in chronological order.
Often, I write a lot of scenes out of order. Short snatches of conversation, combat sequences, internal thoughts from Ishmael and other characters, and so on. Whenever an idea comes to me, I usually try to write it down right away.
When I was just starting out, I did a lot of that, since writing an entire story was far beyond my endurance and skill level.
I do write some scenes from start to beginning, but I more often find myself constructing individual scenes, environments, and sequences in my head that I try to capture on paper, and then chain them together into a coherent whole later.
For example, I wrote the fight scenes with Ishmael against the Thorns first, then went back and wrote the prologue, because I felt that Ishmael lacked characterization. Even though it's fanfiction, I think that it's a bad idea to jump straight into the action without establishing proper characterization first.
I think that characters are really what drive a story. There are lots of generic stories that jump straight into fight scenes, but the characters and setting are what make a story unique.
At the end of the day, if the audience doesn't care about the care-actors, then you've failed at the most critical step.
If the reader has zero emotional investment in the characters and the battle, it doesn't matter how much spectacle or technical detail the fight scenes possess. That's my theory, at least.
At the bare minimum, a prologue needs to have a good hook. In this case, the prologue was meant to make you care about Ishmael, for at least one of several reasons, while providing a brief overview of the major themes and setting of the story.
I tried to put as much of Ishmael's unique character into the first chapter as possible, starting from her physical appearance before moving on to her habits, mannerisms, and daily routines to give a sense of her priorities and character.
Along the way, I also attempted to include details that would show Ishmael's behaviors and beliefs, such as her body language, her attitude towards her chosen profession and life in general, and most importantly of all, her tastes in food.
Following the rule of Show-Don't-Tell, I tried to summarize Ishmael using small details about her actions and environment; the orderly way she organizes the space that she lives in, the fact that she jumps straight out of bed when her alarm clock rings at 8AM even on her day off, and the frankly disturbing tidbit that she does paperwork while eating breakfast, which ought to be held sacred.
While the little details matter, it's usually the dialogue and body language which tends to do the bulk of the heavy lifting when it comes to establishing characterization, so I also tried to make sure that Ishmael's words were accompanied by facial expressions, body language, and tone markers to make her seem more life-like.
Sometimes though, I start to get worried that I'm going overboard and including too much background detail.
If the description is too intricate and flowery, there's a risk that the readers' eyes will start to glaze over instead of taking in the detail. There's also the consideration that too many words spent on descriptions and describing internal thoughts slows down the story.
As a general rule of thumb, I try not to include background details that don't provide characterization, interesting world-building, or important information, but it's difficult sometimes to gauge what is and isn't interesting or important detail.
Oh geez louise, I can't believe this post has ballooned out to over 1k words.
Anyways, all this is to say that I'd appreciate any feedback you want to give, whether that's on the characterization, the fight scenes, or the plot of the story. Additionally, if you've got any bits of writing philosophy or advice for me, I'd love to hear it.
Mang-Chi stumbled down the Backstreets alleyway, his panting breath forming clouds in the frigid evening air. He stopped and leaned against one of the alley's walls, before slumping down as his legs finally gave out from exhaustion.
He tried to breathe more quietly to avoid drawing unwanted attention. It wasn't safe in this part of the Backstreets- not that anywhere in the Backstreets was really safe. He'd learned that again today the hard way. The Thorns' territory was the safest place he'd ever known, and that Fixer had breezed right in and slaughtered everyone without taking a scratch.
His breath hitched as a choking gasp wracked his lungs.
Mang-Chi didn't have time to cry. The Night in the Backstreets was coming soon. He needed to find a better place to hide and take shelter than the dumpster he'd hidden in to escape the Fixer.
It was already getting dark outside, and he didn't have a watch to tell when 3AM was. He didn't have the time to cry.
Lenny would have bawled him out for wasting time like this when they should be moving, trying to find shelter, trying to get to safety. That single, stray thought made the tears Mang-Chi was holding back finally slip through the cracks.
He hadn't cried in years. Not when Lenny and Pete had died the first time around in that Library, not during the times when he'd starved for days on end between meals, or when he'd had to hold people's guts in his hands while Lenny cut them open and harvested their organs to sell them to the local Syndicates.
The last time he'd cried had been… when he was ten, maybe? He'd cried when the Sweepers came and took pieces out of his family. When those freaks had stuck their scythes into them and turned them into that bubbly red liquid, before sucking it up into their glass tanks.
It might not be long now until he joined them himself in those tanks. He was back on the streets, only this time there wasn't Pete to tell him what to do, or Lenny for him to help harvest organs or patch him up after he took a bad hit.
Mang-Chi slid down the wall, collapsing onto his hands and knees. He wasn't even strong enough to make himself stop crying. Wheezing, wretched, pathetic little sobs choked their way out from between his clenched jaws. A low keening sound escaped his chest, as hot tears streamed down across his face onto the floor.
The tears blurred his vision as he balled his fists up, digging his fingernails into his palms through the sleeves of his gray hoodie, biting his lip to keep himself from weeping aloud and helping to sign his death sentence.
Mang-Chi was weak. He knew that. He was a Rat, and he'd always known that.
But for just a moment, when he'd been a part of the Thorns, he'd let himself live in a dumb little dream. He'd thought that he'd known what it meant to be safe. What it meant to be strong.
Mang-Chi had never been more wrong in his life. He'd been stupid- so stupid.
He knew better now. Mang-Chi was a Rat, and nothing more.
Elsewhere, the City continued to move onwards as it always did.
Factory laborers trundled over to their company-assigned bunks to catch a brief rest, before the day began anew and they were forced to return to work.
In the Nests, Feathers were returning home or heading out for a night of fervent revelry, the well maintained and brightly-illuminated streets packed with bustling crowds and office workers returning home from their ordinary day jobs, while some poor souls went to work the night shift.
Outside the Nests, amidst the darkened City-scape of the sprawling Backstreets, the same scene repeated itself across countless different locations. Fixers, ordinary citizens, Syndicate members, and Rats alike- everyone who could was huddling quietly inside their homes, with doors locked and window shutters tightly drawn.
Other less fortunate denizens of the Backstreets were desperately seeking out refuge or somewhere to hide, before the Night in the Backstreets descended upon them.
The Sweepers were readying themselves in their massive underground dens, gathering in their uncountable numbers and forming ranks as they prepared for the upcoming hunt.
Their black armored carapaces reflected the light of their glowing red weapons and optics in the darkness as they waited, the crimson fluid inside their tanks which made up their true bodies burbling ominously as they breathed stale air in heavily through artificial filters.
The City's rhythm continued to beat on, life pulsing through its colossal veins. A vast organism, comprised of countless living beings. Hundreds of thousands of people were born each day, and hundreds of thousands died each day.
Much like an animal or person exchanging its cells, the death of a few such beings was entirely unnoticeable and insignificant.
The City was not capable of thought, but even if it was, such a mundane everyday event as a few dozen people dying would hardly even have been considered a loss.
The City continued to move onwards, just as it always had.
Mmph, been going back and forth on this one. Let me know if you think it's a good ending or not, because I'm not entirely sure myself.
At any rate, this officially marks the end of SHE SETS THE CITY ON FIRE, the first of many short stories I've got planned out. Summer is ending soon, so it might be a while until the next one comes out. I hope you enjoyed reading, and I hope you all have a good day/night/morning wherever you may be!
Anyways, all this is to say that I'd appreciate any feedback you want to give, whether that's on the characterization, the fight scenes, or the plot of the story. Additionally, if you've got any bits of writing philosophy or advice for me, I'd love to hear it.
There's a piece of writing advice I really like, that I can't really find anywhere else.
'Emotional Charge.' Basically, in order to create a sense of 'things happening,' you want to flip or intensify the emotions the reader's feeling.
(ex:
-Positive->negative emotion
-Positive->positive+ emotion
)
The person who explained it to me used Star Wars: A New Hope as an example, specifically the opening.
I wish I could be of more help, but I don't remember it very well.
I'm currently waffling between two different stories, the working titles for which are "Noodles and Barbeque" and "The Adventures of YumYum" respectively. It'll probably be anywhere between a week and a month until the next story is up, although there's always a chance that life stuff will come up and ruin all my plans.
So, status update. The fic isn't dead, but I must have seriously jinxed it when I said this earlier, because I got hit by a busload of life stuff over the course of the past month. College will be starting again very soon, so the odds of me managing to post again within a reasonable timeframe just shot down drastically.
At best, it'll probably be another week or two until I manage to finish something, but no promises.
I'm still working on the story, but it'd be more accurate to say that I'm working on several stories within the Liu Association mirrorverse.
To explain further, I've got the typical issue that almost every newbie writer and even some full-time professionals intimately know, where when they get stuck on a chapter they tend to lose interest and switch to new fanfiction ideas or stories.
In my case, I'm currently switching between short stories in this anthology each time I get stuck or sick of what I'm writing, some of which are purely character/food/worldbuilding, and some of which are combat-focused.
Is this a practical or intelligent approach to writing? Probably not, but it works fairly well at helping me retain interest so far. I'm working on four different chapters with a combined total of 12k+ words written so far, which is incredibly scuffed when I think about it.
If I'd been able to just laser-focus on one chapter for this past month, I probably woulda been able to post something by now. Unfortunately, my creative process just doesn't seem to want to cooperate with that approach.
It feels as if I'm bogged down on all fronts, with no end in sight.
I tried to experiment with a minimalist narrative structure, akin to Hiver or YseultNott's style where each chapter is only around 1k words.
I narrowed down the key elements of my approach to:
Key scenes only
Dialogue drives plot
Reduce background description to mood-setting/thematic elements
Speak thoughts aloud. Ishmael is blunt and direct. She doesn't mince her words.
But the experiment failed. I was unable to prevent the short chapter I had in mind from ballooning out to 3k+ words before I was more than halfway through.
I'd like to try working under a word limit next, to force me to become better at planning and cutting out non-essentials so that I can put out content and reach my goals more quickly.
But that also means that I'd either have to start rewriting the chapter I was working on, or start a new idea entirely, both of which will increase the amount of time before I can post again.
All this is to say, I was hoping to post a story update in this thread before classes started again, but I guess it just wasn't meant to be.
It's sad, but it's not all over yet. I won't give up on this story so easily, even if it might be a few months before I have free time to work on it again. Please bear with me while I try to figure this mess of a first story out.
Tales From the Liu Association: Intervallo 1: "Mandatory Fun"
Ishmael checked the clock with a tired gaze. 3:43 PM. One hour and seventeen more minutes until she could finally clock out.
It was a slow Monday mid-afternoon. At least it was better than last Saturday, when she'd been unwillingly roped into helping Director Rodion fill out almost an entire week's worth of paperwork.
She went back to typing, the monotonous sound of keys clacking filling up her cubicle once more. The hours were still better than when she'd worked as a desk jockey for U Corp, but she still found herself wishing that she had more free time to herself.
Somebody knocked on the wall of her cubicle. Ishmael turned a gimlet eye at the source of the noise.
Rodion was there, leaning over the small wooden divider with her elbows resting atop it with that infuriating little smile on her face.
"Good evening, Director." Ishmael droned sourly. "How may I help you?"
"Ahah… I toldja just to call me Rodya~" The Director's expression wilted slightly.
She coughed, before bulling through the awkward tension in the air. "Anyways, I'm hosting a barbeque at my place. I wanted to thank you for all of your hard work this week."
She clasped her hands together. "I really appreciate you bailing me out, Ishy~ Woof, that sure was a tight spot right?"
Ishmael's brows scrunched up together in frustration. Rodion was trying to bribe all of her problems away with food again.
"Is attendance mandatory?" She asked with a resigned air. "Yep~" Rodion cheerfully replied.
Ishmael's shoulders drooped. "...When's the party?"
"Ah, don't look so down Ishy. It's not a party, it's just a small gathering with us and a few other friends of ours. It'll be fun!" She chided gently. "It's after work at 6 PM tomorrow."
"...Great." Ishmael sighed.
"It'll be fun!" Rodion insisted.
"Mandatory fun. Hooray." Ishmael made a conscious effort to smile. It ended up distorting into a horribly pained grimace instead.
"That's the spirit, Ishy!" Rodion clapped her on the shoulder. "D'ya mind telling the rest of the guys about the barbeque? I'd do it myself, but I've got a meeting scheduled at 4 PM. Thanks~"
Rodion swept past her with a wink, pasting a sticky note with a list of names to the side of Ishmael's cubicle.
Ishmael's weary eyes slowly trailed to the post-it note. She grabbed it and looked at the first name on the list.
"..." She shut her eyes tightly as she pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Right. Great, yeah. Just great." She muttered. "...Might as well get it over with first, then."
Ishmael trudged into one of the countless underground training spaces in the Liu South Branch Headquarters.
Almost nobody trained here. The gym was located in a disused corner of the Association HQ's sprawling basement complex.
The equipment was old and outdated, and the ventilation was terrible. There was no sunlight, either, only dim red paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling.
There was only one person who trained in this dojo, who in Ishmael's opinion, helped contribute enormously to the fact that nobody else ever came here.
Ryoshu was standing in the corner wearing her gym clothes, striking a training dummy over and over with a malevolent gleam in her red eyes, as if she was imagining cutting up some poor sod.
Ishmael wrinkled her nose as she caught a whiff upon approaching her coworker. "When was the last time you showered."
"S.T.F.U." Ryoshu charmingly replied, barely sparing a grunt for Ishmael as she continued hammering the training dummy.
The room smelled strongly of its primary occupant; that is to say, like sour old sweat. Acrid cigarette smoke lingered in the musty air, and the pungent metallic scent of dried caked-on blood had seeped into every crevice and corner of the room.
"Whatever." Ishmael massaged her temples. "Rodion's holding a mandatory work party. It's at her place tomorrow after work at 6 PM."
"D.C." Ryoshu gave a curt response. "I couldn't care less about whatever 'culinary adventures' you fools want to waste your time with. I've got much more important things to do."
A vein twitched in Ishmael's forehead. "If I need to go, so do you."
Miraculously, Ryoshu paused for a moment, leaning her forearms against the training dummy as she twisted her neck to look back at Ishmael.
"Tell you what. I'll spar you for it." She got a twisted gleam in her eyes.
Ishmael stared at Ryoshu. Ordinarily, she wouldn't pass up an opportunity to put her petulant colleague in her place. But Ishmael was tired, and this place stank to high heaven.
"Either show up or don't. It's not my problem if you get in trouble with the Director." She scoffed.
"Pfeh." Ryoshu spat, before resuming her training with a renewed intensity.
Ishmael sighed aggrievedly, before walking out without another word.
Ryoshu slammed a sharp knee into the training dummy's lower abdomen, before driving a ferocious piercing jab into the base of its throat.
Ishmael tapped her foot irritably in the elevator as waiting music chimed in her ear. The door opened with a chime, allowing her to stride towards Gregor's desk in the corner.
Gregor was staring at a blank mission report template with a constipated expression on his face as Ishmael entered the office, rapping his pen against the table as he thought.
He glanced up from the paperwork at the sound of Ishmael's briefcase hitting her desk. "Huh? Oh, hey Ishmael." Gregor greeted her in a bored drone. Ishmael didn't take it personally. It was hard to be lively this close to closing time.
"Director Rodion's hosting a barbeque at her place tomorrow." Ishmael grumbled, cutting straight to the chase.
"Huh. Good for you. Well, have fun then." Gregor grunted, going back to his paperwork with a disinterested expression.
"You're invited." Ishmael stated bluntly. Gregor paused at that. "Haah? …What, really?"
He raised an eyebrow, peering at Ishmael scrutinizingly. "Hey, this isn't some kind of practical joke, right? I mean, I'm not even in Section 4. Why would the Director invite me?"
"No idea." Ishmael shrugged her shoulders. "Why does the Director do anything?"
"Hey, well. I'm not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth." Gregor chuckled. "The Director of South Section Four, eh? Maybe this is my chance to see how the other half lives."
"Haaah…" Ishmael sighed. "Just make sure to tidy up a bit before showing up. Try not to embarrass yourself." She eyed Gregor's overgrown five-o-clock shadow and ratty hair disapprovingly.
"Yeah, yeah." Gregor grumbled good-naturedly. "I'll clean myself up before the party, don't worry. Don't you have someplace else to be?"
"Right, I've got to go invite the rest of the people on the list." Ishmael's eyes flitted back down at the list.
Huh. Just one more. Rodion wasn't kidding when she said it was a small get-together.
"Hey wait, what was the address again?" Gregor asked.
…That was a good question. Ishmael didn't actually know where Rodion lived.
"Just meet me after work. I'll show you the way." She sighed, brushing past him on her way out the door. She'd just ask the Director for the address tomorrow.
"Hmm. I see. This is rather unusual, but I would be honored to accept this invitation." Meursault stated, giving Ishmael a short nod of acknowledgement. "I will arrive at 6pm sharp. Please convey my thanks to the Director."
The sound of trainees clashing blades and gauntlets reverberated through the spacious gymnasium behind him. It brought back distant memories of when Ishmael had been a trainee herself that were almost nostalgic, now.
Meursault had still been here even back then, in the same role as he was now.
Unlike Gregor, though, Meursault had already been nominated for promotion several times. He'd chosen to remain in Section 6, however, presumably to continue training the Liu Associations' newest recruits.
Ishmael couldn't understand his decision in the slightest, but she still respected him nonetheless. After all, she'd received guidance from him several times in the past.
"Right." Ishmael glanced down at her watch. Fifteen minutes till closing time. "...Well, take care of yourself, Meursault."
An amused smile crossed her face. "It'd be a real shame if the rookies lost such a valuable mentor. Our turnover rate is bad enough as it is." She joked.
"Hmph." Meursault crossed his arms. "Please do not say such things within earshot, Ishmael. I have been told that it is detrimental to morale."
Rodion, as Ishmael discovered, lived in one of the Zwei's gated communities on the edges of the shopping district. The metal spike-tipped fence and the gates themselves were more of a suggestion to anything other than Rats, but Ishmael could see cameras and Zwei Fixers stationed at every street corner, in addition to passing patrols.
Zwei was the golden standard when it came to safety in the Backstreets. Their services didn't come cheap, though.
Ishmael rang the doorbell. She eyed up Rodion's house with no small amount of trepidation.
Already, the evening was off to a terrible start. Although her presence might have been tolerated in the business district, the Zwei were much more stringent about who was allowed in their fortified neighborhoods.
As a Fixer from another Association, Ishmael stuck out like a sore thumb, especially in her armored uniform.
Even though the guards had been informed ahead of time that she was invited, it'd been a massive pain getting into the gated community. She'd been forced to surrender her gauntlets at the entrance, and the guards had insisted on searching her thoroughly for any other weapons.
She was also fairly certain that there were at least two plainclothes Zwei Fixers trailing her discreetly to make sure that she didn't cause any trouble.
Rodion's house by itself wasn't all that intimidating. It was a fairly standard two-story residence, one of many in the walled neighborhood. Compared to the house Ishmael's family had lived in back at U Corp's Nest, it was actually on the smaller side.
Ishmael knew what the price tag was for one of these homes, though. The price of the Zwei's watchful protection was included in the monthly rent, and even a small apartment inside of one of these fortified residential complexes was outside of her price range, unless she was willing to split the cost with several other people.
The fact that Rodion could afford to live all by herself in an entire house was a marker of significant wealth- the sort that was far beyond Ishmael's reach. It was an uncomfortable reminder of the stark contrast between them.
Ishmael shuffled her feet uncomfortably, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets. She pushed down the urge to glance backwards at the Zwei Fixers she was sure were monitoring her.
Rodion answered the doorbell after a few moments' delay. "Ishmael, how come you're not wearing any of the nice clothes I bought you?" She badgered her immediately.
Ishmael pushed down a surge of irritation. "They didn't offer enough protection." She succinctly replied. "If I'd run into trouble on the way over, it'd have been a major liability. Besides, it's not a good idea to dress too nicely in the Backstreets, you know."
Ishmael side-eyed Rodion's apparel. She was wearing long silk gloves and a well-tailored black cocktail dress with red highlights that accentuated the shape of her figure. "I thought you said it wasn't a party."
"Hey, I don't exactly get many opportunities to dress up, you know." Rodion winked at her. "I bought this dress on a whim last week, so I've got to use it at some point."
"...Sure." Ishmael sighed. "Can I come in?"
"Right, right~ Leave your coat at the door, yeah?" Rodion waved her inside, before closing and locking the door behind her.
The inside of Rodion's house was much the same as the outside, but there were visible efforts to spruce it up and separate it from its surrounding neighbors.
The walls were adorned with fashionable paintings. Little trinkets, expensive-looking rugs, couches, and throw pillows decorated the insides of each room. The shelves and tables were lined with a vast hoard of knick-knacks including snow-globes, small statues, china vases and stuffed plush animals.
It shouldn't have surprised Ishmael that Rodion was a hoarder, but the sheer quantity of stuff baffled her nonetheless.
"..." For once, though, Ishmael decided to bite her tongue and keep silent. She was a guest here, after all. It would be the height of rudeness to make comments about the Director's… spending habits, after being invited into her home.
"Backyard's this way." Rodion ushered her along. "Hey, you're actually the first one to arrive, Ishy."
"Hard to miss the place. The armed guards were very noticeable." Ishmael rubbed the back of her neck and exhaled heavily.
"Ah, sorry 'bout that." Rodion winced. "They're just doing their job, keeping the neighborhood safe."
"Not that I need it." She winked. "But the other residents aren't exactly Association Directors, ya'know."
"Yeah." Ishmael turned her eyes aside.
The doorbell rang. "Oh hey, looks like the next guest's here. Make yourself comfortable, yeah?" Rodion coughed, breaking the awkward silence.
Rodion opened up the door as Ishmael hung her coat up on one of the nearby racks. Meursault was waiting on the other side with a plastic shopping bag full of groceries slung over his shoulder.
There were also noticeable bloodstains on his gauntlets and the front of his uniform. Ishmael had no idea how he'd slipped through security like that.
"Good evening, Director. I have brought the supplies, as requested." Meursault calmly stated.
"Great!" Rodion beamed, before her smile noticeably strained upon getting a closer look at the red stains. "Ah- you've got a little something on you." She tugged at the front of her dress.
Meursault glanced impassively at his shirt. "Ah. Do not be concerned. The blood is not mine."
"Oh. Okay." Rodion nodded uncomfortably. "...So, whose blood is it?"
"I was accosted on the way from the grocery store to here." Meursault did not clarify further. "The incident was dealt with in an appropriate manner, and I am unharmed. In spite of the unforeseen delay, I have arrived at 6PM as scheduled. There is no reason to be concerned."
"Ahah, yeah…" Rodion continued nodding awkwardly. "Good work. Well, just make sure to clean yourself up before the party starts."
"Understood." Meursault handed her the bloodstained bag of groceries, before heading for the bathroom. Rodion gingerly set the bag down on a nearby table, before removing her now stained ballroom gloves.
"See? He wore his work uniform to the barbeque too." Ishmael pointed out.
"Please don't use Meursault as a role model, Ishy…" Rodion sighed.
After Meursault returned, Rodion had ushered them into the backyard behind the house. Meursault had promptly set up the grill in the backyard and began cooking.
He shaped the ground beef into round balls, before flattening them into patties and slapping them down onto the hot griddle with his gauntlets, which had thankfully been washed clean to exacting standards.
The familiar sound and scent of meat sizzling and fat popping against the black cast-iron surface filled the air with an appetizing aroma.
"I'm surprised no one else is here." Ishmael commented. "Gregor, at least, seemed to want to come."
"I wouldn't worry about it. They probably just wanted to show up fashionably late." Rodion waved it off.
"Fashionably late to a work event…" Ishmael sighed. "Yeah, that sounds like something Gregor would do."
"It's not a work event!" Rodion complained.
"You said that it was mandatory, m'am." Ishmael gave her an unimpressed side-eye.
"Don't call me m'am, eugh. Makes me feel old." Rodion playfully faux-shuddered.
"Alright, Director." Ishmael sighed.
"C'mon, I told ya to just call me Rodya when we're off work." Rodion chided, this time with a more serious note in her voice.
"...Right." Ishmael forced a smile. It wasn't very convincing. "Got it, Dir- Rodion. Rodya."
Rodion examined her more closely, brows slightly furrowed. Ishmael suppressed the urge to twitch at the sudden direct eye contact.
"You gotta loosen up a little, Ishmael." Rodion finally let out a sigh. "It's not good for you to be so uptight all the time."
To Ishmael's relief, the doorbell rang at that moment. "Must be Gregor or Ryoshu. I'll go get them." She excused herself politely, seizing upon the convenient distraction.
Ishmael quickly walked away from the uncomfortable social interaction. She slowed down and made sure to check through the peephole first before unlocking the door, though.
Sure enough, Gregor was there, his general appearance as miserable and bed-raggled as ever. Ishmael opened the door with an unimpressed look on her face. "You're late."
"The guards wouldn't stop hassling me." He grumbled. "I mean, I realize I'm not exactly the most photogenic Fixer around town, but I think sending an armed escort to leer over my shoulder the entire time was a little excessive."
Ishmael glanced behind Gregor. Sure enough, there was a Zwei Fixer standing across the street watching them with a hawkish eye. She moved aside to let Gregor in and locked the door behind him.
"Yeah." Ishmael exhaled. "They treated me more or less the same, although they were at least a little bit more discreet about it."
"Nice to hear that I wasn't the only one, I guess." He grumbled. "Not exactly the reception I was hoping for. Has the party started yet?"
"It's in the backyard." She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder in the general direction. "Meursault brought some meat and some other stuff to make burgers with."
"Meursault's the cook?" Gregor perked up. "Hey, that's great! Haven't seen him grill before, but it's bound to be some good grub for sure."
He sniffed the air eagerly. "I think I can smell the meat grilling from here."
"Meursault's good at cooking, then?" Ishmael asked curiously.
"Ah, that's right. You spent so little time in Section 6 that you never got to attend the annual cookout." Gregor closed his eyes, a small grin crossing his face. "Yeah. He's pretty good. You wouldn't think it to look at the guy, but he's probably the best chef in the Association."
Ishmael wasn't sure what to make of that boast, but she decided to accept it at face value for now. "Right. Well, let's get to it then." Ishmael trudged back to the party.
Rodion let out a short, exasperated huff as she caught sight of Gregor.
"Yeesh, I can't believe that everyone decided to wear their work uniform to the party. Now I feel way overdressed." Rodion complained.
"Didn't you say it wasn't a party?" Ishmael sighed.
"Ah… Sorry, boss-man. Didn't have anything nicer-looking in my wardrobe." Gregor's eyes flitted to the floor as he puffed on his cigarette.
Ishmael mouthed the words "boss-man" quietly to herself in disbelief.
Rodion let out a put-upon sigh. "Well, nevermind then. I guess it can't be helped- shoulda been more clear about it when I asked Ishmael to send out the invites."
"So, I heard there were burgers?" Gregor began rubbing his palms together eagerly as he changed the subject.
Rodion perked up. "Yeah! Hey~ I think I can smell them from here. They're probably just about done right about now."
"Hey, whaddya know, I can smell them too! Let's go grab some grub!" Gregor let out a ragged cheer.
The two of them ran off together to the backyard.
Ishmael massaged her temples. Of course, despite having never met each other before, the two of them were getting along like a house on fire. It must have been something about the complete and total disregard for decorum they both shared in common.
She sighed and trundled along after them, back to the backyard where the party was ongoing.
The burgers had been pretty good, at least to Ishmael's limited knowledge. They were cooked to technical perfection, seared and crisp on the outside, and juicy on the inside. The exterior was encrusted with a generous layer of salt and pepper.
Despite that, Ishmael couldn't help but feel as if was missing something. She took the bun off and put a little extra ketchup and mustard on her burger, before lifting it up and taking another bite.
It was a little bit better, but Ishmael still couldn't put her finger on just quite what was absent from the taste.
…Oh well. Food was food. Ishmael couldn't complain.
Rodya had brought out some wine for the party that she had been saving for a while. Meursault had declined, citing safety concerns regarding consuming alcohol near an open flame. Ishmael had withdrawn to a corner of the backyard, nursing a glass of red, watching the rest of the party.
Rodion managed to badger Meursault into stepping away eventually and letting her take over the grill.
She'd brought out a large tupperware container and a set of metal skewers, and was currently in the process of cooking something she'd called "Shashlik".
Inside the transparent plastic tub was a strange mixture of pork cut into cubes and yellow onion chunks, marinating in a bath of white sauce and spices that Ishmael couldn't quite identify.
Meursault came over and stood in the corner next to Ishmael with his arms crossed, observing Rodya as she assembled the meat skewers, wedging a chunk of yellow onion dripping with sauce in-between two chunks of pork sirloin.
As Rodya put the meat skewers on top of the grill, the scent of seared meat and roasting fat wafted through the air, accentuated by the pungent and earthy smell of charring onions and accompanied by a subtle sweet undertone from the sugary marinade.
They stood there in silence next to each other for a while, Ishmael slowly sipping at her small glass of wine while Meursault continued to observe Rodion cooking.
Ishmael cast around for some topic of conversation. "...How's work been?" She finally managed to get out.
"It has been adequate. The new juniors show promise." Meursault responded promptly.
"Yeah? Any of them in particular?" She asked, more out of politeness than any genuine interest.
"Hmph. There is one that bothers me." Meursault grunted.
"...Yeah?" Ishmael prompted.
"Her talent in training is undeniable, but she continues to hesitate on the battlefield." Meursault elaborated.
"It perplexes me. I do not understand why you would hesitate when given a direct order to neutralize a defeated enemy, especially one that possesses no remaining allies or worth as a captive." He gave a light shrug.
"Huh." Ishmael took a moment to think, staring into her wine glass as she swirled its contents.
That had been darker than Ishmael was expecting. Her mood soured as she continued thinking about how to respond. It'd probably been a bad idea to ask about work. What had Ishmael been thinking?
"..She'll probably get over it eventually." Ishmael released a long breath she'd been holding, rubbing the back of her head.
Ishmael'd had similar difficulties in the past, she remembered. Going from the Nest to the Backstreets had been a major culture shock, but she'd managed to adapt to it over time. Ishmael took a small amount of pride in how far she'd come since then.
"Just try to make sure she doesn't die before then. Joining any Association can be a rough transition sometimes, let alone one as intense as the Liu." Ishmael advised him.
"I see." Meursault continued to ruminate. Ishmael walked away and left him to think in peace.
Ishmael sidled over to Gregor, who was pouring himself another drink from one of the expensive-looking bottles of wine Rodion had brought out.
His cheeks were slightly red, and he gave her a goofy grin as she stood next to him with a judging stare on her face.
"Hey, Ishmaeelll…" Gregor slurred happily. "Party's going pretty good, huuh?"
"Guess so." Ishmael hedged her words. "Geez, go easy on that bottle. You'll be blackout drunk by sundown at this rate." She sighed.
"Mmphh…" He let out a muffled grunt. "That's the point, isn't it? Besides, I can hold my liquor- hic- just fine." He gave her a thumbs up.
"Aren't you a bit old to be drinking so much? New livers might be cheap on the black market, but the post-procedure recovery isn't quick or painless you know- unless you're willing to shell out for K Corp." She squinted at him pointedly.
"M'not old. I'm only thierteeeee-six." Gregor grumbled.
"Only a few years from becoming a middle-aged man." Ishmael commented with a wry half-grin. "At this rate, you'll probably go through at least a dozen livers before you hit retirement."
Gregor remained silent for a moment, before thudding his head down onto the table. "Maybe I really amgetting old…" He moped, downing the contents of his glass in one go, before pouring himself another one.
"H-hey, I was just kidding around." Ishmael waved her hands worriedly. "You're not that old-"
Gregor grabbed the whole wine bottle and began chugging it.
She let out a pained hiss through her teeth. The doorbell chose that exact moment to ring.
"I guess Ryoshu actually decided to show up for once~" Rodion smiled. "Ishy, mind go getting her for me? My hands are a little full right now."
Ishmael hesitated for a moment as Gregor continued chugging the bottle, before letting her shoulders slump in defeat. "...Yeah. I'll go get her now."
She trudged back over the foyer and undid the lock.
The door swung open to reveal Ryoshu, who was wearing her black undershirt and her Association uniform black slacks, with her red-gold coat tied around her waist.
There was a pair of Zwei Fixers standing to either side of her with professionally blank expressions on their faces. Ishmael could also just about make out a group of several other individuals she could only assume were plainclothes Zwei Fixers standing a short distance away watching them surreptitiously.
Ryoshu looked as if she was on the verge of murdering someone right now, even more so than usual.
"Good evening, m'am." The Zwei on the left addressed Ishmael politely, despite the irate expression in his eyes. "Is the owner of this residence here right now?"
"Uh…" She glanced over her shoulder at the backyard, before calling out. "...Rodion? Can you please come over here?"
"Yeah, what's up?" Rodion jogged over casually, before freezing up in front of the doorway upon spotting Ryoshu and the pair of Zwei Fixers.
"Is this woman with you?" One of them spoke up with a tense voice.
"Ahah…" Rodion's expression seemed especially pained at the moment.
Ryoshu's murderous glare intensified as she glared at the side of the Zwei Fixer's head. She seemed to be trying to bore into his skull with his eyes alone.
"...Yes?" Rodion hesitantly replied, wincing slightly as she awaited their response.
"I see." His face remained carefully blank. "...While the Zwei Association respects your right to have a reasonable number of guests over, we must ask that you inform them of our security practices ahead of time, and ensure that they fully comply with them."
"Right, right, I totally understand!" Rodion smiled and nodded hurriedly. "Thank you for your help."
"...It's no trouble, m'am. Have a good evening." The Zwei Fixer stiffly replied.
Rodion quickly ushered Ryoshu inside, before closing the door tight and cutting off line of sight with the pair of Zwei Fixers.
"Yeesh, Ryoshu, what did you do?" Ishmael let out a heavy sigh.
"N.O.Y.B." Ryoshu snapped back at her.
"Hey, hey, none of that now." Rodion chimed in. "Get along, you two. That's an order, alright~?"
Ishmael massaged her temples. "Yeah. Yeah, alright."
Ryoshu scoffed, but looked away.
Rodion slung her arms around both of their shoulders with a cheerful grin. "C'mon, let's get some grub in our bellies, yeah? Everyone's in a better mood when their tummies are full."
She shepherded the pair towards the backyard with an iron grip, brokering no disagreement. Ishmael let out a quiet grunt of discomfort, while Ryoshu maintained a sullen silence.
She released them upon arriving in the backyard. "Hey Meursault~ Ryoshu's finally here. Shashlik done yet?" Rodya purred.
"Hmph." He rotated one of the skewers, checking the underside. "This shashlik is nowhere near approaching the correct level of doneness. The flame was not stoked to the appropriate intensity before the cooking process was initiated."
"I have already applied additional airflow and accelerant, but it will take time. Fifteen more minutes."
"Fooey…" Rodion hung her head in disappointment.
Ishmael sniffed at the air. The scent of wood-smoke and roasting pork almost made her stomach rumble. "Hey, that smells pretty good." She commented off-handedly.
Rodya perked back up at the compliment. "Yeah? Glad to hear it, it's my own secret recipe." She winked. "Premium cuts of tenderloin, marinated in red wine, pureed onions, apple-cider vinegar, and mayonnaise, amongst other things."
"C'mon, scoot over. Lemme cook." She elbowed Meursault.
Obligingly, Meursault let Rodion take over the grill without resistance. In the absence of Rodion physically holding her in place, Ryoshu wandered off back into the house.
Ishmael watched Rodion check the underside of one of the skewers, before growing bored and wandering off as well.
Ishmael let out a tired sigh and went to go sit down in one of the lounge chairs out on the lawn. She folded her hands behind her head, kicked her feet up, and closed her eyes to rest for a moment.
After a while, Ishmael woke up from her brief nap and glanced around.
Meursault was standing in a corner with his arms folded, watching the rest of the partygoers with his typical dour expression, his brows furrowed and his mouth set in a neutral frown.
Ryoshu was doing elevated pushups in the corner of the backyard, with her feet placed atop one of the glass patio tables.
Gregor was facedown on the table with a wine glass in his hand, surrounded by several bottles.
…Ishmael probably should have gone over and stopped him at some point.
She stood up and tiptoed over, before gingerly prodding at Gregor's forehead.
No response. He'd somehow managed to get blackout drunk in the short time-span she'd been away. She hissed out slowly through her teeth, before speed walking away from the scene.
"Meat's finally done!" Rodion called out. "Everybody c'mon, gather round, gather round." The rest of the partygoers who were still conscious slowly gravitated towards the clarion call of food.
Rodion ushered them in front of the grill and began handing out skewers like candy.
"Careful, it's hot." Rodion winked as she handed Ryoshu the first skewer. Ryoshu scoffed, before tearing into the meat immediately.
"Pfeh. As if being burnt is something for Fixers like us to be scared of. The purifying heat of the flames will only make you stronger." Ryoshu's words were somewhat reduced by the fact they were garbled out through the sound of chewing meat.
"...Close your mouth when you eat. Please." Ishmael sighed. "It's not as if you're a child. Didn't anyone ever teach you basic manners?"
Ryoshu glared at her, but seemingly decided to ignore Ishmael's insult in favor of devouring more shashlik.
Rodion laughed and clapped Ryoshu on the back. "Pretty great, huh?"
Ishmael eyed the fresh-off-the-grill meat skewer speculatively. If Ryoshu could stand the heat without augmentations, then Ishmael should probably be fine.
…Then again, Ryoshu was the sort of person who would continue stubbornly eating even if it burned her mouth.
But, then again… Ishmael was also hungry.
Throwing caution to the wind, Ishmael bit down on the steaming hot Shashlik.
The very next instant, an explosion of flavors filled her mouth.
The fat and juices of the pork were sealed inside by the lightly charred exterior, creating a delicious combination of a crisp flame-seared crust on the outside and a soft, juicy tenderness inside.
As she began to chew, she picked up on the unique taste of smoke from the open flames- a light, faint bitterness that complemented the savory meat well.
The roasted vegetables were an excellent touch as well- the sweet, crunchy bite of the caramelized onions added a refreshing contrast to the rich, almost overwhelming meatiness of the pork.
Ishmael could detect hints of a tangy, mysterious flavor from Rodion's marinade- touches of lemony citrus, the acidic, fruity flavor of apple cider vinegar- and a taste of something else that she couldn't quite name.
She was tangentially aware of the others digging in as well, making a variety of satisfied noises as they ate.
"Coupla good friends around a warm fire. Tender, delectable cuts of premium grilled meat on a stick. It doesn't get any better than this, yeah?" Rodion beamed at the rest of them with rosy cheeks.
Ishmael made a muffled grunt of agreement as she scarfed down the rest of the meat skewer, focused on savoring each bite.
Ryoshu finished before anyone else, devouring the last bite with gusto, before licking her fingers and smacking her greasy lips in satisfaction.
"An excellent meal. My compliments to the chef." Meursault chimed in as he took methodical bites from his skewer.
Ishmael carefully chewed the last piece of pork, savoring the flavor, before swallowing and looking around for another skewer.
As she finished, Ishmael suddenly noticed that Rodion was examining her closely.
"...What?" She leaned back from Rodion.
"Ah, it's nothing." Rodion giggled shortly. "It's just good to see you enjoying yourself for once, Ishmael."
She pivoted on her heel to face Ryoshu. "So, how about you? Enjoying the party so far?"
She shrugged noncommittally. "Not bad. Meat's pretty good."
"Surprised you actually came at all, instead of staying holed up in that training room of yours all day." Ishmael side-eyed her.
"Meh. F.F." Ryoshu stated, taking a long drag from her cigarette.
"...Free food, huh?" Ishmael exhaled. "Yeah, I suppose that tracks well enough."
"Eyyy, now that's the spirit~!" Rodion laughed. "Here, have another one."
She put another meat skewer onto Ryoshu's plate with her tongs. Obligingly, Ryoshu picked the red-hot metal rod up with her bare hands, before chewing on the tender flame-grilled pork tenderloin with an indifferent look on her face.
"...At least you actually bathed before showing up." Ishmael sighed.
"Pfeh. I'm not a wild animal. I shower once I'm finished training." Ryoshu scoffed through a mouthful of meat. Left unspoken was the fact that Ryoshu often trained for days on end inside of that cramped unventilated basement.
Ishmael didn't bother commenting. She cast her gaze upwards. The sun was starting to set, shades of yellow and orange crossing the border between the silhouettes of the suburban neighborhood and the open sky.
It wasn't such a bad view, Ishmael thought to herself. The sight tickled memories in the back of her head from her childhood, of watching the sun setting over the docks.
It might be nice to live somewhere like here someday. Maybe after Ishmael earned another promotion or two, she might be able to afford something like this.
She let out a weary sigh, putting her empty skewer down on the picnic table. "It's starting to get dark out. I guess that means I should probably start heading home."
"Aw, you sure?" Rodion drawled. "Hey, hey~ I just had an idea."
"What?" Ishmael eyed her warily.
"How about a sleepover?" Rodion exclaimed cheerfully. "We could stay up late, talk about-"
"Pass." Ryoshu scoffed.
"Sorry. I'll have to pass too, Dire- Rodion." Ishmael caught herself from using the formal title at the last moment. "We've all still got work in the morning, after all. A good night's sleep could be the difference between life and death for people like us."
"Yeesh…" Rodion sighed. "I swear, you two always seem to avoid any form of socialization like its the plague. You gotta learn to ease up and live at least a little bit, y'know?"
Ryoshu snorted dismissively, before walking off.
Ishmael shuffled her feet uncomfortably. Being compared to Ryoshu had suddenly made her feel distinctly uncomfortable. …She wasn't that bad, surely? Ishmael made time for social events when she could. She hung out with other people outside of work. Not all that often, granted, but she would if she was invited along on outings like this more frequently.
"...It's just been a long day, is all." Ishmael excused herself. "Think I'll probably turn in early, try to get some rest."
"Right, right." Rodion sighed, flipping her hair. "Here, take one for the road." She pressed another delicious shashlik into Ishmael's hand.
Ishmael forced a grin. "...Thank you, Rodion. I enjoyed the party." She wasn't lying. The food had been good, if nothing else.
Luckily, the Director seemed to accept her compliment at face value. Rodion flashed her a smile. "Great to hear. Sleep well, Ishy~"
"Good night to you as well, Rodion." Ishmael waved, before walking away.
The terms of Ishmael's contract were very clear. It was very quick, though, so she probably didn't even feel a thing.