15: Psychic Eyes

     Dopesmoker rose from his bed with a mechanical groan. Mornings were always difficult for him, but cold, seven-degree mornings like this were especially bad. His joints sung choirs of protest as he clambered out of bed, wrapping himself in a heavily padded jacket, habitually running his paws over his tubing to make sure everything was still in place.

     It was.

     Rolling his shoulders, Dope forced himself to relax. Outside his tent, he could hear the other members of the Midnight Meridian show getting themselves up. Last night had been Fletcher's first performance, and while most of the crew preferred to sleep in the morning after a show-night, today was different; they were to begin packing, and make the move out of the Vellem Province. Last night had been the last night for Bantam crowds, and Meridian was itching to move further south, pushing into Kallinger and eventually the Quindon Province. Seemed like a fine plan, but the fortune teller didn't much look forward to the cold of Quindon. Clicking his tongue, Dope rummaged through his trunk of canisters, pulling out a small one with grey and lime markings across its aluminium hide, hefting it in a paw. Felt full enough. Pausing in anticipation, Dope reached behind himself, feeling for the small mechanical boiler hitched at the rear of his waist. In a swift, practiced motion he uncoupled and removed the night-time canister, replacing it with an ordinary daytime one. His mouth went dry while he was without proper ventilation, his breather-machines spinning impotently, lungs straining as raw oxygen touched them. He snapped the new canister into place with a pained grunt, flicking the blister locks shut and relaxing as the gas filled his system. There, the hardest part of his day done. He made a mental note to contact the mechanic in the Gaerus Province once they reached Firebrand, to request more full canisters. Dopesmoker could not breathe oxygen, the Archduke's ancient machines had made sure of that a long time ago.

     Not Hamish though. No. Dope thought slowly. He was old, far older than most of the circus members probably imagined. When one started hitting that kind of ages, memory and time became drastically more nebulous, things drifted into fog, and one began to gain a perspective that very little mattered in the long run. Hamish Maro was the current Archduke, but another - his father perhaps - had been the one to put Dopesmoker into that iron maiden. The Dead World is nothing but a shop of horrors. I remember that much.

     The creature – and he thought of himself as simply 'a creature', because even Dope could not remember which species he had originally belonged to – shuffled outside his tent, glancing around at the busybodies packing their things. He saw already Raime Transeldaimor was scowling at him, but that was to be expected. Meridian thankfully understood his limitations, and she typically elected him for some minor job that wasn't too taxing. Dope was not a fragile old man, but neither was he a spry performer like the others.

     Glancing at the sky, he saw the psychic eyes. Gaping wide, yellow-orange pits that were more the memory of something than a true hallucination. They glared down at him and the world. He had seen them ever since the machinery transformed (or saved, depending on your perspective) his body and mind. He wasn't sure exactly what to make of them, but they had ceased to frighten him a long time ago. Sometimes they appeared in the sky, sometimes he caught them in puddles, or reflections.

     Perhaps a price must be paid, for seeing time the way I do. He thought. It had occurred to him before that the presence of the giant heavenly eyes may mean someone like himself was viewing that moment, separated by time and space. He had no way to test this theory however, and so came to treat them as a semi-frequent commodity.

     Ignoring the others as they did him, Dope made his way to the small breakfast station. The food this morning was mostly cobbled together from leftovers, but Dope was able to find himself some reheated stew, and carried his bowl over to Thume, who was presently leaning back against a log, looking around and smoking.

     “Good morning, Braider." Dopesmoker said, taking a seat next to the goat. The old man glanced at him suspiciously, but did not cease his smoking or staring.

     “Howdy there, Houdini." If one had been able to see Dopesmoker's lipless mouth, hidden beneath his silver mask, they would have seen old muscles pull back into a kind of smile.

     “How are you?"

     “M'cold." Thume said with a chuckle. “I ain't never been to Kalli 'fore, you know if it's warmer'n Vellem?" Dopesmoker shrugged.

     “There is less wind, but more frost. Not as cold as Quindon though…" He answered, watching the man. He did not think he and Thume were very different, in fact, Thume reminded Dope of himself, only when he was significantly younger. He didn't know for certain, but he suspected that Thume also carried ancient scars from Dead World technology.

     “Do you see them too?" Dope whispered, narrowing his eyes. When Thume gave him a questioning look, he glanced up at the eyes in the sky. “Do you have much faith in mystic power, Thume Braider?"

     “It's a bit early for this Dope." He sighed. “I wouldn't use the word faith, though."

     “Does the name Telos mean much to you?" Dope was not the most perceptive of beings, but even he noticed the goat pale. With a shaking hand, Thume dropped his cigarette, stamping it out.

     “Where'd you hear that?" He asked stiffly.

     “In the ether of time."

     “No." Thume growled, side-stepping before him and glaring pointedly, nostrils flaring. The fortune teller did not fail to mention how the goat's hand unconsciously tapped the knife on his belt. “Enough bullshit DP. Tell. Me."

     “I heard the name whispered, in the future and the past." He said truthfully. “I'm not sure in its connection to anything, but I can speculate."

     “Yeah well maybe you shouldn't." Thume shook his head. “You've got no fuckin' idea what you're talking about."

     “True. But it was in Fletcher's future, Thume. I pulled on one of his lines and that came back." The goat made no movement, staring off somewhere far away. Dope stared intently, as if trying to see beneath the goat's frazzled short fur. “What did their machines take from you my friend?" Thume was suddenly, viciously back in the present then, and he closed his eyes.

     “I don't know. Why… why are you asking me this now?" He sounded physically pained, as if there were a sharp object implanted deep in his foot. “I shut the door on all that."

     “Do you know Lyric's goal?"

     “I ain't privy to that asshole's last name Dope, so whaddya think huh?" The old man snapped. Dope glanced to the side, where Miss Meridian was approaching them, a flowing red coat hanging off her shoulders.

     “It's Tellurian. And he's trying to find a murderer. But he'll try to go through the Children of Nihil to do it." Thume paused, his hands clenching and unclenching.

     “Y'sound like I should recognise that name."

     “They're a cult of sorts, led by Oracen Drast." Dopesmoker watched as Thume's functioning restarted itself, like an old generators reboot. His eyes twitched, closed as his mouth opened and shut again. Drool slid from his lips, and he wiped it away, scowling.

     “Have either of you two seen Fletcher or Lyric?" Meridian called out to them, brushing at her feathers as she approached the two men. Thume lurched, grabbing Dope by the front of his coat and pulling him close.

     “Why are you telling me this!?" He growled. “Oracen can't possibly be alive!"

     “What the hell, Thume?!" Meridian exclaimed, grabbing the goat's arm and pulling him off the fortune teller. Dope let himself fall flat in the chair, panting. He double-checked his seals, all good. Meridian put herself between Dope and Thume, the goat pointing straight at the creature, his other hand on his gun now.

     “Tell me exactly what the fuck you know." Dope held up his paws.

     “I know Oracen Drast is connected to both you and Telos."

     “Yeah no shit." Thume hissed.

     “It will never be enough for him. I know Lyric will want to go there no matter what, and I can guess Fletcher will follow."

     “What on this poisoned Earth are you two talking about?" Meridian exclaimed, glancing between them.

     “You two might not have noticed it, but Lyric is starting to spiral." Dopesmoker said slowly, trying not to cough. He was exhausted, he'd been drifting into the ether of time far too much lately. Through it all, those damn psychic eyes kept glaring at him, hell, maybe he was afraid of them. He had an idea they hated him today, and he mentally damned them. “But Thume, I think you might be able to stop Fletcher from being dragged down with him. You're the only one who could keep him away from Blood Mesa."

     “This is far too cryptic." Meridian said. “What is going on? What's Blood Mesa?" Thume and Dopesmoker ignored her.

     “What's all this might?" Thume barked, his mind struggling. “If you really can see the future, which… you must… to know those names, then you should know if I stop Fletcher or not, right? Ain't that how it's supposed to work?"

     “It's not an exact science, I'm sorry. Can you make sense of a fever dream Thume? Everything is, jumbled." And he was sorry, but time's horizon was often impossible to make sense of, and half of what he knew already was a guess at best – but Thume would be more likely to act if he had certainties. He'd nearly lost his mind wandering it, trying for anything concrete that might save the boy – he was kind and young, he didn't deserve a horrible death at the hands of those cultists. “But you have to try."

     “I can't go back." Thume whispered.

     “No!" Meridian shouted, her voice pitching sharply. “Enough of this. Just tell me where the fuck Lyric and the kid are? Then we can sort this out, and you'll see nobody is in trouble of 'spiralling'. Thume, I don't mean to disrespect you or DP, but these visions are really not exact. You… understand?"

     The goat nodded slowly, looking around. “That's a good point. Where are those two?" He looked on the cusp of relaxing, and Dope felt bad for what he had to say next. But he'd dreamt it, through his own psychic eyes.

     “I'm afraid they left for Bantam last night."

     Before Dopesmoker had even begun to stir in his bed, Lyric and Fletcher were halfway to town, each atop a calm grey feral mount. The city loomed ominously in the distance, the only light source on the plains for tens of kilometres. Lyric felt hesitant. He'd been chasing Beau Riddon and his trail of bodies for months now, and as time had passed the cult and the Sultan's Curse had been roped into it. He'd killed Riddon's protégé back in Gallentry, and soon Beau would be gone from the Earth too.

     What then? He thought. Part of him was terrified of what to do afterwards. Since meeting Merissa, Lyric had found purpose. It began when he helped her escape her brutish husband, and from then on he'd been tracking one scumbag or another. In Dhireum he killed a serial rapist. Nothing happened in Gateway, but as the Midnight Meridian show passed through Node he got into a bar-fight with some drug dealer. The guy didn't die, but he lost the use of a paw. Then there was the whole mess in Callisto, when the secret bloody shame Lyric uncovered was tied right to the Baron himself, and everyone had been run clean out of the Macedon Province. He thought Meridian would ask him to leave then, he'd caused so much trouble already… but she stuck by him, called him her friend.

     Gaerus was a cesspit of a city, and he hated it. The only city in the South arrogant enough to be built in the skeleton of a Dead World ruin, it was far taller than any other town in the area. The people there were snotty and condescending, just because they lived a dozen metres off the ground. Sure there was easier access to electricity, and the food was better, but the city had no soul. He got into a few fights there, roughed people up, even spent a night in jail, but nothing significant. Then when they pressed on north, into the Hildeburg province, he'd first found Beau's leftovers. Adderon was a nice city, with Firespine Ridge poking up in the far distance, and Lyric remembered enjoying the views. It was a forested mountain region, and reminded him of Whitewall in a lot of ways, only with less snow.

     It started when he met a man in a bar, raving about his daughter, who'd gone missing. Lyric had tried to pry himself away, had tried to be the responsible person that Aloysius and Meridian wanted him to be… but he couldn't ignore it. She was thirteen years old, she had a crush on a boy from her classes, and loved the colour yellow.

     Helga. Her name was Helga. He thought, sombrely. He'd almost had Riddon right then and there. He took things slower that time, following clues, talking to witnesses, and interrogating criminals with less impulsivity. He broke a horse's leg in the process, but the guy had given him Riddon's name and the place he was staying at.

     Lyric shivered. The memory was brutal, almost too big to fit in his brain. He'd searched the small flat house, and at first found nothing. No blood or guts, no weapons save a normal double-barrel shotgun, nothing suspect. He was about to head back to the horse, when he'd seen a suspicious outline of dust in the floorboards. It smelled of pine needles and diesel, he remembered that. Downstairs he found a cobblestone basement, rubber pushed into the walls to keep sound from escaping. He found bodies inside an extensive tunnel network, mangled and desiccated, flesh shaved off them like they were a hide of feral beef. He gagged at the memory. And there had been Beau, hovering over the young girl, her eyes covered, clothes filthy.

     The opossum had rigged her into some kind of diesel-fuelled mechanism. It was slowly, centimetre by centimetre, pulling back on a wire mesh wrapped across her face. It was almost impressive – the exhaust had been fed outside through intricate piping, the generator hidden away to reduce the noise.

     He wanted to hear the screams.

     The girl was sobbing when he stepped in the room, and seeing the sight Lyric had wanted to shoot Riddon then and there.

     “Ah-ah." The opossum said, grinning with no fear of death in his eyes. He'd held up a key. “Are you here for me, or her?" He'd asked. The hollow, doll-like eyes of the creature had appeared in every one of Lyric's dreams since then. There had been no emotion in them besides a childish mischief. He promised Lyric that he couldn't dismantle the machine before it killed Helga, but the key could stop it.

     “Give it to me." Lyric had grunted, not knowing what else he even could say, frozen and terrified he'd do something wrong and cost a young girl her life. Aloysius had been talking to him about vengeance. About how motives mattered. He'd asked Lyric if he sought out the sordid and vile because he enjoyed hurting them, or because he truly believed they had to be stopped, in order to save others.

     It had always plagued the jackal, that thought. That deep down he was just like the monsters he tried to find, only his target was killers, and not thirteen-year-old beagle girls from Hildeburg.

     “Helga stay calm, it's gonna be alright." Lyric had promised. “Yer daddy sent me t'find ya." Not strictly true, but the girl had stopped screaming so much, still squirming in place and hissing at the pain, begging Beau to let her out. Blood had been appearing in tiny globules on her face, impossible to miss on her lightly patterned fur. “Give me the key Riddon."

     And the opossum threw it across the room, turning away and bolting out a hatch before he could react. Lyric had fished out the key, and stopped the machine. Helga would carry the meshed scars on her face for the rest of her life, but at least she would have a life.

     Her father had given him the leather jacket he was wearing now. The one he always did.

     “We don't have no money sir." He'd said through tears, never once letting go of his little girl. “But me mother made this here coat fer me, right 'fore she passed. S'only right."

     And he'd chased Riddon since then, following a trail of bodies.

     “What are you thinking about?" Fletcher asked him, the moonlight illuminating the edges of his fur.

     “Mm, how dumb you must be to chase after me like this." He replied tartly, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. He inhaled, exhaled. “This ain't gonna be no exciting gunfight Fletch."

     “I know, I know." The boy admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you still should have someone watching your back."

     So he's still caught feelings huh? Lyric thought, a little sadly. Fletcher was kind, and he was cute, but the boy should really be with someone like Narem. Someone fun. Someone who was likely to live to thirty. It embarrassed him to think like a martyr, but he was nothing if not realistic. Lyric couldn't imagine living to sixty or seventy years old like some folk, he had never pictured it for himself.

     “And it isn't about… that." The coyote stammered quickly, deliberately keeping his eyes on the trail before them. “But a friend out here is what ya need."

     “Would you kill someone? If it came to it?" Lyric said softly. “Think you could manage that?" Fletcher paused, thinking. The jackal admired that kind of prescience; Fletcher was a dumb kid, but a really dumb kid would have just said 'of course' without thinking.

     “I guess it depends." He replied, after a minute or two. “In the heat of things, if it's my or your life versus theirs? Probably I think so, yeah."

     “But not in cold blood?"

     “I don't think so."

     Lyric chuckled. “And hear I thought Kalico was a stone-cold butcher, back in his hey-day." He didn't need to see the coyote's face to know he blushed.

     “Er, yeah."

     “You did good on stage boy." Lyric admitted.

     “You saw?" Fletcher exclaimed, turning his saddle a little too quickly and almost losing his balance. Once he righted himself, he grinned. “I didn't know you saw."

     “Yeah, yeah I saw alright. Stupid stunt you pulled with the revolvers, but I guess it paid off in the end."

     “Meridian said it's the tension diffuser the act needs."

     “She's a smart chicken." Lyric admitted, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. He noticed Fletcher still had the revolvers on his hips, complimenting the rifle slung across his back. He'd changed out of most of his stage get up, but kept the dark trousers. On his top the coyote had a plain grey shirt, over which sat a red-and-black check flannel coat, left unbuttoned. He even had a flat, brown-leather hat pulled over his head, presumably for when the sun finally rose.

     Lyric leaned back, flicking his nearly-spent smoke into the dirt and letting his breath steam before his face. There was a chill to the pre-dawn air, but they both had coats and fur. Lyric himself wore khaki trousers and his leather jacket, overtop a green plaid shirt. He had no hat.

     “Thank you Fletcher." Lyric said softly, rolling his left arm, which was still sore. He could feel the tightly knit wounds across his body, protesting as he flexed and moved. It still hurt to walk, but he was determined to get better already. “It's nice to have company for once." The coyote said nothing back.

     They approached the border to Bantam just as people were starting to rise. The sun wasn't yet breaking the horizon, but farmers and butchers were working on setting up stalls in the market streets, while saloon owners and surgeons swept their front porches in prep. Bantam rose early, and the two had to take their ferals slow as they plodded towards the central sheriff offices.

     “Here we are." Lyric said, stomach twisting nervously as the two hitched their mounts at a post opposite the sheriff's place. The skies were lighter now, and had they stepped away from the two and three story buildings, they would have seen the sun making its way into the sky. The streets were getting proper busy now, town-folk going back and forth, rubbing sleepily at their eyes.

     “So what's the go?" Fletcher asked, stifling a yawn. Lyric felt a pang of guilt; he'd forgotten the younger coyote had performed for the first time not six hours earlier. It took a lot out of you, he knew that from experience. A swell of appreciation surged in his chest for the boy.

     “I'm gonna go in, spin some half-bite tale, hope they let me chat to this kid. I might get roughed up a bit when they work out I ain't who I say, but it'll have to do." He fumbled around inside his coat, drawing the slide-action pistol from the shoulder holster. “Here." He grunted, passing it grip-first to the bewildered Fletcher.

     “What, why?" The kid asked, taking the gun and tucking it in the back of his waistband.

     “Don't reckon walking armed into a sheriff office is a good plan now. Especially with a rarer cannon like that one." He spat to the side, trying to work himself up.

     “And what if they ain't keeping this lion cub here?" Fletcher asked.

     “I'll just hope they take me too 'im. If that happens, try to follow, but keep yer distance. Anything goes south, we meet at that there saloon up the road." He pointed out a rundown looking dive at the corner. Fletcher nodded, and Lyric slapped him on the shoulder.

     “Good luck."

     “This'll be over soon." The jackal said, turning on his heel and crossing the street.

     The sheriff office was unlocked, and he was greeted by a dazed-looking fox behind a desk, curiously decked in Kallinger colours. He wasn't the Bantam sheriff, just some street copper assigned desk duty. That suited Lyric fine.

     “Can I help ya partner?" The fox asked, squinting at Lyric and sipping a mug of steaming black coffee.

     “Aw, shucks I sure hope so." Lyric said, slurring his words. “I been riding heads and tails down this way since yesterday aft'noon." He sauntered over to the desk, holding up his paws and smiling. “I read in the paper you boys got a little lion kid here? Lad from Quindon right?" The fox's face woke a little quicker, and he set his mug down, standing.

     “You know somethin'?" He asked, pulling his hat off and holding it to his chest. “Real tragedy what those sickos did to that poor boy an' his family."

     “I agree I agree friend." Lyric said gruffly, wondering if he was overdoing the hick act. “My wife, her brother lives somewhere past the border that way, he got a cub that might be 'bout that age I think. You didn't say the name in the papers, just thought I might check on him, see what's what? Only proper."

     “Oi Juro, c'm'out here you lazy git!" The fox called into the back, rounding the desk. “You got any weapons on yer person pal?" The fox asked, and Lyric shook his head, offering himself up to be patted down. As the fox fondled his sides and ass, a slim otter, also in Kallinger colours, appeared in the door.

     “What?" He asked.

     “Rouse Mica will ya? I got someone says he's family that there cub in the back." The otter nodded, vanishing back into the further depths of the office.

     “Might be." Lyric offered. “I ain't seen the kid in half a decade mind ya. Figured, it's the right thing to do if he is family though."

     “You're a good man uh… what did ye say your name was?"

     “Hal." Lyric offered.

     “Hal." He gave a paw, shaking Lyric's own. “C'mon through then. Careful, I'm armed and so's my two pals. Nothing funny."

     “I hear you sir I hear ya." Lyric said, nodding emphatically. He followed the fox down several hallways, into an office repurposed to house a young kid. As Lyric stepped in he saw the lion cub rugged up on a couch in the corner, covered in bandages, his expression hazy and distant. To his left was the otter from before, Juro, and to his right was a dark furred shepherd, this one wearing Vellem colours.

     “Howdy fellas." Lyric said, nodding at them both. As he smiled at the shepherd, he noticed the canine had one arm hefted in a sling, and was stood favouring one leg. Realisation dawned on both of them simultaneously, and the shepherd dropped his mug of coffee, the ceramic shattering as coffee sprayed over their boots.

     “What the shit Mica!" The fox cried, as the shepherd fell back against the wall, drawing a revolver with his good paw and pointing it straight at Lyric.

     “NO!" He howled, as Lyric twisted on the spot. “Grab'm!" Lyric made it halfway out the door when a paw caught his collar, dragging him back inside. He pried at the doorway for leverage, but the otter and fox slapped away his paws.

     “Wait, don't do this!" Lyric hissed.

     “That's guy I told yous about, from the warehouse!" The shepherd exclaimed loudly, pointing right at Lyric, his face a mask of fear.

     The fox slammed a fist into Lyric's gut and he doubled over, bile rising in his throat. Someone's foot was on his then, and the otter shoved him down by the neck, slamming his face into the floor, a knee pressing firmly into his back.

     “I ain't the same guy!" Lyric grunted, trying to look at the lion cub, who had pulled himself into a small ball. “Kid, the cultists… where were they going?! Quick, where was you when you got--" His words were cut off by a boot kicking him across the muzzle. He saw white for a second, then felt his paws locked into tight handcuffs. There was blood in his mouth.

     “Are ye sure this is the one Mica?" The shepherd nodded.

     “Yup, that's the one, used me like a fucking shield! No tail, I'd recognise the git anywhere!" Lyric bared his teeth, the otter's knee grinding against his back, stitches in his waist popping. He knew who the shepherd was alright – the same one he'd held at gunpoint during the shootout with Nadine, weeks ago.

     “I ain't got two shits a clue 'bout why yer here, pal." The fox growled, dropping to crouch in front of him. “But you made a big fuckin' mistake coming here. Last one you'll ever make."

     “Don't…" Lyric grunted, panting. The otter leaned in close behind him.

     "Y'hear that boy?" He asked, not bothering to hide the glee in his voice. "You're gonna hang."