by Katie Vack
"So how do you kill them?"
"They are vulnerable to a very few kinds of select magic. Caster and lumin powers can be used against them, as can runes. If you, however, were to come up against one, my suggestion would be to run very quickly in the other direction. There is, after all, nothing else you can do."
"That sucks. And you said that you can't use lumin magic?"
"Nope."
"Then," he frowned, "doesn't that mean that nothing we can do can hurt them? Why would our employers pick the six of us to combat nightwalkers if we could be coming up against unbeatable opponents?"
"Not a clue," Grayson replied. "This whole venture seems to be rather poorly thought out. Perhaps they thought I could do something I can't." He paused. " There is, however, one factor on our side: remnants can't face direct sunlight. It burns their essence."
"So as long as we don't end up fighting at night or indoors we might not have to face them at all?"
"Correct. And that might have been what they were betting on when they put this group together. It still seems to be a massive gamble, though. How far away are we?"
Thief glanced around at their surroundings. "Maybe a few minutes. Have you ever ridden a motorbike before?"
Grayson glanced sharply at him. "No, and you never told me I'd need to."
Thief looked him up and down for a second. "You aren't scared of them, are you? It's not like I'm going to let you drive it and besides, this is the middle of a hub city. We won't be going much faster than a walking pace."
"No," Grayson said defensively, "it has nothing to do with being scared of them. I just don't have much experience with motor vehicles. Telling me I'll be riding a bike a few minutes before it happens just seems a little abrupt."
Thief raised an eyebrow. "Exactly how much experience do you have?"
"None, actually."
The other boy whistled. "Wow. I didn't know people like you still existed. What do you do then, ride a horse?"
"I would do, but animals seem to hate me. Trying to even get near them normally results in them lashing out at me. I've just gotten very good at walking."
"But what do you do if you need to get to somewhere far away?"
"I walk a long way. It's not like I have some kind of schedule I need to stick to."
Thief frowned. "We really need to get you a motorbike."
"I don't see why it's necessary."
"Please. If you have even a shred of self-respect, you're going to need a motorbike."
"And why would that be?"
"Because," Thief stated as though he were schooling a child, "ever self-respecting warrior is in possession of a motorbike, and the quality of said warrior depends upon the quality of said motorbike."
"Uh-huh." Grayson was nonplussed. "I've spent most of my life as one, but that's the first I've ever heard of this. Are you sure other people follow that rule, or are you just expressing your personal views?"
Thief laughed. "You make it sound like those are two different things. Allow me to let you in on a secret." He leaned conspiratorially closer. "If I hold an opinion, it's nine times out of ten going to be the right opinion. Anybody who disagrees with it is probably just behind the times."
Grayson laughed at the absurdity of the statement. "I can't believe it. You're even more arrogant than I expected you to be."
"Not arrogance, my friend, confidence. Confidence is often mistaken for arrogance, but they aren't the same thing. Confidence is justified; arrogance isn't."
"I'm not sure if that's entirely true."
"It's close enough not to matter."
There was a short pause in the conversation, before curiosity got the better of Grayson. "What's it like then, your bike? Is it a good one?"
"Yeah." Thief grinned. "Hell, yeah."
* * *
They rode slowly down the centre of the street, and this time they were getting far more glances than on foot. It had, Grayson surmised, a lot to do with the volume of the music Thief was blasting over the stereo.
Grayson would have been the first person to admit that, when it came to vehicles, he didn't have a clue what he was talking about- but even he could tell that what he was looking at seemed pretty cool. It appeared to be some kind of cross between a dirt bike and a racing bike, and Thief had assured him proudly that it could happily handle just about any terrain at neck breaking speeds. It was sleek and black, fairly high off the ground, and every angle on it appeared simply to reinforce the impression of unbridled power. The handlebars were fairly short in order for easier steering when quick reactions would be necessary, and they were festooned with all manner of red buttons, every one of which seemed to be willing him to press them. The seat was leather, and flowed straight back into a second, slightly raised, one for a passenger. It was streamlined, but not in a graceful way- rather, it was the kind of machine which screamed pure, undiluted brute force. It would take whatever the rider could throw at it, always challenging them to try something harder, something more dangerous, and never even come close to reaching its limit.
Thief had told him that the bike had originally been a gift from his family when he left home to seek excitement and adventure, but from what Grayson could tell little of that original bike now remained. It had a new engine, new wheels, new seats, new suspension, and all manner of technical terminology which left him dizzy and reeling. It had been twice repainted, first to red and then to black, and was clearly the boy's pride and joy. It appeared that, like Grayson's cloak was to him, Thief's motorbike was the one possession which he would virtually die for. Ignorance of the actual subject matter did nothing to change the fact that he was suddenly very envious of the mutant.
They had gone to the temporary lockup, a rusted shipping container sitting beside a few dozen others, and Grayson had been rather amused by the contents. There were a lot of clothes, quite a few knives and handguns, three guitars, and two enormous speakers. None of the other things which most people would have seen as essential were evident. Thief had grabbed some weapons, money, and a change of clothes, and then they had left on the motorbike.
At first Grayson found it fairly frightening- the idea of balancing precariously on only two wheels was rather nerve wracking, and even when idling the vehicle seemed to be roaring like a caged beast. Frightening, of course, was not necessarily something he viewed as a bad thing, and so he found himself enjoying it; even beginning to wish that they could go a little faster.
Then, of course, they entered back into the more populated areas of the city and been forced to slow down, and Thief chose this opportunity to put to use what he seemed to regard as one of the greatest parts of his bike: his very expensive, and very loud, stereo. The very same stereo which he had wired up to ten different speakers, and which he absolutely refused to turn down.
It wasn't the music which Grayson objected to. Like the motorbike, music was something which he came to almost as a complete stranger, and like the motorbike he was beginning to realise that he and the mutant might have a little more in common than it had originally seemed. The problem was that blasting out hard rock as they rode dead centre down the road, at a deafening volume which could probably be heard from miles around, was not exactly what he would have called safe.
Riding passenger behind his blindly egotistical partner, Grayson was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. Everyone around them seemed to be glaring at him, and while he did have to admit to enjoying people's attention from time to time, this was not one of those times. It was the kind of attention which implied an unspoken threat, and he was starting to feel very unsafe. The crowd seemed to be parting more and more grudgingly for them, and he had a dreadful premonition that sooner or later they would stop doing so altogether, and the two of them would find themselves immobile within a sea of unfriendly faces.
"Thief!" He had to raise his voice to a shout just to stand a chance of being heard over the music and the bike.
"Yes!?" The reply was just as loud, but even still he could onl
y just make out the reply. The other boy barely seemed to notice how difficult it was to make himself heard.
"Don't you think we should turn it down a little!?"
"Not really! Why!?" He seemed genuinely surprised at the question.
"You remember how Karolus was with Crayton!?"
"Of course!"
"I'm pretty sure playing music this loud in the city is illegal!"
"Are you worried about him!? You do know that nobody cares what he thinks, right!?"
"It's not him I'm worried about! If we run into any peacekeepers they might decide to confiscate your bike!"
"Right! That would be bad! Hold on!" The volume dropped very suddenly, and Grayson became aware of a pressure and ringing sound which had built up in his ears as an aftereffect. "It's lucky you were here." The boy was no longer shouting. "I don't think I would have thought about something like that."
"No," Grayson replied half to himself, "I didn't think you would."
The rest of the journey continued uneventfully as they two of them rode in relative silence, taking in the atmosphere of the city. After a few hours it began to get dark, and they parted ways until the following morning.
* * *
Grayson trudged up and into to the rundown inn where he would be staying the night, hood up once again to hide his face. It wasn't that he couldn't afford anything better; the aetherials he'd robbed earlier had been fairly wealthy. He simply preferred places like this. He couldn't really conjure up any images of home, never having remained in one place for more than a few years, but if pressed to do so this was the kind of atmosphere he would attribute to it.
It was no coincidence that this one was very similar to the one he had fought the angels in. The wooden floor was beaten and muddied, the furniture was in poor repair, and the whole room was clouded with dust and smoke, but that of course was the way he liked it. These kinds of places didn't pretend to be anything more than they really were, and you knew exactly where you stood. There was no major risk so long as you knew how to take care of yourself, and so he'd take it over an expensive hotel any day of the year.
He walked up to the innkeeper, an elderly looking human man, and paid for a room for the night. Idly, he considered seeing if any of the patrons were willing to donate anything valuable, but didn't pay the idea any serious consideration- this was a hub city, and people here were likely to be a lot more dangerous than a few lumin highwaymen. Besides, there were a few species in the room which he didn't recognise, and if he didn't recognise them then he couldn't know what they were able to do. Trying to pick the pocket of a telepath, for example, would be an exceptionally poor idea. And besides, he had more important things to do.
He walked up to the second floor, finding the door with his number on it. He opened it cautiously with his left hand, his right half clenched at his side, and stepped inside. The room was tiny, containing a small louse-ridden bed, a thin wardrobe, and little else. Grayson poked his head around the door, looked inside the wardrobe, and then got down on his knees to check under the bed. Only then, having made sure that he was the only occupant of the room, did he close the door. He pulled a nail out of one of his pockets, used the flat of his knife to hammer it loosely into the wall beside the door handle, and then linked them together with a small length of chain. It wouldn't prevent anyone from entering, but it might just buy him a second if they tried. You could never be too careful.
Once he'd secured the room he hammered another nail into the wall and hung his coat off of it. He slumped down on the bed, hunched over with his head in his hands. There was a lot to think about.
Firstly, this venture which he had gotten himself involved in. It was seeming more and more like a bad idea the longer he thought about it. If anything, it sounded like a glorified suicide mission, and Grayson wasn't all that fond of suicide missions. The idea of sending six low-to-mid level mercenaries to take down an entire terrorist organisation, on which there was conveniently no real information, was just ridiculous; especially if that organisation was ambitious and powerful enough to capture nuclear missiles. The missiles themselves weren't likely to be problematic so long as their opponents weren't after martyrdom, as he didn't really plan on waging war from the other side of the fragment, but even still his group could find itself up against an army of thousands.
And that, he decided, was what this was. This was no isolated mission for a small group of handpicked individuals. This was a war. He had found himself dragged into somebody else's war, and he despised wars. Small skirmishes were predictable- so long as you kept your head you could expect to come out the other side relatively unharmed- but wars weren't like that. They were big, and messy, and unpredictable, and the only thing they were good for was getting people killed. Grayson didn't kill people, and he didn't let people kill him, but soon he might be called upon to do both.
It didn't help that his employer had lied to him. Grayson knew full well that he had been selected specifically for this, and yet for some reason the Boss insisted upon denying it. That was a bad sign. It meant that, in some way he had yet to figure out, he was being used as a pawn. Of course, it could just be that his employers knew what he was and had a need for someone like him, but that in itself raised more questions than it answered. He had been very diligent in keeping that information quiet, and didn't like the idea that someone might have found out about it. Still, Grayson didn't want to know what kind of secrets the man was keeping if he thought sending people to their deaths was a matter of no import.
However he looked at it, though, he didn't appear to have much of a choice. He had no influence in this assignment, so he could either take it as it was or he could quit before he had even begun. And he hated quitting. So he would, for now at least, sit back and see what would happen.
Next up was the matter of his teammates, and what kinds of people they would turn out to be. Thief he thought he had a bit of a handle on: cocksure and egotistical mutant with a God complex. Likely rebelling from a poor childhood and, considering that the one thing he worshipped was a motorcycle, probably a drifter too. Not somebody with a particularly dark past, but an unfortunate one which he had sought, and was still subconsciously seeking, to escape. Thief was definitely the most straightforward individual in the group.
Karolus, then. Obviously at ease issuing orders, and yet he didn't seem overly surprised at them being ignored. Defensive and confrontational, and he also seemed to carry himself like a soldier. Considering the rigid caste system on Aetheria he was likely ex-military, perhaps an officer who, due to his lack of nobility, was frequently ignored. Grayson knew he might be stretching his interpretation skills a bit far with this one, but it was the most likely possibility considering the facts he had at hand. It would also coincide with the man's insistence on being called by his family name. As to his precise and perfectionistic nature, Grayson figured that was just a quirk and nothing overly important.
Seth was a tricky one. He was big, and stupid, and that was where Grayson's knowledge of him ended. There really wasn't much to go on, but Hellions tended to admire the strong and abhor the weak, so perhaps he had been cast out of Hellion society for his stupidity. Then again, he probably had somebody to fall back to, because Grayson couldn't imagine him being even close to self-sufficient.
Crayton was definitely the hardest- Grayson didn't have a clue where to start. In fact, the only thing he had to go on was the man's reluctance to fight Karolus. It might link to PTSD or something of the like, he might be a pacifist at heart, or he might simply not have wanted (despite all appearances) to start a fight on their first day together. Grayson set him to one side for the moment.
The last on his list was the one he'd been avoiding. Sora Netta. Everything about her screamed at him to stay away, but in a small unit like this he doubted that would be possible.
Her name, for one thing, was obviously false. The idea of a silvan named Sora was fairly ridiculous, and she hadn't exactly done a very good job of pretending it was he
r real one. With her past he couldn't guess at specifics, but she was obviously an experienced killer, used to wading around in other people's guts. Personality-wise he could, again, only guess parts of. She seemed extremely volatile, switching between cheerful and bloodthirsty in a split-second, only to change back again a few moments later. She was also aggressive, and in a very bad way. There were people who'd strut around for minutes talking about how they were going to beat you to a pulp, and then there were people who would stick a knife in you without batting an eyelid. Sora appeared to be the latter. That, for obvious reasons, worried him.
He quickly summarised his little group of fighters. Thief was no threat. Karolus or Seth weren't likely to prove dangerous either, so long as he didn't do anything stupid. Crayton didn't seem to be a threat, but Grayson knew so little about him that it could go either way. Sora, lastly, appeared extremely dangerous. She was the one that he would have to be careful of, and so that was exactly what he intended to do.
