18: Running on Fumes

“You should have let me go with them." The burly tiger said for the third time, crossing her arms. Merissa Meridian clucked in reply, shaking her head and flicking the reins. They'd repaired the busted wheel about an hour ago, and were now trying to make up a little lost time. It would still take them over a week to reach Firebrand at this pace, but she'd be happy if they could at least get off the damned plains.

Stupid wind. Never thought a place so boring could be such a damn pain my hide. She thought, feeling her feathers ruffle. Next to her, Clementine was still pouting.

“Well, that idiot jackal has managed to almost cripple us twice now mind you. Imagine if Thume had not been able to step up to his role?" Meridian said, sighing. “With so many of our members gone, I need you and Nobu hear. Narem can't perform alone, and if worst comes to it you can be our jester."

“I ain't a clown Merissa." Clementine said, her lips unwavering.

“You'll be whatever I bloody tell you to be!" Meridian snapped. She was getting increasingly tired of Lyric's crusade getting in her way. She loved the foolhardy boy like he was a brother, but damn it she had her own shit to deal with, without him taking half her troupe. It had been all she could to limit the expedition to five, and she was regretting that much already. It wasn't that those who left were mission critical; far from it, the only reason she had relented was because the circus could do just fine for a bit with them missing – the main problem was morale. The pack-up workload was almost the same, but that didn't keep Raime from bitching non-stop about having to pull 'twenty-five percent' more of the work. Normally the larger group ignored him, but with such a visible difference in number, Meridian could tell people were starting to listen. “We've still got a show to run here Clem, I know it seems like almost everyone has forgotten that but I haven't. I can't." She paused. “Why are you so eager to go, anyway? In fact, why is anyone so eager to go and drag twice-damned Lyric away from a mess of his own making?"

The tiger looked away, turning her nose up. “No reason." She said, a little too dismissively.

“I understand Nobu wanting to help his girlfriend, I even sort of understand Fletcher chasing his little crush – stupid as he is. Thume and Dope are... their own thing. But you? Who were you going for?"

“I just thought they could use someone strong s'all. Fletch is a good kid, I don't want him to get hurt." Clementine muttered. “And 'sides, Thume has a good head on his shoulders, he could use someone sensible watching his back while he watches Fletcher's."

“Clementine." Meridian said firmly. “Are you and Thume…"

“No!" The tiger exclaimed indignantly. “Blast it all Merissa, can't a girl have friends? I like Thume, he's a clever guy."

“He seems totally insane to me."

“That's what makes him interesting." Clementine replied. “No, there's nothing romantic between us, old Gods know there's enough lust going around these days already, the kids need to chill out. But he's a good mate, and we enjoy talking. And… he really cares about Fletcher, I admire that."

“I'm sorry." Meridian said awkwardly. “I shouldn't have presumed, it's… just like you said. Lot of lust going around. Part of me wishes Lyric and Fletcher would just man up and roll each other already, get it out of the way."

“You know how boys are." Clementine laughed. “But he could at least let poor Narem down gently." She glanced over a shoulder, to wear the twins rode in another carriage, the one piloted by Raime. How they'd ended up on a seat with the mutually disdained greyhound was leagues beyond anyone's best guess.

“Poor boy is pining like a lost kitten." Meridian snorted. “Unfortunately they all seem very committed to not sharing any of their damn feelings, if that's what they want to do they deserve the heartache." Clementine narrowed her eyes playfully, chuckling.

“Starting to get fed up with the lovers' triangle then are we?"

“I'm just trying to keep this damn show on track." Meridian muttered.

...

Nadine and Dopesmoker stood in an alleyway across the street from Desmond's Doorstop. True to her word, a small pack of the law gathered inside and out, dressed both in Kallinger and Vellem colours. Nadine didn't like how the city felt right now, but there wasn't much she could do about it. They weren't robbing a bank, didn't have the luxury of taking their time and planning it out. No, they were stealing a person, a person who – without intervention – would be dead in about forty minutes.

“Aight lads." She said, turning back to face the three scumbags who still owed her. “I'm on me last legs in this stupid town, but we'll call it even if you do this solid, I'm a woman of my word." She glanced at the thing called Dopesmoker.

What a stupid name. She thought snidely.

“We don't want too much blood if ya can help it, but don't take it in the teeth either eh?"

“So we're square?" A jittery otter asked her, stepping forward. He in particular was neck deep in debt, and it was easy to tell why. The fur around his mouth was stained and dry, the once rich cream-colour now faded; tell-tale signs of someone addicted to Sleep. Open up any pocket and the wolverine knew she'd find a small pouch of inhalers. “Nadine you promise we're square?"

“Eddie, you go in there and cause a loud enough ruckus I'll forget I ever saw yer ugly mug." She said, nodding. They didn't need to know she didn't have the means anymore to extract said debt, the ones that could work that out for themselves were long gone. She gestured at Eddie and the other two lads. “You and you two are gonna go right in there and start swinging, while my metallic friend and I here go round back and pop off a few cocktails. When the smoke gets too much, tuck yer tails and run like hell. If you don't hear from me, we're good." They all nodded eagerly.

“Do you think it will work?" Dope asked, his voice strangely calming to listen to. Nadine shrugged, patting the small bag tied to her waist.

“It may." She said, digging through her stuff and pulling out a bandana and a pair of faded goggles. She passed them to the creature. “Here, throw these over your face. You're not exactly hard to miss." Dope awkwardly fit them onto his face, and while it bulged strangely, and the rubber tubes still ran down his front and sides, it was no longer instantly obvious that his maw was smothered with machinery. “And ya promise you don't breathe air?"

“It's a closed system." He said slowly. “Oxygen isn't compatible with my lungs anymore."

“Righto." Nadine said, sighing. She was itching to be out of Bantam. She'd been hunkered in Harriet's since first dragging herself back from the warehouse, doing her best to keep quiet, lest the Baron's men kick down her door. “You're fuckin' weird y'know?"

“So I've been told." He said, tightening the goggles. “Are you ready?"

“Not yet," Nadine said in a hushed tone, stepping up to the edge of the alley and checking her pocket watch, looking down the street as if she could see right through the buildings and all the way to Baron Vellem's manor. “Just wait a bit longer ay… things don't feel right; it should've started by now."

“I'm sure they have their ends under control."

...

Arthur yawned, his shotgun held lazily in his paws. Across from him, his guard-mate Sampson stood diligently, acting as if he somehow didn't wish he was down at the courthouse right now. Arthur had friends who died in that warehouse shoot-out weeks back. Even if he hadn't, he was a Vellem boy thick-and-thin, he wanted to see that damned jackal hang.

Bloody well too good for him. He thought, spitting into the dirt. Sampson stood perfectly still on his side of the gate, and Arthur found himself realising he didn't like the Kallinger colours at all. He didn't even like the guards themselves. It felt somehow wrong that some out-of-towner would be guarding the bleeding Baron's manor! The role was mostly ceremonial, sure, they did little more than unlock the gate for permitted parties, but it mattered damn it. It was about tradition; it was about how things ought to be done!

Arthur was barely twenty, and he already felt like the world was going to hell.

They hadn't been told exactly how the jackal – Hal was his name apparently – had caused the warehouse slaughter, but Arthur imagined he was some sort of big-shot outlaw from up north, come down to try and make his fortune. Arthur wasn't an idiot; he knew the northies thought they were dumber down south.

Thought you could come play a couple hicks like us huh? He thought, lips peeling back even at the thought of that arrogant prick, killing his friends, probably laughing as he went. Well who's laughing now? He let himself smile. Sure, guard duty at the manor sucked something big, but it was a stepping stone – one-day Art fancied himself Captain of the Baron's personal guard. The current fella was doing a piss-poor job, and he was doing his best to learn all he could, someone had to take the mantle once Walter drank himself underground.

“Oi Sam." Arthur called, turning to the curly-furred dog. “Ya got a... smoke?" The last word trailed off as he realised Sampson had his paws raised, shotgun in the dust at his feet.

How'd I miss that? Arthur thought, kicking himself for day-dreaming again, eyes going over the strange, long fish-like creature that had a revolver pressed into Sampson's lower back. Arthur had never seen anything like it and he froze, glaring at her wedge-shaped head and long, twisting tail.

“D-don't move!" He cried, scrambling to raise his shotgun. As his paw wrapped around the grip however, he felt the cold tip of a knife press against his neck, just deep enough to prick the surface skin. Simultaneously a gun barrel was held against the small of his back. He felt hot breath on the back of his neck, and instantly dropped the shotgun, freezing in place and wetting himself. “Don't hurt me..." He whimpered.

“Well then, don't be stupid." The goat whispered. Arthur glanced around, hoping for help, but the street was empty. This sort of area in town was usually quieter anyway, but the hanging down the road would draw too much focus. Damn it all, on our own. “Open the gate boy, let me and my friend inside."

“N-no." He whispered, even as he was marched over to the gate, his paws fumbling for the keys at his waist. “Don't." He said, but the goat ignored him. The gate swung inwards as he shoved it, the hinges creaking.

“You good kid?" The goat called, and his strange friend gave back an acknowledgement, warning Sampson not to move. She sounded nervous, young like Arthur – the goat sounded like a killer, probably part of the northies gang come to set him free.

“What do you want?" Arthur muttered, his whole body trembling as the two were marched further into the compound, his heart sinking as they were led behind the Baron's tall cobblestone fence, his hopes of rescue suddenly crushed. “Are you gonna kill us?! Are you?!" He gasped, beginning to hyperventilate.

“Nobody has to die kid, calm it." The goat ordered, pulling Arthur's paws behind his back and snapping a pair of cuffs on them. “We're almost done here. We just need a ride, think ya can help us out with where that's kept?"

“Uh, the Baron's stables are round back…" Arthur muttered, as the goat shoved him to his knees, wrapping a length of rope around him and tying it to Sampson and a tree. He couldn't see where the other outlaw had gone.

“Well y'see, that's well and good." The goat said, stepping in front of him, his face hidden beneath some sort of horrible leather mask, the eyes huge and opaque. “But I had something a little wilder in mind…"

...

“On ya feet maggot!" Lyric heard, as a rough fist grabbed him around the collar, hauling him up. He had an entourage of four guards surrounding him, each armed, his paws tied firmly behind his back. He felt something sharp poke him in the back, and began to walk.

“Sundown already?" He muttered, shaking his head. He hoped Fletcher wasn't there, he didn't want the boy to see what would happen next. “You boys' tuck in early."

“Time's up." The shepherd named Mica said, laughing. “You'll pay for what you did. This ain't gonna be pleasant, Baron's got good plans for you."

“Well. Charming." Lyric said, his stomach cold. He'd given Fletcher Nadine's name, but it had been miles beyond a long shot. At least when she said no, the coyote would have someone but himself to blame for Lyric's death. His biggest regret was letting him come to Bantam. He should have seen it coming, should have realised what would happen, of course they wouldn't just let him in to see that kid. Nothing was that easy. He'd hoped he could get out with only a few bruises though.

Poor boy. Lyric thought. He knew what came next for that kid. Misery, followed by anger and impotence. He couldn't do anything to bring his family back, and whatever he'd seen would be burned into his memory forever and ever. If he didn't eventually take his own life, his world would be scarred by violence and death and loss. Lyric had glimpsed that hell himself, and he'd only just escaped; he wouldn't wish it on anyone.

A paw clamped down on his shoulder and pulled him to a halt. They'd reached the end of a long concrete hallway, and before them laid a set of wide doors, through which Lyric could hear the muffled chattering of a bloodthirsty crowd. His teeth chattered. Much as he despised to admit it, despised giving that fuck the Baron the satisfaction – he was scared. Scared he'd gone too far, scared what Beau Riddon would do without being stopped, scared about the cult was up to.

Scared of the pain.

“Eyes up asshole." Lyric looked to the side as Baron Vellem approached him, tricorn hat sitting loosely on his head. He licked his lips. “Ready to die?"

“As I'll ever be." Lyric said, feigning indifference. The Baron sneered, coming closer and grabbing his shirt front.

“You can fake nonchalance all you fuckin' like, but we both know deep down you're pissing yourself. End of the line boy, you thought you could come into my town and screw with me? You fuckin' idiot." He spat in Lyric's face, the saliva hitting just beneath his eye. “I've had a word with our noose-man, he's gonna keep your rope real short, and he knows all the perfect knots, so you feel everything. And I'm gonna stand there, and as the life drains from your eyes, the hope and order of my town will be returned to me. I hope you know, you died for nothing but my satisfaction." He laughed. Lyric wanted to roll his eyes at how almost comically malicious it was, but the man was about to have him hanged dead.

Maybe he has the right to gloat. He won. He thought, the words detached. Everything felt unreal, wobbly almost. He wished it would just be over already, but apparently the Baron had other motives. Ordinarily, hangings were done with a short drop, ideally snapping the neck instantly to avoid gratuitous suffering. With little-to-no drop involved, and using the right knot work, Lyric could be subjected to minutes of agony, a subjective eternity before he blacked out and died, and the Baron would get the sadistic glee of having tortured him in public. Sixty seconds was a long time spent suffering. Aleksandre glared at him, but Lyric said nothing back, and the Baron ordered him marched outside. He kept his eyes down as they walked forward, there was some sort of commotion in the two or three dozen-strong crowd, but Lyric paid it no heed. He gave no resistance as they pushed him up the stairs to the stage, there was no point anymore.

“Friend of yours?" One of the guards sneered in his ear, laughing as he stood Lyric inside a small square outline painted on the stage floor.

“What?" Lyric whispered, looking into the crowd. Just behind the procession, two guards were holding a figure down. “No…" He said, trying to go forward, his own guards keeping him firmly in place.

“Keep quiet, stand still." One hissed. Lyric stared. The figure in question was a slender coyote, rich earth-red fur running down his back, his hat knocked into the dirt.

“Fletcher." Lyric hissed, trying to keep his voice low. They might not hang the kid if they didn't know the two were together.

Bit late for that. He thought. Even despite the apparent outcome, one of the lawmen holding a gun, the other with his knee buried painfully deep in Fletcher's back, the boy inched forward with a crazed intensity. What are you doing? Lyric wondered. Fletcher's backpack had been knocked into the dust, the open end pointing towards the coyote's straining paw. Lyric's eyes widened as he realised what the boy was likely reaching for – a gun.

Terror stabbed venomous fangs into his stomach, a thousand thoughts hitting him all at once, each subvocalised word overlapping the other; shooting a person isn't like hitting a fucking target Fletch. You don't need to get gunned down on some fool errand to save me, damn it! You don't deserve it, you stupid fucking stupid dumb kid, I don't love you like you want, not like I should. You don't need to suffer here! You only had one fucking performance for fuck's sake!

Please don't do this.

“No!" He cried, the guards tightening their grip on him. A few members of the crowd saw Fletcher kicked, but the majority paid it no serious attention, glaring up at Lyric with patriotic hate in their eyes. He looked so young like that, pinned against the ground, stapled to the ancient Earth by two snarling wolves far older and stronger than he was. Tears welled in Lyric's eyes.

“Scared after all then?" One laughed, as a third party slipped a tight noose over his head, securing it at the rear of his neck. Lyric swallowed, his mouth dry as Fletcher managed to shake the guard a little, scrambling forward. The second lawman put his boot on Fletcher's neck, gun cocking.

“Kid, stop, please! Don't get yourself killed!" Lyric begged, trying to do anything and failing, the rope – which was indeed short – keeping him held fast. “Don't die for me." Lyric realised in that moment that he had wasted Fletcher's companionship. The knowledge he was about to die sent a ripple of clarity echoing through his mind, and he saw every callous comment and ignored hint, each stoic reply.

“Say your prayers." The Baron said, from somewhere behind him.

Fletcher managed to scramble forward, his paw inching toward the darkness of his backpack. The Baron of Vellem, the high priest of Bantam's hidden worship of blood, raised his paws high, ready to reclaim his soiled holy ground. The crowd raised their fists in solidarity, crying out for vengeance.

“NO!" Lyric screamed, and the Baron pulled the lever.

...

Over the crowd, Fletcher did not hear Lyric's cry. He did however, hear the crowd roar as the trapdoor fell. His heart went into spasms as he saw Lyric, dangling there, legs kicking spastically, eyes bulging, paws tearing uselessly at his throat with an ancient kind of mammalian fury. The rope was so short he'd hardly fallen at all, the suffocation solely responsible for killing him. It was purposefully cruel, and wrong, and Fletcher hated the Baron and the whole fucking town for participating – no, revelling – in it. Adrenalin flooded his system, and gave him the extra burst of strength he needed to shove himself forward, paw wrapping around the small metal cube that laid in the bottom of his pack.

“Fuck, you." He grunted through gritted teeth, back and sides screaming in pain. His thumb found the trigger on the cube and pressed it as hard as he could. In an instant, five near-simultaneous bursts of air sounded, like a balloon popping, only louder. The crowd was plunged into a deep haze of yellow smoke almost immediately, and they all began screaming as their eyes watered and burned, and their stomachs tried to upend themselves. The guards on Fletcher were similarly shocked, and he was able to wiggle free in the confusion, rolling to the side and leaping to his feet.

One of the guards turned in shock as the gas hit him, eyes watering, the almost instant pain hitting his face like a slap. He faltered and pulled his trigger, the shot going wide. The surface of Fletcher's entire face screamed in inflamed protest, but he kept his mouth firmly shut to protect his throat and mouth, scrambling for his pack again. His eyes were dripping water, and he grabbed the mask through blurry fumblings, as the fleeing crowds hit him, explosions sounding in the distance as the Baron's precious manor – and hopefully Desmond's Doorstop - began to go up in flames. In a brutish motion, Fletcher pulled the leather and metal mask over his snout and eyes, securing it at the back and panting for air. His eyes still swam with liquid fire, but he could breathe safely now at least without risking his sanity.

This had all happened in seconds, and Fletcher ran forward, searching the dirt for his fallen rifle. He scooped it up and kept going, headed towards where the stage had been before the gas had hidden it from view. There was just enough wind that the smoke was being carried easily, five of his six carefully placed mines having all activated perfectly – more than enough. He cocked the rifle, holding it up the mask's wide eyehole and firing. The weapon kicked and the mechanism that held Lyric's rope was obliterated, the jackal dropping to the ground like a stone. He collapsed in a crumpled heap, rolling onto his back and gasping as Fletcher slid to his knees at his side, the still stunned guards above them beginning to vomit, screaming in pain. Lyric stared up at him with yellowing, bloodshot sclera, confusion plastered all over his face. Fletcher slipped a paw under his arm and helped him to his knees, an angry, yet familiar mechanical roar sounding in the distance.

Almost there. He thought. Suddenly he felt as if someone had punched him in the chest, and he fell back, winded. He rolled to his side, looking up to see an otter in Kallinger colours, stumbling toward them through the furious yellow gas, an arm held over his snout, a revolver clutched at the end of his shaking arm. Fletcher rolled as another shot slammed into the dirt, spraying dust everywhere. The guard coughed and dry retched into his elbow, but swivelled around in an attempt to keep his aim.

Without thinking, Fletcher pressed the butt of his rifle against his shoulder and popped a round into the otter's elbow. The gun went flying as the guard's arm was clutched to his body like a babe, blood sprayed out against his uniform. He mimed howling, but the sound of his agony was lost against the tell-tale scream of a four-stroke diesel-powered engine. Fletcher, shaken, clambered to his feet, seeing two more guards come toward them, each with their own weapons. The first lost a kneecap and slammed forward against the dirt, and the second lost fingers – they just weren't nearly fast enough to compete against him in a shooting contest, especially when their bodies were trying to rid themselves of whatever hideous poison was in that gas.

Nadine had promised it was non-lethal in controlled doses, but said it could easily leave scarring on someone's lung if they huffed it too long. Fletcher could live with that much.

He relaxed as Ursula appeared, her head squished into a gasmask of her own, eyes comically lost in the large portholes of the beige leather hood, the front ventilation matrix not unlike Dopesmoker's own apparatus. Lyric would be in a lot of pain, but at least he was alive. It was hard to hear properly in the hood, and Ursula waved Fletcher over, motioning for them to get the heaving jackal on his feet. He struggled to comply, but it was made easier when Fletcher shot the small chain of his cuffs, freeing his paws up. With an arm around the coyote, Lyric half-skipped, half-limped towards the Baron's stolen diesel buggy.

He kept his in better condition than Mason Fulbright, Fletcher saw. This one was larger too, six wheels running along it's rectangular body. The cage-ish structure they would ride in was a polished chrome, and the masked Thume seemed relatively confident behind the wheel.

Fletcher hauled Lyric in the back-most seat, and the coyote sighed with relief as Nadine hopped over the guardrail, Dopesmoker following a little slower behind her. In the distance, Fletcher saw high, expanding plumes of black smoke. He checked everyone over, nobody seemed hurt, and Lyric gave a thumbs up. He tapped Thume on the shoulder and pointed forward, and they drove off, wheels skidding as they kicked up dirt and mud.

They waited until they were free of the city limits to pull the gasmasks off, discarding them on the floor of the buggy. It was hard to hear over the whine of the engine, but Fletcher sat on the same seat as Lyric right up the back, feeling gently at his neck. It was badly bruised from the rope, but he was breathing and grinning despite his horrid appearance. He was a mess; his whole left side was stained red from popped stitches, his face covered in a myriad of even newer bruises, not to mention his discoloured eyes, the excess of blood and snot bubbling at his nose, and the constant tremors racking his form.

But he was alive.

Holy shit. Fletcher thought, hugging the jackal fiercely. Holy shit, holy shit we did it. He thought, taking his paw in his own and squeezing it tight. Lyric squeezed back, mouthing “thank-you". Fletcher grinned like a maniac, leaning down to shout in the jackal's ear.

“I told you, you needed some backup."