Confederation of Corrupt Dictators

Garret Avenue, Inferneum, Hellslayer - 18:32, 6 October 2023

The rain drove down in sheets, hammering against the pavement with such force that it was like an anvil being struck with each drop. The incessant noise mingled with shouts and cries of people in the streets, with the smashing of windows, with the crackling of fires.
“No more blood for oil!”
“F-ck the League!”
“They’re the real criminals, you sad bastards, why are you protecting them? You should be arresting them, not us!” The sense of impotent rage was palpable among the horde that faced the expressionless wall of policemen fencing them off from the administrative district of the city. Slowly, the voices died down, until the two masses simply watched each other warily from a distance, the rain dampening the spirit of revolution with melancholy. Onyx stood among the crowd, letting the storm wash over her, letting the memories wash over her. She saw herself as a little girl, running through the dusty streets of Kabukalika, back home in Arellistan. She heard her mother’s laughter, felt her warm embrace during a storm not too dissimilar from this one, holding her as she whispered that the storm was just the world’s way of crying, of letting out its sorrow. Rain mingled with tears, as her own sorrow poured out of her.

She still remembered the day her mother was taken away. The loud knock at the door, the voices rising, the shouting, the gunshots. Hiding under the bed, clutching her mother’s necklace, she had desperately prayed, not for her mother, but for herself, that the killers wouldn’t find her, that she’d be spared. Even now, remembering it as an adult, the shame of that moment still burned her like a searing iron to her heart. She had betrayed her mother at the very moment that her mother had offered herself up as a sacrifice to protect her only daughter. No storm, however intense, could wash away the blood staining her hands. The blood that had spread slowly across the cream carpet, turning it crimson. Then there was silence, a deathly still which had hung over the house for days. Onyx hadn’t even moved from under the bed until driven by a gnawing hunger and parching thirst. From there, she had found a few of her mother’s old friends’ numbers in an old notebook, and spent a few coins at the local payphone to get in touch. One by one, she went through the list, and one by one, they had turned her away, a young girl of twelve, out of fear of what might happen to them if they got involved. Finally, it wasn’t a family member, a friend, or even an acquaintance that had helped her. Instead, it had been an old tramp who himself had almost no money who had taken her under his wing as he made his way north to “a land where the streets are paved in gold”. She could still hear old Paiman’s voice.

They had walked for miles, until she was almost unable to move her legs, while Paiman had told her stories; classic Arelli tales, recalling his own childhood, reciting family legends. Once, they managed to stop a lorry and hitch a ride in the back, feasting on the crates of raisins he was transporting. The driver had even pressed a twenty rial note into Paiman’s hand, allowing them to get breakfast at a gas station at the small stopover town where they were dropped off. Nothing tastes quite so good as a proper cooked meal after weeks of scraps. Asking around the other truck drivers in the town, they had found someone who would add them to a batch that he was taking over the border into Hellslayer, for the price of five hundred rial. There was no way they could afford that, no way they could ever afford that, but the driver’s eyes lit up as he spotted the glint of gold under her coat. Her mother’s necklace, with the stone for which she had been named. He’d said that he would strike a deal with them, and that he’d let them join in exchange for the necklace. Paiman had developed a cough, and though he’d tried to hide it, she’d spotted a splash of red wetness on the handkerchief, and so, in a moment of weakness, she’d betrayed her mother again, surrendering her last connection to her in exchange for a ride in a spluttering, ancient lorry. As the man opened the doors to the truck, all she could see in the back was the glint of terrified eyes staring out from sunken faces, as a mother clutched her son to her chest. The boy’s father barely reacted, staring at nothing, cuts and bruises staining his face, as he continued dragging a finger aimlessly over the floor of the container.

That night was hellish.They were locked in a rattling old container, with the only fresh air coming through a tiny crack in the door. But, as the lorry spluttered along, the gap shifted and closed, cutting off the air supply. Within just hours, the temperature began to rise intolerably, the air becoming hot and stuffy. She could hear the other people coughing, gasping, crying, retching. The stale air stank of the sweat, urine, and vomit. She had thought she’d known thirst and hunger, but it was nothing compared to what she experienced inside that truck. Whenever the truck stopped briefly, people had surged forward, fighting to press their face to the tiny crack, trying to suck in air. As dawn broke and the truck began to slow to the final checkpoint, however, nobody moved. Nobody had the strength to. Onyx had managed to crawl forward slowly, painfully, and gasp a few breaths of clean air. A shadow had passed in front of the narrow strip of light and she froze, wondering if it had all been for nothing. Perhaps they would be discovered. But, thankfully, a voice called out, and the figure had retreated, and the lorry continued on for a couple more hours before pulling in.

Onyx had no idea how long she had been in the container, but it felt like an eternity. She had lost all track of time, space, reality. She had drifted in and out of consciousness, between life and death, between hope and despair. There was the sound of moans, gasps, silence. The faces, the eyes, told her that whether they were alive or not right now, they were already dead. As those doors had slid open, she was one of the few who staggered out, blinking bulging eyes against the sudden harsh light. Taking a few unsteady steps, she had fallen to the ground, her already empty stomach trying to expel every meal she had ever eaten, as, at the same time, her lungs had felt like they were imploding, attempting to expel all the stale, filthy air, and draw in gallons of clean air. Some of the other people in the container, nearly half, never made those steps outside. They lay slumped motionless, and had to be dragged out by the smugglers. Among them was Paiman, his face contorted strangely, a strange shade of mauve, his tongue swollen between his teeth, a dribble of blood running from the corner of his mouth. After a brief discussion, the lorry driver rolled the corpses into a nearby ditch, covered them in a gasoline-soaked tarpaulin, and set light to it, before driving off, leaving the survivors, including Onyx, across the border in Hellslayer, just as they’d asked, and with absolutely nothing to their name, nowhere to go.

Somehow, through a combination of good fortune, skill, and petty crime, Onyx had managed to scrounge a living, slowly travelling across the country towards Inferneum, which Paiman had always described to her as a kind of heaven on earth, a land of plenty where anybody could get anything and everything that they could ever possibly want. Finally reaching the city, she finally saw what he meant. It was a forest of polished steel and glass disappearing into the sky, their tops obscured by wispy clouds. The sheer scale of the metropolis, the lights, the noises, was overwhelming, giving her a sense of vertigo. It was all one massive, interconnected system: the buildings acted as a skeleton, the roads as veins, around which a breathing, organic city grew. Yet, in spite of all that they had, she was still pushed away, hidden away, as if the city itself was ashamed of the extra parts, the outliers that didn’t seem to fit into the network anywhere. Whenever you glanced under a bridge, or walked through an underpass, or walked past a park bench, the outliers of society would look back at you. The city did not want these people, did not need them, did not care for them. It tried to hide them, ignore them, or get rid of them. They were the dark side of the city, the side that should never be seen.

This was all somewhere at the back of Onyx’s mind, festering, gnawing at her. Now it all bubbled to the surface, a rising tide that threatened to consume her. Rummaging through her pockets, she found the scored steel ovoid, gripping it tightly. It was heavy, much heavier than she’d anticipated for such a small object. Hefting it, weighing it, weighing the consequences, she turned towards the line of shields and walked forwards slowly, deliberately.
“Bastards,” she spat. Then, quite suddenly, it was all too much, the wave of emotions overwhelming her; fear, fury, hate, bitterness, even joy. She screamed the word again and again, her voice ripping with the manic sound. She frantically tore at the ring on the sphere, tossed it aside, and, gathering her strength, hurled the small metal ball at the wall before her, at the politicians sitting safe in their glass towers behind, the people who had condemned her country to burn with the flick of a pen. They would be paid back just a fraction of what they had inflicted, they would burn too. The metal orb glinted slightly in the flickering fire-light. It collided with the wall and rebounded off, landing at the feet of the officers. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, there was a blinding flash of white light, a wave of intense burning heat. There was a dull roar, followed by a high-pitched tinkling as windows all the way down the street shattered. A shockwave slammed into Onyx, causing her to stagger backwards, blinking rapidly in an effort to see anything. The smell of gunpowder and blood that rose with the smoke was nauseating. A thick smog hid the police line, obscuring the full impact of the explosion.

As the fumes finally began to part, she finally saw the true extent of what the grenade had done. The wall of shields was shattered, left bleeding and torn on the cold pavement. In the dim light, the sprays of blood shone black. Corpses, barely recognisable as people, lay strewn about a small crater, while survivors crawled in agony, shrapnel lodged inside of them, limbs torn off. Even those not directly in the blast radius staggered around, disorientated, blood leaking from their ears and nose, partially melted shields sticking to their hands. This… this wasn’t what Onyx had intended. She’d imagined a flash, a bang, and the wall of shields would fall down. It had been so easy, so clinical in her mind. Not this chaotic, hellish mess of burns, wounds, and death. Staring straight at her was one of the officers, both of his legs lying ten metres away in opposite directions. His eyes shone with fear, the fear of a man confronting death. His lips moved, and despite the din around them, she heard him as clearly as if he was speaking straight into her ear.
“Ma…ma. Mother. I.. oh lord, I don’t.. want… to die. Mama, mother.. please...” He was young, too young. His hair was the same shade of brown, his eyes the same emerald colour. His face. Her mother’s face. The same face. She had killed him. She had killed her. She had killed her mother. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She was frozen, watching her mother slowly bleed out in front of her.
“I… I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean it. Sorry, sorry, sorry… Please.” The words tumbled out of her mouth. Her mother’s face said nothing, only looked back accusingly, frozen in an expression of scorn forevermore. Around her, the crowd roared in triumph, and surged forward, leaving Onyx standing motionless and still as raindrops fell on her face, on her eyes, trickling down her face. She felt nothing but emptiness. Walking over to the fallen police officer, she knelt in the pool of blood and closed his eyelids to stop that condemning glare, to stop the rain falling into those cold eyes, glistening like tears.

Garret Avenue, Inferneum, Hellslayer - 18:57, 6 October 2023

Commissioner Malwin clutched his long coat around him, and pulled his hat low against the rain, as he trudged through ankle deep water to where the police had fallen back and established a second border against the mob. He heard the conflict long before he reached the location, screaming and shouting, and the intermittent cracks of gunfire. Rounding a corner, he peered through the sheets of water, just able to make out the shadow of several large trucks and figures ahead. Jogging lightly, he hurried over. The survivors of the police line had been reinforced by units drawn from across Inferneum, with more off-duty officers being called in. Several large military trucks had been requisitioned and parked to provide a more substantial barrier to protect the police from the barrage of rocks, bricks, petrol bombs, and whatever else the rioters had on hand. Some of the crowd seemed to have more capable weapons as well; pistols, grenades, rifles, and shotguns had all claimed police lives that night. Most of the wounded had been recovered and brought behind the barricade, but many bodies still lay out there in the rain, trampled by the enraged horde. As Malwin walked up, his deputy, Yael, spotted him and strode over.
“Sir, you’re here, thank the heavens. Honestly, the situation is bleak. I’ve never seen anything like it. If we don’t end it quickly, it’ll just keep escalating. The longer it goes on, the more people keep joining. They’ve got weapons, and there isn’t much more we can do at the moment than hold this position. We’ve tried tear gas, rubber bullets, and stun grenades, but they aren’t backing down. Our snipers have downed a few of those with weapons, but it’s difficult to pick them out from the horde without injuring the others, and we don’t want to escalate things to the point that they’re driven into a corner where they feel they have to attack us. If they all rushed at once, I don’t think we’d stand a chance,” Yael admitted. Malwin pondered this for a short while. Glancing across the strip of ground separating the police line from the rioters, the horde seemed rabid to him, madness and violence and, yes, fear glowing in their eyes. Spotting him, their shouts and chants grew louder, as they screamed obscenities at him. He doubted that they could be reasoned with, yet there was protocol, and he had to follow it.

Ducking out of the rain into one of the police cars, he cleared his throat and spoke into the megaphone.
“Attention, attention. This is Commissioner Malwin of the Inferneum Police Department. You are in violation of the law and public order. You have no legitimate cause or grievance. You have caused enough death and destruction. You have one last chance to surrender peacefully and disperse. If you do not comply, we will use decisive force to end this situation.” A brief lull fell over the crowd before him, and a few turned away. For a moment, it looked almost like they might heed the warning. Then a gun fired from somewhere in the crowd, and a spray of bullet holes appeared on the windshield of the car. Malwin threw himself down as stuffing burst everywhere and the car rattled from the impact. The horde roared in approval. Keeping low, he slid out of the car and crawled behind cover. Raising his hand to his forehead, his finger came away bloody. One of the bullets must have scraped him. Behind him, the mingled cries of the police officers and the crowd, the sound of gunfire and explosions echoed through the night. It was like witnessing a warzone. Yael turned to him and said something, but it was impossible to hear. Thinking through all the possibilities logically, one by one, he came to the conclusion that he was left with just one option left. Taking a deep breath, he made up his mind, and spoke into his radio.
“Deputy-Commissioner Yael, part the trucks. Open a gap. Let SO001 through. They are to disperse the crowd, by any means necessary.” Yael didn’t question him; he simply did as he was told. Whatever happened, it wouldn’t be on him, it would be on Malwin. He shouldered the burden, the responsibility, alone. He always claimed personal responsibility for the actions of his officers, allowing them to act without fear of moral repercussions. Every bullet they fired, every baton they swung, every life they took was a bullet that he had fired, a baton that he had swung, a life that he had taken. He took their sins and made them his. He cleansed them of their remorse, of their guilt, by taking it for his own. They were absolved through him. He did not unmake the sins of his officers, he consumed them. He did not free them from guilt, he burdened himself with it. He did not grant them forgiveness, he took their punishment. Bearing the hatred of the city, he could begin to answer for placing them in the situation to begin with.

The trucks rolled aside, and through the fumes, a faint red glow shone. One by one, pinpricks of ruby light appeared, dozens of blood-red stars piercing through the smoke and darkness. Then, looming shadows marched forward out of the vapour, an inkier black than the night surrounding them, the only spark of light coming from the red flash of their eyes. Their helmets masked their faces, locking away their humanity, leaving behind only the hound of war, the war machine. The hulking form of their armour towered over the dissidents, the obstacles that needed to be removed. Shifting backwards in fear, the entire crowd wavered as the titans slowly marched forward. Special Operations 001, often abbreviated to SO001 and nicknamed ‘the Iron Battalion’, was a heavily armoured, heavily armed division of the police force that Commissioner Malwin had founded with the intent of providing Inferneum a force suitable for putting down any rebellion or terrorist activity with relative ease. In spite of their extensive training and testing, they had not yet seen active service. Tonight would be their debut, the night that they would prove their worth, prove the purity of the iron from which they were forged. Screams of rage and terror came from the mob as the full will of the law was brought down upon them, at last stripping away any pretence of humanity, of compassion, revealing the cold, harsh steel at its core. Howling maniacally, desperately, they unleashed a barrage of fire and bullets and stones into the approaching goliaths, but it appeared that nothing fazed them, nothing slowed their relentless advance. A petrol bomb shattered against the steel armour, coating one of the mechanical beasts in burning oil, yet was met by the same indifference, the glaring red light of their eyes never blinking, never wavering. Bullets ricocheted off of the metal shells, sparking as they dropped uselessly to the ground. The great leviathan of the law could not be slain by mere bullets, or, indeed, by any material weapons. It was the judge, the jury, and the executioner, the ultimate embodiment of order. The attacks were like dust on its skin, like rain on its scales, like whispers in its ears. They had no effect, no impact, no consequence. The leviathan barely noticed them, barely cared about them, barely acknowledged them. It continued its rampage, devouring everything in its path as the Iron Battalion returned fire, a swarm of locusts descending over the masses before them, stripping them of flesh and life. They did not aim; there was no need to, the people were everywhere before them, then nowhere. The tarmac was blanketed in velvety liquid, glistening darkly under the red glow of the behemoths’ eyes. The few stragglers who had not been killed or fled were rounded up and taken in for questioning and, ultimately, to face trial. Among them was a young Arelli woman, who had been found kneeling beside the corpse of a dismembered police officer, barely reacting as the officers had hauled her away.

Stelvio Park Police Station, Inferneum, Hellslayer - 06:20, 7 October 2023

Onyx awoke to a knock on her cell door. She hadn’t remembered falling asleep, but at some point, the exhaustion had overcome her and she had dropped off. Blinking rapidly to clear her eyes, she squinted at the square of harsh light streaming into the dim room. A uniformed demon entered.
“Miss Onyx Katib, the inspector will see you now.” Grabbing her arms, he half led, half dragged her along twisting concrete corridors, finally taking her to a bare, soundproofed room, with a table and two chairs.
“Please, take a seat. The inspector will be with you shortly.” She sat down, the handcuffs rearranged to lock her to the desk. As she waited, she became aware of the incessant sound of water dripping, plopping rhythmically. She glanced around, hoping to locate the source, but it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, all at once, deadened in the confined space. The drips just kept coming, like the relentless drumming of the boots advancing. She began to count the drips, anything to distract herself from her own mind, ten, twenty, fifty. She lost track after two hundred and had to start over. She wondered how many drips made a minute, how many made an hour, how many hours she had been here. Her thoughts drifted like clouds through her mind, sluggish, wispy. Eventually, at last the door opened, and the inspector strode in. He was dressed in plain clothes: a well-tailored suit and tie, polished black shoes, and a long felt overcoat that he removed and tossed over the chair as he took a seat opposite her.

“Good morning, Miss Katib. I’m Inspector Aginor. I’ll be asking you a few questions today, understood?” She nodded mutely.
“Good, well, let us start at the beginning then. Your full name is Onyx Abar Katib, you are twenty-seven years of age, currently living in a hostel on Steele Avenue. Is that correct?” She said nothing, instead simply staring absently ahead. The dripping sound echoed painfully in her head.
“Right. You know why you’re here then, of course?” Aginor continued, sliding a photo over the desk, depicting a building in flames.
“This was the Massurian Institute for Science, on Garret Avenue, caught up in the illegal demonstration. Well, a riot to be more precise. A riot that not only caused severe damage to infrastructure, but claimed the lives of many police officers and civilians. And you were one of the main perpetrators, according to our surveillance footage.” She simply looked at him vaguely, though Aginor thought he noticed an almost imperceptible tightening of her lips. He continued.
“Look, Miss Katib, I understand your anger. You’re from Arellistan, aren’t you? I can see that you don’t agree with the decisions the government made, with the decisions the League made. But the fact is, the law is the law. And you didn’t just break it, you blew it to pieces with a grenade, a grenade that killed several of our officers. Our colleagues. Our friends. That just makes it a whole lot worse for you. We have proof too. Your fingerprints on the pin you tossed aside. Your DNA on the fragments of shrapnel that we could recover. The pieces not lodged in the hearts of the people you murdered, that is.” Pulling out a series of photographs, he shoved them in front of her face. They depicted a group of masked individuals, holding guns and explosives.
“Miss Katib, do you recognise these people? Do you know who they are? Do you know what they are?” The suspect looked at the photos and shook her head.
“No, I’ve never seen them before. I have no idea who they are.” Aginor’s lips twitched into a slight smirk as he flipped the photos over, revealing names and addresses written on the back.
“Miss Katib, these are your accomplices. Your leaders. They are part of the Ocelotist Network, a terrorist organisation behind the attack yesterday. And you are one of them. You’re one of their agents, one of their pawns.” Onyx gaped at him in surprise, then quickly, her voice rising in panic, denied it.
“No, no, that’s not true. I’m not one of them, I’m not their agent. Those aren’t my leaders. I have no leaders, I lead myself. I’ve never seen those people before.” Inspector Aginor laughed, and threw the photos on the table.
“Miss Katib, please, let’s drop the pretences. You don’t have to lie anymore. We both know who you are, what you are. You’re a terrorist, a murderer, and a traitor. You’re an Ocelotist, through and through. And we have proof too. We have your phone records, your bank statements, your online history. They gave you that grenade, and gave you instructions about when and where to use it. And, of course, we have your confession, recorded by your own device.” Her eyes widened, and she shook her head.
“No, no, that’s not true. I didn’t confess to anything. I’ve never said a word about the Ocelotists. I didn’t do anything for them. I bought the grenade myself. You’re lying; I don’t know why, but you are.” Aginor sighed, and pressed a button on the table. A recording of a woman’s voice, speaking in hushed tones, played over the intercom.
“I’ve done it, Marino. I threw the grenade at the pigs, laughed as I watched them burn and bleed out like swine. Tell the Ocelot that I did what they told me.” The recording cut off, and the room stood silent. Onyx stared at the policeman in horror and confusion.
“That… that’s not me. That’s a fake. You manipulated it, edited a fake clip together somehow. You can’t possibly use that against me. What the f-ck are you trying to do here? I’ll admit it, okay, I admit I threw the grenade, but what the hell is all this Ocelotist drivel about?” Aginor smiled, and opened the file on the table, flicking through it, before sliding her a pen.
“Finally, we’re getting somewhere. Now, just look here, Onyx. We’re not your enemies. We both want the same thing. The sooner you tell us about the Ocelotist Network, the sooner this will all be over with, and we can all go home. Now then, who gave you the grenade?” Onyx shook her head so violently she almost fell off of her seat.
“I told you! I bought it myself! There were some people at the protest handing out weapons and explosives incredibly cheaply, they had this little golden handprint symbol on their jackets. They’re the ones you want to go after! I’m not even a Ridnezite! I’ll say once again: I. Don’t. Know. The. Ocelotists.”

Aginor’s face dropped at this, becoming grim and grey. Calling to the guards outside, they sauntered over, unchained her from the table, and seized her by the hair, arms, legs, whatever they could get their hands on, hauling her out of the room and further through the maze of passageways and down some steps, even further underground. They threw her to the ground in another room, where the darkness and dampness of the previous room had increased tenfold, become stifling. She glanced around, but before her eyes were able to adjust to the murkiness, a hood, a crude piece of sacking, was pulled over her face and drawn tight around her neck. She felt herself picked up, and tensed, expecting any moment to feel the ground rushing up towards her as she fell, to feel her bones crunching. Instead, she felt herself being laid down at a slight incline, strapped down to some kind of board. Somewhere in the background, she heard a tap turn on, water gurgling in a bucket.
“Now, Miss Katib, I want to know exactly what you were doing at that riot. What is your connection with the Ocelotists?” Aginor’s voice was muffled, coming out of nowhere.
“I’ve told you everything already!” Onyx shouted through the cloth smothering her face.
“You haven’t told me anything. But you will…” An additional weight was placed over her face, a piece of flannel. Suddenly understanding what was happening, she threw herself about, whipping her head from side to side in an attempt to dislodge the towel, but two hands clamped down on her, holding her still. Her hands curled, all the muscles in her legs and abdomen clenching as sheer terror ran through her veins. And then, the first drops began to fall onto the towelling, falling like the rain that had washed through her hours before, a dark rain of punishment. She felt the dampness against her face and then, moments later, the first symptoms of suffocation. She couldn’t breathe. Worse than that, her lungs were tearing themselves apart, her body was trying to swallow itself whole, her insides were imploding. She was back in the container-truck, unable to move as everyone died around her, their faces swollen, a sickly purple shade, and she died with them. She screamed, but she couldn’t make a sound. Every vein in her body was swelling, blood bursting forth from her fingers and toes. Then, suddenly, a hand scrabbled at her face, lifting the towel away. The dank air felt like elysium, as her mouth opened wide, sucking in breath after glorious breath. She briefly wondered if she’d died and ascended to the heavens. Then the voice of Inspector Aginor spoke from the darkness around her.
“Now then, what is your connection to the Ocelotist Network? Where did you really get the explosives?” Onyx gasped weakly.
“I.. I got it… from… people… golden handprint. Don’t… know the… Ocelot.” She heard Aginor audibly sigh, and suddenly the terrible crushing, all-encompassing weight of that towel was thrown across her face again. She screamed out.
“No! No! I mean, I got it from the Ocelot, I got it from whomever you think, I was lying before. Take it off, take it off, it was the Ocelotists, you were right, just stop.” Something inside her died as she added yet another betrayal to her growing list. She could hear Aginor smiling. The straps around her arms were released, the hood removed. A dim, flickering lightbulb dangling from the ceiling was turned on, as a pen was pressed into her hand, and a document thrust under her nose. With a quivering hand, she scrawled a signature across the page, the muscles crying out from even that much effort.
“Thank you, Miss Onyx Katib, you’ve been very helpful. We’ll be in touch. My colleagues will take you back to your holding cell now while we process this. I’m sure that you must be quite hungry after such a long questioning process, I’ll see what we can do for you. Goodbye for now.” Onyx tried to walk, but her legs simply wouldn’t work as intended. One of the guards, not too roughly, slung her over his shoulder and carried her back to her cell, where she quickly slumped into unconsciousness.

Later, Commissioner Malwin flicked through the documents Inspector Aginor had brought him. There was some impressive stuff here for such a short time: well-edited photos, some falsified financial records, and of course, the piece de resistance, the audio clip. The confession was the cherry on top, tying it all together. Frowning at the transcript, he jotted down a note about these golden handprints - they might warrant further investigation. Still, the Grand Architect ought to be pleased with this; he could at last justify more… direct intervention in the Ridnez situation, ensuring that Project Nyx, and the Nyx keys, were in safe hands, hands sympathetic to their cause. The fact that they had had to give up their key to the project at all, in exchange for Ridnezite recognition of Balthazar Sturm as the legitimate leader of the country, had been mildly embarrassing. Losing it altogether was a level of humiliation multitudes worse. It was time that they took it back. A myriad of tentacles stretched out across Hellslayer, across Usea, across Avaris, casting a great shadow, a leviathan ready to swallow the world whole.

“This is the only plan we have and I’m stickin’ to it,” Extruder Assemblage remarked, his hoof traced on the map. The map had the stained colour of yellow to it, its age was obvious to anyone observing it. Old did not even begin to describe it from the way the colour and the crumbled and dying texture stayed around for those still around like it to observe.

Praktino did not like the plan one bit, he may have been new to this whole, private security business, but even if he didn’t graduate from some fancy officer school, his gut told him this was a bad idea.

The zebra glanced up at his earth pony compatriot. Contrasting to his short moustache and burly mane, Cashew was a more tidy pony.

Relatively.

He smelled like rot, Praktino supposed that was a bit unfaired to rotting corpses, considering that Cashew wafted of oil and tobacco. The smell of rot came from somewhere, but for the last decade or so, he’d never been able to figure out where exactly.

Contrasting to his smell, was that winning smile and his award winning mane. Praktino never knew that there was a mane contest in the Strand, but after seeing his friend’s smug smirk on it, he knew then.

Cashew Shell made a sigh as he looked back down at the plan. The earth pony was more lean than him. His hooves and legs were more lanky, and gave him the appearance of a little skeleton that would’ve made no chaos in a costume shop. The stallion leant over and glanced up at the only pegasus in the room.

Compared to the two, Extruder smelt like old decaying paper and looked like the opposite. A bit more hypochondriac than the two, and tidier considering the pack of tissue he brought and placed next to the map.

“This is still a seemingly dangerous expedition,” Cashew remarked as he gestured at the map. The map, despite its ageing and most likely ancient exterior, depicted something that could’ve been described as modern or even contemporary. A map of a city.

Extruder shook his head, “I understand that, but you have to understand why so! This is a one in a time opportunity for us to head down to the undercity and rediscover Ancient Canterlot! The fact they’re even trying to fix the broken pipes means that the water lines would be actually traversable for the first time in a millennium!”

Cashew bit his lip at the remark, his eyes glancing over to his partner. Praktino hated his friend when he did that, and he could feel Extruder’s eyes following soon after on him.

“It is still dangerous,” He pointed out slowly, “If so, your payment would be insufficient unless you raise it by another twenty percent.”

He could hear Extruder draw in his breath. Praktino wouldn’t admit directly to their potential client here, but the thought of ancient Canterlot was an illusive place to visit if he could. The source of stories, fairy tales, horror fics, and more. The ancient city of what remained of Canterlot after it slid down the mountain after the Great War. The city of the Deceiver and the Fool. The city of the damned.

The city of old riches created by them, in an attempt to survive past the war.

Extruder bit his lip as he looked down at the map, perhaps considering the same thing that Praktino was considering as well. There was a city of wealth, perhaps even undiscovered technology from before the dark ages that beset the worlds after the war.

“Twenty percent… in the event we don’t get to the city,” Extruder started, “If we do, AND, recover technology. You get the rights to the patents for recovering them.”

Praktino’s eyebrows could not have been higher in the air at that statement.

“Bullshit,” Cashew remarked, leaning forward as a hoof pointed at the map, “How can we be sure that half a million is worth whatever ancient artefact you find down there?”

“You, you just have to trust me,” Extruder remarked, his head tilting forward to meet against Cashew’s jade eyes, “No one else is known best for anti-mechanoid security actions than your company, and there’s no way we can ask for a military escort. So please. Please consider it at the very least… this is a once in a lifetime opportunity!”

“Yes, but we’ve also to consider that we’d be putting our lives on the line,” Cashew answered back, “Isn’t that right, Praktino?”

Praktino bit his tongue, before his tongue retracted back as he spoke, “Yes… I say, mister Extruder. Give us some time to think about this new offer, and we’ll have an answer for you, tomorrow.”

It said that the eyes were the windows of the soul, and the way that the pegasus’ eyes glowed with excitement made Praktino wonder if he was actually a government agent.

“Thank you! I, I, can’t express-”

Cashew nodded and waved a hoof, “Yes, yes, please, calm your excitement mister Extruder.”

The pegasus grinned at the two, another few more dozen or so thank you as Cashew quickly shooed him out of their small meeting room, taking the old map along with him in his hooves. Praktino chuckled as Cashew got a bit of a sigh out as he turned around looking at him.

“Excitable folk isn’t he?” Praktino said, glancing over at him, a hoof of his moving down to his pocket as he pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. The smell of Octavian Tobacco, with its distinctive pungent aura was one that Praktino craved as the cigarette lighted.

Cashew nodded as he trotted over to take the once occupied seat by their guest, “Consider then, twenty percent. Happy with that or would you rather the archeaotechnology?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” The cigarette twirled in Praktino’s hoof, “Both really. Lest of course the archeaotech has something that puts our business through the roof.”

“Ancient Gauss Weaponry would be my guess,” Cashew chuckled, getting an eye roll from Praktino.

“You still believe alicorns in bunkers could develop Gauss weaponry?” Praktino chided with a puff of smoke and a roll of his emerald eyes .

Cashew waved against the cigarette smoke with a hoof, chuckling, “Perhaps. You still gotta remember, they’re alicorns!”

“Deceivers, remember that too,” Praktino stated, leaning back into the chair. The history of the alicorns… was a fraught one in the mind of the modern pony, distaste in their thoughts, compared to the more newly introduced nations into the ever compassing mass that was the Multiversal Union of Equestrian States.

Cashew shrugged, “Never understood that, but still. What’s your opinion on this. Worth it or not?”

“Definitely worth it, fiscally. Morally? That’s where I’m worried,” Praktino’s hoof kept on the cigarette for a moment longer, pulling it out as he bit his lip and looked down at the now empty table. Cursing to himself that he should’ve asked for a copy. He looked up at Cashew, “Won’t look good in the press if we fail to overcome whatever hell is down there.”

Cashew nodded, pondering up to the ceiling, “It’s still good business however. Anything we loot, would be great for us to earn. We can earn several hundred times over our initial investment.”

“Yes, because we can only lose a hundred of our initial investment,” Praktino snided as he smothered his cigarette on the table, “Regardless, I’m going to go pick Yomi from school.”

“Ah, Yomi!” Cashew clasped his hooves together as Praktino stood up, “Say hi to him for me alright? Oh! And tell him that Listik won’t be around for the morning game. She’s still grounded for stealing a sip of my kombucha!”

Praktino rolled his eyes at that, “I’ve told you, hide your kombucha! You’re raising a unicorn! They’re sneaky little ones.”

Cashew merely laughed as Praktino picked up his trilby from the coat hanger in the room, a well fit on the zebra’s hat as he trotted out.

==============/==============

Curry was a unique type of food, Praktino knew. It felt nice all the way down to his stomach. It felt great the way its warmth stayed around in his taste buds and down into his body.

The sound of laughter, was a warm one as he smiled at the white coloured unicorn that he called his son. Mixed with a mane that dressed itself cyan blue, a soft colour for snow on a nice clear day. Yomi was a precious little son of his.

To the opposite of him, was the love of his life. Supposedly, that should be clear from the way he looked at her. Leaning on his hooves that based against the table. Bolt Cream was a simple beige coloured mare, her coat a soft yellow like the dunes of the deserts. And her mane? Whiter than her teeth!

“And, and then, I kicked da ball!” Yomi Line was a small unicorn, despite his line of work, Praktino was just glad that he had something so precious within his life, “I missed the goal-but all my friends were glad! We got close to beating the fifth graders!”

Praktino chuckled, reaching over to ruffle his son’s mane which came with a joyful glee, “Soon, you’ll get a goal in, Yomi,”

“I know I will!” Yomi grinned, a bright long smile on his face as he looked up at Praktino, “Will you be there at the soccer match?”

His smile faltered, and Yomi’s own faltered watching it, “You have work?”

“Yeah…” Praktino could at least muster up a grin, “A big job… plus, you know its been a while since I had to go on a mission…”

“Aw…” Yomi whined, frowning, “Will you be at the next one at least?”

“Its at the end of the month,” Bolt spoke up, providing a soft smile at him. It was a warming one, “By then you can come back on a small trip right and spend a day?”

Praktino didn’t want to lie that the job was his passion, he nodded so, “Of course. It’d only take two weeks for us to secure a way down. Then, once things are swinging, I’ll be back out to see your soccer match,”

He looked down at Yomi and patted the unicorn colt again, “And from this, you can surprise me with how good you are now at soccer aren’t you!”

“Yes!” Yomi cheered as Praktino laughed.

Bolt chuckled along seeing the son and father, “Right, Yomi, you still have homework don’t you?”

“Aw, aw yes!” Yomi’ face looked scrunched up, “I’ll go do it! Then I want to play!”

Bolt gave another nod of confirmation before the colt ran off to the stairs up to his room, leaving behind the smell of the now cooling remains of the curry, and a bit more.

“So… where are you heading to?” Bolt grinned as she began moving to pick up the plates, standing up to do so as Praktino picked up his own plates to drop into the sink.

He bit his lip as he dumped the little bits of food onto the plate, and looked at her, “Ancient Canterlot.”

She sucked in her breath through her teeth, “By Lipas, you know that’s unholy.’

Lipas. The closest thing to gods rather than the deceiving demons were the antediluvian alicorns. Praktino nodded as he bit his lip, “Yeah, but the pay’s decent.”

Bolt still gave him an unsure look at him as her toned hooves moved the rest of the disks into the sink, “Is it worth it?”

Praktino slowly, perhaps more accurately, carefully answered, “Yes. Its a decent payout for the company, and us. Definitely worth a lot…”

He placed a hoof on her withers, Bolt raised an eyebrow as he gave an uneasy grin, “Plus, definitely enough for us to get a better house. Like that beach side property you wished for right?”

Bolt sighed as Praktino tried to apply some more massage-based convincing, “As long as you come home, anything is worth it… Just…”

She looked at him with tired jade eyes, “We’ve had this conversation, like, every time you were about to leave for a trip. Just come home. I don’t want Yomi to be raised without a dad... like me.”

Praktino nodded solemnly, “I understand. Don’t worry, I’ll leave. They don’t call me, Masti, for nothing.”

=============/===============

I'm back. And I'm a writing. Consider this a soft reboot of my plotlines. The characters from before will be back, but tweaked as per my experience over this year writing with other people off NationStates