11: Yellow Eyes

“My daddy killed thirty-three people w'this gun. Four 'a them he just beat to death, after running outta ammo he spent killing their friends." The Baron Mason Fulbright said, fingering a large copper-plated revolver. The thing was in good nick, but it had been refurbished and reshaped more times than he could count, so it was no surprise. “He was a brutish man, and a drunk. Not a civil bone in his body, did me an' my sister not a mite of good. He was always a feral at heart." He snorted.

“You didn't call me here to talk about your father, Baron." Fulbright's guest said. He was lizard-like in appearance, and he lisped his words slightly, dragging out the s sounds wherever they appeared.

“No. I didn't. But this ain't no normal contract Varik, I need you to understand that." The Baron put the revolver away, pouring himself another drink, keeping his back to the guest.

“Your son." Every word from the Zoran's thin lips was like a spit, a guttural snap, almost as if the creature resented even speaking aloud. His mouth itself was little more than a wide slit, lips parting to reveal rows of sharp, angular teeth, drenched in thick saliva and frequently skimmed by a long, snaking pink tongue.

“Yes. Fletcher. My only boy." Fulbright said, his free paw balling into a fist. “My son. My daddy killed the Baron that ruled Gallentry 'fore him, and these people named him hero. He didn't do it for them Varik, he did it because he wanted to. He was a beast." The Zoran resisted the urge to sigh.

“And the goat?" Varik's yellow eyes flashed. Zorans were a strange and rare race of creature, but always in demand nonetheless. Varik himself was covered head to toe in a spectrum of muted green scales, his claws sharpened into talons, his raptor-esque feet bare on the polished cedar wood floor. As for clothing, his shoulders, neck, and legs were wrapped in tight black bandaging. His chest was left exposed, a firm serrated crest running down the front. His belt was sturdy faded leather, with several knives, a revolver, and a few mysterious pouches hanging off either side. His forearms were wrapped in the same bandage / leather blend as his shoulders, buckled armour plating strapped to each limb. His hauntingly reflective eyes peered out from beneath a dark, hand-sewn hood, which wrapped down to and around his front, hanging a loose strip of fabric abroad his neck – presumably so he could pull it up and obscure his mouth.

Even stripped of the weapons on his belt, the Zoran would be dangerous. His claws and teeth alone were capable of easily pairing flesh – not to mention his natural strength, agility, or venom glands. They were comparable to few other species in the South, and as far as Fulbright knew, were abominable remnants of the Dead World. Varik in particular had honed these inherent gifts, sharpened himself to a fine point, developing a reputation as a master of precision within the world of contract killing. In the right circles, anyone who was anyone knew of the Yellow Eyed Surgeon. 

“The goat… Thume Braider." Fulbright said, his glass creaking in a squeezed paw, tail twitching with rage. “Once my closest advisor, but he never… approved of my parenting methods. I thought he meant to ransom the boy back to me, but instead I've heard nothin'. Now, I wonder if it ain't some misguided attempt at saving him." He sneered, knocking his glass back again.

“I see."

“He thought me too strict." Fulbright growled, almost to himself. “But my father was absent, and violent whenever he weren't. My mother killed herself, and my sister died in some whorehouse, frothing at the mouth from all the Sleep she'd taken, some scumbag filling her even as she died, no doubt." If the Zoran had eyebrows, he might have raised them then. Clearly the Baron had some skeletons.

“So the goat dies?"

“Yes. Thume dies. Painfully. I want proof, his hand… no, no his head. He has to suffer for what he's done to me, I'll mount it on a God-damned spike. People need to understand that you cannot take what is mine." A spider-web crack appeared across the breast of his whiskey glass, and the elder coyote huffed. He ran a paw over his neck, patting down his hackles and setting the cracked glass aside. “He obviously had help, to escape Gallentry without being seen, so whomever accompanied them dies too. Understood? All of them, you can eat them if you like." He recoiled slightly in revulsion, but Varik seemed nonplussed at the suggestion.

“Are they mercenaries? Contractors?" Varik asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“I think not. Thume and the boy wouldn't have had much money… more likely they're unwitting good Samaritans. Irregardless, it's a matter of principle and precedence." The coyote was clearly worked up. “I trust that won't be of issue to you?" He asked, after a brief pause. Varik's eyes shone in the lamplight, and his thin lips peeled back in a grotesque approximation of a smile.

“Worry not. Your father may have made butchery his career, Baron." The Zoran said, creeping closer. “But I have made an art of it."

“You need to sleep my friend." Miss Meridian said softly, laying a black claw on Aloysius's shoulder. “Few more hours and it will be dawn." The fox wiped at his eyes, holding his spectacles in an off paw and sighing. His groan of exhaustion was like that of an old oak tree, creaking in the night wind, remaining only because it always had.

“I suppose." The doctor croaked, glancing to Fletcher. “Will you be alright if I take a quick nap son?" The coyote nodded, his eyes still glued to Lyric's softly breathing body, anxiety a taught knot in his stomach. The jackal had been stripped down to nothing but a pair of loose tracksuit pants. There was no chance of Fletcher finding his crush's exposure arousing, because Lyric was cut up so viciously he looked like a corpse. The worst of it was concentrated in his arms and shoulders, deep lacerations crisscrossing the edges of his limbs, his fur drenched rust-red, both his own and presumably other peoples' blood. He'd had three significant bullet wounds, one in his thigh and two in his arms; Aloysius had dug the slugs out as best he could, thanking all the gods he could name nothing vital had been snagged. None of this was to say that the jackal's face and chest was unscathed, but it was a different kind of damage. Whilst his arms and legs were covered in cuts and awry bullet grazes, his torso was a purple and yellow swamp of heavy bruising. Aloysius guessed he had several ribs broken, and would be pissing blood for a good two weeks. He had two black eyes, and when his eyelids were peeled back, his pupils were heavily dilated and spider-webbed with crimson lines. His breathing was stable, and he wasn't going to die in the next few hours, but they weren't out of the woods yet.

“I can stay." Fletcher said. He tried to keep in mind that Aloysius had been performing on stage just a few hours earlier, throwing around knives and dancing wildly. Now he was trying to save his friend's life. “You should both get some rest."

“If he has any trouble," Aloysius began, patting Fletcher's knee. “Laboured breathing, fluttering eyelids, twitching… you come and retrieve me right away, understood Fletcher? I am only next door." The coyote nodded, watching the doctor stand and leave. After a moment had passed, he glanced to Miss Meridian. The raven rolled her dark eyes.

“I'll go, just give me a minute damn you." She said, shaking her head. “Stupid Lyric, what have you gotten yourself into this time? Damn fool. I always knew he'd eventually get himself into something too big, just hoped it wouldn't be so damn soon."

“What do you think happened?" Fletcher asked, his eyes going back to Lyric. The rise and fall of his chest was so shallow it was easy to miss, each breath a slight rasping whistle through his teeth.

Meridian didn't seem to hear his question. “When I first met Lyric, he was an angry little puppy living in the Whitewall Province, in a town nobody's heard of called Rathton." Meridian said. “When he was sixteen, his little brother disappeared. Just upped and vanished. And he was certain that someone in the village did it, but he could never find out who. He was a different person then." Fletcher saw her gaze was somewhere else, mind lost in reminiscence. He remembered what Aloysius said about the person Lyric used to be.

“How did you meet?" He asked gently. Lyric's history seemed like such a mystery – Fletcher was dying for any information that could shed even a glimpse of light on the jackal. “Did he run away with you, like I did?"

“Oh no." Meridian said, chuckling. “My husband, my ex-husband, used to run this circus you know? I was his jester then, and oh… the bastard made me feel it." Her beak clipped shut, like someone slamming a book closed. “But I survived. Until one night, he'd had even more to drink than usual, and he just… wouldn't stop. We'd done an auxiliary show in Rathton, but we hadn't even sold enough tickets to justify it. He was angry, and he took it out on me." She stopped abruptly.

“I didn't know. I'm sorry." Fletcher began. “My father, from what I heard, was cruel to my mother too."

“I thought he was going to kill me Fletch. And then… I don't even know why, but Lyric was there. All that darkness and rage, eighteen years of poverty and struggle shoved in a twenty-something year old body and aimed at my husband. He wasn't as capable as he is now, and he copped a few good hits, but he managed to break my husband's arm." She looked away. “Lambert was drunk though, and he had that uninhibited strength of the stupid. And he pulled out a gun." She paused, sitting next to Fletcher and holding her head in her claws.

“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." He said, pulling his tail into his lap. “I know… how hard it is, being hurt by people who are supposed to love you." The raven chuckled.

“You do, I suppose. No, it's only right you know. They're just old memories." She went quiet again, and Fletcher let her sit. After a significant moment had passed, she went on. “Lambert pulled out his gun and then I pulled out my knife. He was going to shoot Lyric; I could see it in his eyes Fletcher. I knew he was a dumb kid but he didn't deserve to die. So I did what I had to. What I should have done a long time ago."

“I'm sorry." Fletcher said, a little stunned. “That must have been awful." Meridian nodded.

“Yes. I hope… ah it's foolish, but I hope you don't think less of me, because I let him do that to me. I was a different person then."

“That's not how it works." Fletcher said softly. Throughout his childhood, despite his father's indifference to him, he'd always craved that love. He'd always imagined saying just the right things, and getting the proud dad he desperately wanted.

“And it's not that I needed some young, hot headed man to come to my rescue, don't you think like that." She scolded, chittering in a light-hearted way. “But I'd convinced myself I could fix him, that Lambert just didn't realise how much he was hurting me. We still loved each other, but that's… not always enough. Seeing him about to hurt somebody else though, someone who'd done nothing wrong other than stand up for me…"

“You snapped." Fletcher added. “I get it."

“So I offered the idiot a place in my new circus." She patted the unconscious body absentmindedly. “We fired about a quarter of our staff, people that had loved Lambert. Kept the rest, and moved on. I can't imagine Midnight Meridian without him."

“Are you going to delay tomorrow's show?" He asked, cocking his head. “I mean, like we did with Thume?"

“I don't know. That first stall built mystery for the crowds, but another would cripple our momentum. If you could watch him during the shows, we'll cut down Aloysius's part, and I think we will be okay."

“Good." Fletcher ran a paw over the tip of his tail, scrunching the fluff and twisting it. “You should really sleep though."

“I know. I just can't help feeling like if I leave him, something bad will happen. He went off without us and came back like this! For goodness sake." She sneered. “Idiot."

“I'll be here. I'm not tired." Fletcher lied.

“You're a sweet boy Fletcher." The raven said, standing. “I'll see you in a few hours." And then she left.

Fletcher didn't exactly nap, but he went into a kind of hypnotic trance. Staring at Lyric, thinking, imagining. He tried to examine his supposed crush on the jackal, but it was difficult to think of objectively, with the guy bleeding to death in front of him and all.

We haven't even really talked that much. He thought, biting his lip. What had happened exactly? Not that much; Lyric helped him get into the circus, then yelled at him for being drunk, then saved his life from bounty hunters, then… that was it. There wasn't much basis for love there.

But. The jackal was handsome, in a rough, earthy sort of way. The lilt of his voice, the confident way he moved, the calm violence that seemed to surround him, it grabbed at Fletcher's imagination in a way other people didn't. He felt good every time the guy even spoke to him, and even now he was still wearing Lyric's stolen underwear. He'd gotten off once or twice more in it, and while the jackal's scent had been mostly erased by his own, the arousing idea of it remained. No matter what he did, Fletcher's mind returned slowly to Lyric, pinning him down in the dirt, gunshots in the background.

He blushed, looking away. This guy was on death's door, and here he was thinking about what exactly? Holding his paw? Kissing him?

Stupid mutt. He thought. Moving shyly, he wrapped one of his paws around a slightly less-bruised forearm, squeezing gently.

When Lyric spoke he nearly screamed, flinching back and yanking his paws to himself. The jackal hadn't moved much, but his eyes were half-open and aimed at Fletcher, maw hanging open listlessly. His breath was laboured.

“Hey." Fletcher said.

“Hey there boy." Lyric said, swallowing painfully. He let his head fall back, groaning. “Fuck." He huffed.

“How are you feeling?"

“Like shit." Fletcher supposed that was fair.

“Do you need anything? Can I get you some water or something?" The jackal nodded faintly, and Fletcher reached back, grabbing a small leather jerkin of water Aloysius had left for him. It was room-temperature, but apparently that would be easier on Lyric's stomach. The jackal propped himself up a little, wincing as he did, allowing Fletcher to put the nozzle to his lips. He drank greedily, and after a moment the coyote pulled it away. Too much at once would make him sick. “What happened to you?" Fletcher asked, after his patient had wiped at his mouth and spat some bloodied saliva into a nearby sick bucket.

“Fuck, wish I knew." He said, massaging his head. “Something, something, Nadine… ah, I hate drugs."

“Drugs?" Fletcher asked, his heart skipping a beat. His exposure to illicit substances was limited, but he knew most were bad (though not always as bad as some might say). “What… what kind?"

“Rust, I think. That'n a lotta whiskey." He looked down at himself, studying the tight bandage work and stitching. “Well, since you're here, guess I'm not dead yet. That's a start."

“Lyric…" Fletcher began slowly, again surreptitiously taking his forearm. “What the hell did you do?" The jackal glanced suspiciously at Fletcher's touch, but said nothing.

“I had to find out where the damned Death Cult is. Nadine was the only one who'd know, I didn't think…" He swore, spitting again. “I thought it'd be simpler to just play along. I'd no idea she was gonna…" He groaned, flopping back. “Well. Least I got to wake to a friendly face." He said vacantly. Fletcher's heart soared briefly, but he tried to ignore it.

“Who's Nadine?"

“Some scumbag." He replied. “She told me where I'd find those lunatics though, the guys who make Sleep. Children of Nail, or somethin'." Fletcher's head was reeling.

“And why are you trying to find them so badly?" He wasn't sure why exactly Lyric was telling him this, but it seemed important, and he didn't want to pass the chance up.

“They're in Blood Mesa, in Kallinger. An' they know where to find the Sultan's Curse." Fletcher went still.

Dopesmoker told me about 'the mesa', and some 'children'. And Thume talked about Sleep. He felt a chill run down his spine, a ghostly hand sliding a cold finger along the vertebrae. Despite the fact Lyric was now awake, the tightly wound knot in his stomach was only compounded.

“The Sultan's Curse." Fletcher said, thinking aloud.

“You know 'em?"

“I think my father met with them once, I'm not sure though. I only heard little rumours and stuff, he kept me out of any business deals. The name's familiar." He shrugged.

“I ain't gonna act surprised yer daddy was involved with fucks like them. They're a gang of drug peddling madmen, led by a feral named Isaiah, he keeps pet Orikabu, if that tells ya anythin'. Feeds his enemies to 'em."

“What?" Fletcher asked, his mind going to what felt like decades ago, to when a giant, mutated Orikabu had been charging straight for him.

How would you even keep one? He wondered.

“Why are you telling me this Lyric?" Fletcher asked, unable to shake the feeling he was tempting fate. The jackal paused, licking his lips.

“I…" He began woozily, before doubling over and emptying his guts into the bucket. When the vomiting subsided, he wiped a bandaged arm across his lips, grunting. “Sorry."

“Do you need some more water?" Fletcher asked, and the jackal shook his head. His breathing was heavy, and he ran a paw over the top of his head.

“I'm telling you boy." He said. “Because I'm tired. Too tired to care anymore. And I think I can trust you. I can, right?" Fletcher nodded hastily.

“Of course! Yeah, course you can." He said, a little too enthusiastically. Lyric rolled his eyes, but shoved himself into a sitting-up position, head hanging forward like a doll. His fur was matted and gross, and every movement caused a slight gasp of pain. He pulled his arm free of Fletcher's grip, but the coyote shuffled closer.

“People like me, like Nadine, and even yer father I think," Lyric said slowly. “We kill people because we have'ta, it's just part of the life. I don't enjoy taking lives Fletcher, but I've taken a whole hell of a lotta 'em. Nine times out of ten they really deserved it, or it was me or them, y'follow? I've seen a lot of violence in my life." He stopped.

“But?"

“There's no but, actually." Lyric said sombrely. “I've seen a lot of violence. I know what it can lead to unchecked. And I think… I think if y'can stop something terrible from happening, then you have an obligation to this world to do that. We fucked the Earth once before, 'cause we didn't care about no one but ourselves. Now, there are people who hurt others fer fun, people who do terrible things, and I figure if I'm able to stop them from doin' it… shouldn't I? Don't I owe it to the people I couldn't help to try?" He stared at Fletcher earnestly then, eyes glistening, his expression raw.

“I never considered it." The coyote admitted.

“That's okay. Maybe I'm just talkin' shit, I can barely think straight right now." The jackal replied. Fletcher watched him closely. He seemed so exhausted, totally drained. “It sounds naïve, but some just deserve to die. In the Sultan's Curse, it's a man named Beau Riddon. Now Beau ain't like me or Nadine, he don't take lives because it's a means to an end. Or even for any reason other than he likes it. He's killed… I don't know, dozens maybe. Kids, or teenagers, young people mostly. He enjoys it, he hurts them real bad boy, and on top of it all… he's tryin' to find others as sick and twisted as he is."

“People… People like that don't really exist. They'd be monsters." Fletcher said, jaw hanging open. He knew there must be people who enjoyed killing, but the idea of murder for murders sake, was barbaric. It was evil.

Lyric laughed at him. “Course they do! Bea's a hollow shell of a man, there ain't nothin' inside. I suspect it gives him a kind of purpose, a mission. And I've followed him all the way from Hildeburg, tracing the bodies and blood he's left behind. And I'm so close Fletcher, so close to ending this."

“And he's in Blood Mesa?" Fletcher asked, slightly queasy, and more than a little afraid of Lyric.

“No. But the folk there know where he is." They both paused.

“What will you do once you do find him?" The jackal eyed Fletcher stoically, his hooded eyes narrowing.

“What a stupid question." Fletcher blushed, looking away. The tiniest tendril of fear slithered across his belly. It wasn't what Lyric was doing exactly that frightened him; in fact, hunting down murderers seemed noble, at least in the abstract. But it was the jackal's cool, rock-solid demeanour that was terrifying.

Does he enjoy it? Fletcher thought. No, he wouldn't.

“Y-You need rest." He stammered, eager to change the subject. “You need to get whatever is in your system out, and get better."

“I guess." Lyric grunted, shifting his weight. His steely expression faded, and he again looked tired and hurt. Fletcher's chest, determined not to maintain any emotion for longer than a few seconds, instantly rose again. The urge in him to comfort and protect the jackal ran deep, which was idiotic at best, considering how incapable he was compared to Lyric.

“You're so hurt. What happened yesterday?" He asked. He'd said it before, but never got a straight answer. Lyric just shook his head. An action pushed at Fletcher suddenly, and before he could stop himself he'd put a paw on Lyric's bruised chest, gently laying it flat, his other paw squeezing at the forearm. “You're safe now. I was really worried about you." He admitted, face burning.

Lyric licked his lips, looking first at Fletcher, then at the paw on his chest. Comprehension rose, and he grimaced, taking the coyote's paw in his own, and gently prying it away.

“Not now Fletch." He whispered. “Sorry. Just, let me get on my feet proper, then we'll talk."

“But I--" Fletcher almost couldn't stop himself, and he internally cursed his own stupid emotions, already humiliated, the shame burning his face and neck.

“We will talk later." Lyric said firmly, giving his paw back. “You're…" He stopped.

“I'm sorry." Fletcher whispered, ears falling as he tried to retreat into himself.

“It's alright boy." Lyric said, looking away. “But could you go rouse the good doctor? I think… I think I am about to pass out, convulse, or both."