Imprint - 7. Ch. 2 Part II

II

Strife spent his first ten minutes in Veil on his knees, bent over a toilet, vomiting out seemingly everything he had ever eaten in his entire life. Not the way he would have liked to begin this little adventure, not a promising sign at all.

He could sense a presence hovering nearby, watching him, reeking of anxiety, waiting until the violent dry heaving calmed again before stepping hesitantly forward. The other gatekeeper, didn't catch the kid's name and so dubbed him Mouseshit; young twitchy thing, way too thin and nervous, dressed in old dark clothes and painted purple hair, dark brown down at the roots. Had a pair of lovely violet eyes though, his one redeeming feature, shining wide and bright out of his pale face as he leaned over Strife and handed him a glass bottle with some black liquid inside.

“Here.” dear gods, he even sounded spineless, “Drink this, it'll help.”

Strife reached out and grabbed it with embarrassingly weak hands, bringing it just close enough to sniff. It smelled like rot. “What is it?” he managed to gurgle out.

“It smells bad, I know, and it tastes...well, not as bad as you'd think, but not great either. It helps, trust me.”

The words scratched like thorns along his tender throat, “Not what I asked.”

Mouseshit blinked dumbly, “Oh. Right,” he shook his head, “I don't really know what's in it. I just have them, supposed to give 'em to people. But it helps, really.”

Strife peered carefully at the kid, decided he didn't have the wherewithal to try and poison anyone, and downed the black sludge as quickly as he could. It tasted only marginally better than the vomit reside that was already there, but the near instant cooling effect on his tortured throat was beautiful, made it all worth it.

A few minutes later and he could really feel it working, soreness retreating and strength returning, he could even speak without feeling like he was gargling glass. Mouseshit seemed surprised at the quick recovery, which made him feel even better. “So, who opened that?” he decided to ask while he waited.

Mouseshit blinked again, “Huh? Opened what?” and he looked over his shoulder like he expected to see someone there.

“That,” he waved an impatient hand back along the messy trail he had left crawling over here.

And the light finally dawned in that tiny brain. “Oh,” Mouseshit made some jerky movement that might have been a spastic head shake and shoulder shrug simultaneously. “I – I don't know. Its been here a while, you know. Why you ask?”

“Because whoever did it, fucked it up. Or wasn't strong enough for it in the first place.” He raised a hand and rubbed gingerly at his stiff neck. “It shouldn't be this bad, shouldn't take this much out of you, not if it was done right.”

Mouseshit looked baffled by the concept, shrugging his shoulders again. “Yeah, well, I don't know anything about that. I just work here, you know.”

In other words, you're completely useless. He thought to ask why the kid was left in charge of something he didn't even understand the history or mechanism of...but then remembered where he was and decided not to bother; the answer would likely only piss him off.

The stench of his vomit was starting to get to him; he glanced over at the toilet, trying to avoid glancing down, and started looking for the aether stone. Strife realized his mistake only when Mouseshit leaned over, depressing a lever on the side of the tank; there was a loud sound, then the bowl was empty. Mouseshit shot him a happy grin, oh no need to thank me, I'm just doing my job; he wanted to hit himself in the face, accidentally validating this kid's existence.

At least I can blame it on portal sickness.

“Can I get a bath? Or a wet rag, or something?” As disgusting as he currently felt, Strife figured it would have been worse had he gone with his first instinct and dismissed the old man's suggestion to strip and leave his clothes behind; they would have been ruined and sticking to him now. Speaking of which, “I was also told I'd get clothes here.”

Mouseshit was nodding. “Uh, yeah. Clothes are upstairs,” he pointed vaguely behind himself, “little bit of a walk so, you know, whenever you're ready. Shower is,” and he walked quickly forward, past where Strife watched, a few feet beyond the toilet, pulling back a light blue curtain and stepping into a small room; after a second, Strife heard the sound of falling water. “Right in here,” Mouseshit reappeared, big smile on his face again, “Got everything you need in there. And I got nothing else going on right now, so, you know, take your time.”

Strife climbed slowly to his feet, wobbling just slightly, still a little lightheaded, but he forced himself to ignore it. Leaning forward, one hand braced on the wall, he grabbed hold of the single bag of belongings he had brought here with him, throwing the strap over his shoulder; somehow he had kept it with him, dragging it across the room tangled around his ankle while he struggled to keep his insides from escaping.

“Oh, I can watch that for you. No problem,” Mouseshit assured.

Yeah, I don't think so; he wasn't that stupid. Rifling through real quick he saw everything he expected to see right where he left it; including his ring, which was quickly slipped back on his finger. He brought it with him into the small room behind the curtain.

The shower helped, as hot as he could get it, the soap smelled weird to him but it did its job; fifteen minutes and he felt a hundred percent again. He left the small room, bag on his shoulder, running the towel left for him through his wet hair. Mouseshit was waiting just outside the curtain, perched on a, uncomfortable looking chair, reading something. He glanced up with a grin, “Good to go?”

Strife smirked, tossing the towel aside, “I'll live.”

Mouseshit stood up, dropping his book on the chair after him. He paused to give Strife a long, considering look; violet eyes raking slowly over his dripping body, a slight bit of color staining his too pale cheeks. Strife raised a calm brow, making certain to keep his voice mild. “See something you like?”

Mouseshit shook his head, a quick sharp jerk to the side. “Um, no. Just taking measurements.” he tapped a finger to his temple, “You'll be digging through that room all day otherwise.”

Strife doubted that very much but opted for silence. He made an impatient motion with his hand, urging the kid on, get this over with already.

Mouseshit led him down a dark, dirty corridor; Strife wasn't sure what this place used to be but he thought it had been abandoned for a long time before being taken over for its current purpose. He was led up a wide staircase, walls blackened by fire judging from the smell, faint smell so at least it was old; into a large room filled with boxes and storage containers lining the perimeter.

The kid walked right over to the far left corner, checking something on the containers there, then turned back to Strife. “Okay, you're probably going to want to stick to these couple boxes here. Shoes over here,” gesturing to another crate, “Mirror over there,” pointing near the middle of the back wall. “Find something that fits, and I'll be back.”

The clothing smelled of previous owners, most of it made from material he was not familiar with and felt unpleasant to the touch. It took a bit of digging before he found pants made from actual leather and a shirt that was soft, form fitting and sleeveless, all in black of course because he was a traditionalist when it suited him. He had better, faster luck with shoes, grabbing out a pair of boots with a metal plate in the toes (and what a good idea that was). He was checking himself in the mirror when Mouseshit returned with a pile of papers. He gave Strife another appraising look, though this time minus the glassy eyes and guilty flush, then moved quickly to grab something out of a crate.

“Here,” he handed Strife something black leather, long sleeved, “Its a coat. You're going to want to wear this, too.”

Strife quirked a brow in confusion; the weather felt mild enough to him to be comfortably either way. “What for?”

Mouseshit gestured to his arms, “People here, they don't have scars like that. And if they do, they're ashamed of them, do anything to hide them. I'm just assuming you don't want the attention, you'll get a lot of it like that.”

Strife waited for the punchline but the kid's straight face said it wasn't coming. He snorted instead, “Got to be kidding me.” he snatched the coat out of his hands and set it down with his things, “Hate this place already.”

Mouseshit smiled like he heard that a lot, “Probably ought to mention the tats, too. They could be a problem, could be, depending on where you go.”

Strife thought to correct him but then didn't bother, not the point. “As long as its not a problem everywhere, this shit has to breathe, you know.”

If Mouseshit knew what that meant he gave no sign; he approached Strife with a long, thin box filled with sunglasses. “For your eyes,” he said, glancing up at them in open wonder for a moment before shaking out of it again. “Keep them covered, no matter what.” He gave him one more careful look over, nodding in satisfaction. “That's the only obvious thing I can see. Other than that, you pass.”

Strife smirked, “Goodie for me,” He grabbed the first pair of glasses out of the box and tried them on, glancing in the mirror; the lenses were too large and square and looked bizarre on his face. He put them back and started fishing more carefully through the small collection.

Mouseshit waited what he likely thought to be a respectful couple of minutes before making the inquiry. “So, what are you, anyway?”

Strife looked over at his curious expression, slipping on a different pair of glasses and pushing them up his nose. “Annoyed,” he answered with a small grin, turning back to the mirror; smaller lenses, oval shaped, tighter fit, much better even if they left the tattoo on his face clearly visible. But, considering that its placement was meant to avoid deception, there was likely little he could do about that.

It was a common enough question really, he could hardly blame it on ignorance since he got it wherever he went. Something about being here put him in less of a mood to humor it than usual; there was enough bullshit he was going to have to humor here and for who knows how long, who gives a fuck what he is, doesn't fucking matter.

Mouseshit looked disappointed but not insulted. A moment of silence, then he piped up again. “So, business or pleasure?”

“What?”

“Why you're here,” he grinned, “Doesn't seem like you're relocating here, so...is it business or pleasure?”

Strife was temped to ask what sort of pleasure could possibly be found around here that might attract a crowd, but then didn't. He considered not answering, but relented somewhat, “I'm looking for something.”

“Oh. Anything special?”

Strife rolled his eyes, “Obviously, if I'm here.” He reached into his bag and pulled out the pouch with his earrings, using the mirror to put them all back in.

“Ah, right.” Silence a moment, then, “So, you have some idea where you're going then?”

Strife preferred not to think about it. “Figure it out when I find it.”

“Oh,” Mouseshit sounded surprised; Strife didn't look at him but kept detecting little motions out of the corner of his eye, wondering if it was physically possible for him to stand still. “So, do you have, like...family here? Friends, co-workers, something, helping you out?”

Strife turned to give him a quick look before getting back to his business.

“I just ask because...I mean, its a bigger place here than you might think. Its a different culture, you know, hard to get around in even if you can pass, and you...I mean, its going to be really hard if you got no plan, no one-”

Strife loosed an aggravated sigh, turning as calmly as he could to face the twitchy kid. “You see this?” he pointed to the tattoo that circled his left eye between the end of the brow and the bridge of his nose. “You know what it means?” he didn't wait for an answer, “It means that this situation is not unfamiliar to me, and I'll live.”

The kid nodded slowly, in acceptance if not understanding. “Okay, if you say so. But, you know, if you need anything-”

Another eye roll, “If I need a hero, I guess I know who to call.”

If the sarcasm registered, he showed no sign. “Well, I do know my way around, you know.” he sounded proud, “Been doing this job a couple years now, lived here my whole life. Fourth generation, you know.”

Is that something the brag about? Another question Strife opted not to ask. He had finished re-studding his right ear and was working on his left when he felt Mouseshit lean in too close very quickly, hot breath blowing on his cheek. “Is this Arionium?” he asked, running a finger along the edge of Strife's ear, then down along one of the dangling strips on the lobe.

Strife jerked his head away. “Mind your business.”

Arionium? Oh please. Like I can't get my hands on a better conductor than that. What's he think I'm doing here, festival light shows? Screw you.

“Sorry,” Mouseshit held both hands up, “if I'm not supposed to touch or something, I didn't know.”

Not the point, that really need to be explained?

“I just ask because...well, I mean, you know they won't work here, right?”

Strife paused, turning to look at the kid. “They're already charged.”

“Yeah, I'm sure, but – but it doesn't matter. It just doesn't work here.”

Quickly, Strife raised a hand, running it along his right ear, finding one of the hoops at the top, fingering it slowly, trying to feel for...

...Fuck! He's right. Nothing, it was completely cold.

He groaned, “Gods damn it, I hate this place.” he was beginning to see Drake's humor with the situation, and that just pissed him off more.

Mouseshit near jumped half a mile at his words, quick to try appeasing him. “Its not that – I mean, I knew there is something, one particular thing, a conduit or conductor or whatever you call it, that will hold a charge here. Nothing you would have or had access to...I think its either something from here specifically or else it just winds up here because who else would need it, you know, right?”

As loath as he was to ask for anything else, “You know where I can find this?”

“Me, no, not off hand. Not something I got or that you'd, like, find at market or something, not here. You ask around Outworld, someone should be able to point you in the right direction. Might have to go through one of the crime lords or their connections, or maybe not.”

Don't laugh... “Crime lords?”

He nodded, “Yeah, lots of Outworld is pretty shady. I mean obviously, you know how it was settled. Might want to be careful about that, who you deal with, you know. Not everyone's that bad, but some of them.”

“I'll try to be careful.” and make a mental note not to be too impressed. Strife continued putting his useless earring back in, if for no other reason than to keep the holes open.

“So, don't you have things for me?” he really needed to get out of here.

“Oh, yeah.” Mouseshit held up the pile of papers, handing them over one by one. “This here's a list of some cultural differences here you're going to want to be aware of.” Strife barely scanned it, noticed no wandering around with weapons right at the top, and wanted to put his head through the wall. He'd be able to deal with that much easier once he got a hold of a new conductor. It had been a long time since he had been even this defenseless.

“This here,” Mouseshit handed him something larger, “is a map of the city we're in right now.” He pointed to a metallic blue star stuck on top of it, “This is our location right here. When you go, you're going to want to walk a block over right, look for the bus stop,” he handed him a glossy picture of a sign post, “Looks like this. It'll take you downtown,” he indicated a section of the map to the north of the metallic blue star, where the lines or streets were far more numerous. There were three metallic red circles at various places there. “Passage points to Outworld,” Mouseshit explained, “You know what to look for there, right?”

“Of course I do,” it was an effort not to snap, so insulting.

“Okay, some people don't but that's good.” he tapped on the southern most circle. “This is probably the first place you're going to want to go. There's like, a market there, a tavern, good place to make connections. There's also a boarding house somewhere around there, you can pay or trade for a room, at least until you find a more permanent place to squat in, if you're going to be here that long. And if you're planning to travel locally,” he tapped two other places on the map marked with metallic yellow circles, “train station and airport. Get you just about anywhere.”

Strife took the papers from him, peering at the map, glancing through lists of landmarks, important places to look for, basics of travel and transportation, customs to be aware of; looked fairly comprehensive at a quick glance, Strife was reluctantly impressed.

“Trade currency is included in your deal, right?” Strife nodded. “You got something for me from Brim, right?” Strife reached in his bag and pulled out the paper the old man on the other side, Brim he supposed, gave to him, handing it over without looking up from his map.

Mouseshit glanced it over, eyes darting quickly left and right; a weird grin on his face, he reached into a front pocket and pulled out a stack of green and white paper. “Big spender, huh?” he joked.

Strife didn't comment, the kid's chattiness was wearing thin on him.

Mouseshit cut the stack of colored papers in half, handing it over to him. “Local trade currency,” he explained, “Good for a long way around, and if you leave the country its easy enough to find places to exchange. Now, you know how-”

“I know how to use coin,” Strife pushed the money in his own pocket with barely a glance at it.

He was nodding, “Yeah, its close enough anyway.” He was quiet a moment, reading something over, then, “So, you didn't pay for a photo ID? Because you know, the way things work here-”

“Yeah, I know,” Strife cut him off impatiently, “It was all explained to me before, but like you already pointed out, I don't pass close inspection anyway. So I'll be sticking to the shadows best I can, if I change my mind I'll be back.”

“Okay, if you want. Just trying to help, you know.”

“Uh-huh,” Strife stuffed his information packet in his bag, having absorbed what he'd need to start out. He fished a small pouch he had collected ahead of time and handed it over, “Here you go, full payment on arrival.”

Mouseshit pulled it open and peered inside, trying to act as though he had a clue what he was looking at but his eyes were blank. He dropped it carelessly on top of a closed crate. “Well then,” and he sounded a little brighter now, “if you're feeling up to it now, why don't we finish up here?”

“Yeah, why don't we-” but he stopped when the kid suddenly stepped up behind him and there were a pair of hands on his hips, clutching possessively, breath on the back of his neck, and digging into his lower back-

Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

Mouseshit went for his ear again, a tongue licking along the top part of the lobe where there were no piercings. “Its been harder waiting than usual,” he whispered in what he probably thought was a seductive tone. “You are fucking gorgeous, you know that?” He replaced his tongue with his teeth, nibbling lightly.

Truthfully, Strife couldn't say he was surprised, except perhaps that it hadn't come up sooner. He remembered the way the world worked, back when he used to have to play their games to get what he wanted. Of course that was a long time ago, long time since he had to, since anyone tried to suggest he should. A long time since anyone else touched him, anyone but-

Carefully suppressing every instinct he had, Strife slowly turned his head, forcing his features into a passive mask. Right there, that was always the worst part of it, how could he ever forget; the way they looked at you, like they owned you, thought you beneath them. He couldn't remember exactly when the last time was that he saw that look visible now in those violet eyes and the cocky curl of dry, pale lips, but he had never quite been able to forget the feeling. Seeing it again here on this skinny, twitchy, spineless, fourth generation and proud of it little fuck, was just one insult too many.

Okay now, let's see if I remember how to do this. He let his eyelids flutter slowly before settling half closed, gazing up through his pale blond lashes; let himself smile, small one, close lipped; allow some color in his cheeks. Promising and submissive, fulfill your every fantasy and never pose a threat, whatever you want from me its yours; hard to know if he really was still that good or if this kid was just that stupid, but his violet eyes lit up all the same.

He raised a hand and laid it along the kid's cheek, the feel of his slight scratchy stubble alien; it really has been a while. “This isn't unfamiliar to me, either,” he whispered, letting his smile grow by a fraction.

The idiot was practically drooling, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” a wider smile, a little laugh, I could make you my slave if I wanted you. “Come here,” he put his other hand on the other cheek and guided his head forward.

He let Mouseshit kiss him, let him lead while he focused on not biting his tongue off. He was far from a practiced seducer, but wasn't quite the fumbling failure Strife had expected either, and gee, I wonder why? He tasted like smoke and alcohol, and his tongue was too small and his lips were too thin and he just...

...just wasn't him. Fuck, it has been forever since I touched anyone else. Been a while without him, too...

Strife pulled back, just a few inches; Mouseshit's eyes were still closed, cheeks flushed, all smug and satisfied.

Perfect.

His hands tightened on the sides of the kid's face, holding him steady as he smashed his forehead into the kid's over large nose. His own pain was fleeting, trained to ignore far worse; the kid had no such fortitude, and he howled in surprise and agony.

This was not a seasoned warrior, no need to be flashy, no need to go all out; a hard fist to the solar plexus driving the wind out of him, his new metal plated boot to the side of his knee, fracturing delicate bone. The kid fell to the ground and Strife quickly clambered up on top of him, straddling his stomach and pressing his forearm across his throat, using every ounce of his enhanced strength to keep the little fuck pinned.

Mouseshit's hands flailed around desperately, his eyes wide and frightened; trying to grab hold of his arm, trying to push him away, his lower body bucking erratically, feet scrambling on the floor, trying to throw him off. He'd had better luck trying to push off a steel beam. Strife pushed down harder, watching impassively as the kid struggled to breathe, his nose broken and gushing blood all over his face, running down both cheeks and into his open mouth, choking him further. He waited until those eyes grew too dim, started to roll before letting up just enough that the kid could get a few deep lungfuls of air, could turn his head just enough to spit out a mouthful of red, coughing and grasping.

“You fucked up, boy,” Calm, mild, “You even know how bad, hmm? You have any idea who I am?” He backhanded him when his head didn't turn back quick enough. “You look at me when I talk to you.” Let go of his neck to grab him by the jaw, nearly yanking it out of joint with the force he used pulling him back, his grip pushing his bloody lips outward. Those violet eyes, so smug before, watched him now in abject terror. “I asked you if you know who I am?”

A small head shake; he wasn't surprised.

“Well, here's another question, a more relevant one for you.” He leaned forward just a little closer, “Do you know what happened to the last man who presumed to put his hands on me much like you just did?” The kid's body paused, tensed, breath held, waiting for the answer; he paused to enjoy the moment before continuing. “My husband fed him his own balls. And I helped myself to his fingers, cut them all off, one by one by one.”

Hearing that, Mouseshit flew into a panic, renewing his futile efforts to escape, putting everything in his that passed for power behind it. Strife used his grip on the kid's face to pick his head up and slam it back down, cracking it out the floor, grabbing his throat again and squeezing threateningly. “Now, you,” he caught hold of the kid's defensively raise hand, as hard as he tried to keep him from it; he dug his fingers in between the knuckles to keep him immobilized, forcing the hand up for closer inspection.

Short, thin, bony fingers; small nails broken off and caked with dirt and who knew what. “Worthless,” he declared with some disappointment, letting the hand drop again.

Before Mouseshit had a chance to look relieved, Strife's attention shifted again. “Now, your eyes on the other hand,” leaning all the way forward, resting on top of him, delighting in the way the weaker body trembled beneath him. “Your pretty, pretty purple eyes.” They were quickly snapped shut as though to hide them; Strife leaned close enough to blow a breath over the left one, scraping his teeth along the closed lid just to feel him shiver. “Do you know,” he whispered in the same seductive tone as before, “what someone like me could do with a pair of pretty purple eyes like that? Hmm? Do you know what I could trade them for?”

“Please...” his voice was a shaking whisper, raspy from the injury to his nose and throat, “Please...don't...don't...” hands up near his head on either side, clenching and unclenching. “I didn't – didn't know-”

“...didn't know?”

“You,” taking a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm down enough to speak. “I didn't know you, who you were.”

Strife nodded, digging an elbow into the kid's breastbone, propping his chin in his hand, trying to lean as much weight on the arm as he could. “That's one of the first things they teach in tactics, you know. Charge blindly onto the battlefield, don't even check and see who's there first. Yeah, that's the way to live a long life.” He grabbed the kid's bloody nose, tweaking it playfully, “I don't know about you, but where I come from we don't reward stupidity.”

“Please,” kept his eyes closed, his jaw was trembling, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

“Oh, I bet you are,” Strife ran his fingers through that painted purple hair, “I bet you're very fucking sorry now. Unfortunately for you, that don't mean nothing to me.”

“Please,” he caught a sliver of violet between dark lashes, peeking cautiously out, “Don't, please...I'll do anything.”

“Uh-huh,” he ran a finger along the edge of the kid's ear, flicking lightly at the unpierced lobe. “So, let me guess,” he spoke casually, flicking that ear lobe back and forth, back and forth; those weren't entirely worthless either. “This is some little deal you got going on between you and the old man on the other side, hmm? A little additional fee to the cost of transportation, hmm?” traced a finger along his eyebrow, his cheekbone, “Takes a real big man to pick on poor, desperate people, don't it?”

“No – no, I don't-” stopped and swallowed hard as Strife pushed down on his eye with a finger, exerting just enough pressure so he'd feel it. “That wasn't – not my idea.”

“Oh, I know that,” he pressed a little harder against that closed eye, “You don't have the brains or the balls for something like this, you're nothing but a parasite.” He traced along the edge of the eye socket, around and around, “Either your mentor doesn't care about you as much as you think he does, or else he thinks you're smarter than you actually are. Either way, he probably owes you an apology.”

“Wha-” his eyelid fluttered a moment before squeezing shut again; round and round, as though mapping out a path to cut, “What are you talk-”

“He didn't touch me,” Strife moved his finger to the other eye, running it along the line of lashes, “Didn't try, didn't even look at me funny. Just yes sir, no sir, right away, whatever you need sir, all well and good. Guess he's got better sense than you.”

“But I-” swallowed hard, Strife ran a thumb down that bobbing adam's apple, “I – I live here, I don't – I wouldn't know you.”

Strife shrugged a shoulder indifferently, “Who's to say he did know me. He might not have. Maybe he just used his fucking brain, his common fucking sense.” He tapped the kid's eye for emphasis, watching him try to flinch away, “You really don't have an excuse here, you shouldn't need to know my name or face, you should just be able to focus on me and fucking tell.”

Mouseshit's eyes opened again, looking utterly baffled. Strife felt his good humor grind to a halt. “I can take a guess where your family would've been from, you should have some inherent sensitivity.” More than just some really, by the looks of it. Strife leaned down close, right back in his face, where his talent (or taint, depending on how you want to look at it) would be glaringly obvious. The kid didn't wrinkle his nose in disgust, didn't flinch or twitch or look surprised or afraid, not anymore than he was already.

“You don't, do you?” all playful banter gone from his tone, Strife was honestly shocked, honestly horrified, “You don't sense a damn thing, do you? You're completely fucking numb.” he sat back again, shaking his head in disgust, “Pathetic. Fucking pathetic, you ought to be ashamed. You're so useless you might as well be one of them.”

“Please,” he kept his eyes open, slowly licking his bloody lips, didn't seem to notice the taste. “Please, I'm sorry, I'm – just let me go. Let me go, I'll do anything.”

“Why should I?” He tapped Mouseshit's forehead when a reply was not forthcoming, “Honest question, giving you a chance here, so listen up.” He gripped his chin tightly, keeping his head in place, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't carve the eyes out of your head, slit your belly open and leave you trussed up here for the rats to eat?”

In truth it didn't actually work that way; if Strife wanted to take his eyes as anything other than a pair of pretty, useless trinkets, he'd have to kill him outright first. But people never knew that and he wasn't one to correct erroneous assumptions, especially as a threat of live mutilation was somehow more potent than threat of a quick death.

“I've said I'm sorry,” Mouseshit's voice was a little stronger now, determined to take this chance, make something of it. “I am, I really am. I learned my lesson, I swear I'll never do it again.”

Strife rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and?” The kid just looked confused. “Do I look like a fucking philanthropist to you? If some other sad sack comes through here and doesn't have the common sense or backbone to knock you in your place, that is not my problem.”

He could see the kid deflate at that, obviously all he had. Strife made to reach for his bag nearby and his knife that was inside. “Wait!” a much stronger yell, “wait, please god, wait!”

Strife looked down at him expectantly.

He was clearly struggling, “I – you...you're obviously – obviously someone of some...reputation – a well deserved reputation, I'm sure. And – and I'm-” a harsh cough, his throat couldn't handle all the talking, “I'm pathetic, just like you said,” his eyes drifted to the side, taking on a wet sheen in the light, like maybe this wasn't all just a show. “A pathetic, worthless parasite too dumb to see a warning sign two inches from my face.” Strife idly twirled a lock of purple hair around his finger, drawing those matching eyes to him again. “For you to – to bother with me at all, I mean wouldn't that-”

Strife's eyes lit up with interest, a smile spreading across his face as he saw where this was going. “Are you saying it would lower me to punish you?”

Seeing his interest, Mouseshit started nodding as enthusiastically as he could from his near immobile position, “Yes, yes, exactly. You are clearly much better than that, so – I mean...I'm not worth it, I'm really not.”

Strife laughed, had half a mind to kiss him but that wasn't something he wanted to do twice, so settled for touching a finger to those bloody lips before pulling away, sitting up straight again. “Well, you do have a point there.”

Mouseshit was practically weeping with relief, eyes closed and breathing raggedly while Strife idly stretched his arms above his head. “Looks like you lucked out there, huh Mouseshit?” he grinned widely and waited to see the kid try to tentatively return it. He grabbed him by the head again, smashing it down on the floor, once, twice, three times, beating him down against it until he felt blood on his fingertips, until the kid's body went limp under him and his head lolled to the side. Not dead; unconscious, stunned, either way not getting up for a while. Not talking again for a while either, which was a fucking relief.

Strife stood calmly, stretching his legs out and stepping carefully over the sprawled body. He put that coat on, threw his bag over his shoulder, double checked that he had everything he needed – and paused when his eyes came to rest on his own pouch left discarded on top of a closed crate, the idiot too eager to collect his other payment to do anything with it.

He stared; slowly a smile spread across his face.

“You know,” he spoke over his shoulder to the unconscious gatekeeper, “I'd really hate to run out and just leave that much sitting out in the open there. Anyone could just wander in and take it and, well, I'd hate to see my hard earned savings getting pissed away like that.” he grabbed hold of the bag, leather thing, cheap, hastily constructed; teased it open and dumped its contents out on his palm. “What do you say, got some safe place I can stash this? Hmm?” Nothing, laid there silent and unmoving.

Strife wandered back over to him, reaching down for his belt buckle. This punishment, at least, was one he'd recover from.

Still shaking the rinse water from his hands, Strife finally left the shelter of the old abandoned building and stepped out into the open air.

It smelled rancid, so much shit clogging the air, shit his nose couldn't identify and he probably didn't want to too much about it; it was a wonder people here could breathe. It was hard to get a clear sense of his surroundings, the glasses covering his eyes were dark and it was night by now; something he'd have to learn to deal with as long as he was here. It was a narrow street, buildings lined tightly along it on either side, no hint of green anywhere. The only place that looked occupied was a large building right across the street, brightly lit, a few people going in and out, all men that he could see. There was a sign above the door but he had only a rudimentary grasp of the lettering and could read only little of it; he recognized XXX but didn't think it was a word, he also thought it said something about dancing. The pheromones in the air were impossible to miss and spoke for themselves.

Right in front of a brothel, how fitting. It did make sense though, some things were true the world over and one of those things was people in places like this minded their own business. In the absence of actual privacy, it was the next best thing.

Strife reached in his bag again, pulling out another small leather pouch, shaking it out in his hand. Three polished white knuckle bones, faintly stained with blood; he ran his fingers lovingly over each, feeling what was carved there that the glasses would not let him see. He curled his hand into a tight fist, squeezing the bones together, pushing them into his skin.

He concentrated hard, dug deep down; tried, tried as hard as he ever had and-

...Something. A twitch, a brief brush of heat; faint, struggling, but there.

It wasn't much, not by a long shot, but still...getting any reaction at all in Veil was a feat worth eternal bragging rights, which he intended to take full advantage of as soon as he was surrounded again with a crowd that could be impressed. But it wasn't going to be enough to work with, he knew that; his tricks would be useless, he was going to have to do this the old fashioned way.

Now that he was away from the building, away from the chatty gatekeeper, he could feel it, this place, didn't understand how he could have missed it before. It was...suffocating, numbing, like something had been amputated; like having a thick wet blanket draped over him, weighing him down, that he couldn't get out from under. He felt cut off, all his senses dulled. It was horrible, an invisible prison, an uncomfortable itch all over his skin. He didn't know how he was ever going to be able to live like this.

The only thing worse was the thought of the kid he left upstairs, proving as he did that it was possible to become used to this.

Never, never, oh dear gods I have got to get out of here. Got to get us out of here.

Strife supposed the only thing he could do now was make his way into Outworld, start making connections he could use to find his way. Perhaps present himself to one of the, heh crime lords, see if he couldn't be of some use to them so that he may use them in return. Shouldn't be too terribly hard to impress these yokels, and there was every chance his reputation had proceeded him. Quite a reputation it was too – accomplished in his craft, responsible for a massacre people still talked about, bonded spouse to a man many continue to believe had been a demon.

He wanted to get that back. He could only hope it would take that long.