Chapter 31

There are three ranges of classifications that apply to each type of ammunition. First, is Legal Class. These classes scale as follows: Quartz or commercial, Pearl or controlled, Opal or restricted, Obsidian or banned, and the ever-rare and dreaded Brimstone class, which being caught with a single round of this class will result in the death penalty.

The next classification is size or caliber. These are Feather, which is light, small, and cheap depending on the type of ammo; Coin, which are medium-sized rounds that can cause a bit more damage but cost more and are heavier; and Brick rounds, which are the largest class of ammo that isn’t designed for artillery or vehicle-mounted heavy weapons.

The last classification type is based on the type of damage that the rounds deal. Point rounds pierce enemies. Razor rounds slash enemies. Pound rounds bludgeon a target. Myst Core rounds have a myst crystal core to deal elemental damage, Mage rounds are enchanted by a Mage or magical craftsmen to have spell effects. Lastly are Null rounds, which are crafted from Scaiben Crystal, which nullifies all magic it comes in contact with.

I pulled myself from the dive-pod and rested my back against its side as I waited for my senses to unscramble. That had been my first time in full dive and I had no idea just how disorienting it was entering and leaving the cyber-scape.

“Well, that was… unpleasant.” I said in a grumble as I stood up and shook my head to straighten out my thoughts.

“You’re telling me.” Ferris wheezed from where he sat on the floor on his hands and knees.

Valletta stepped up into the center of the room as she said, “Well, welcome to the crew, Fresh Meat. Get your legs under ya and follow me.” She turned and strolled to the door as she gave a blind wave for us to follow. “I’m takin’ all ya’ll to the hideout to meet the gang. Get ready for a bronco of a ride when we get there.”

Eventually, we all gathered ourselves and followed that tatted-up ganger girl. Kharmor and Nennel seemed to be totally unaffected by the dive and had to help Ferris and me move until we were both stable enough to walk on our own. We followed Valletta out of the bar and to a beat-up old black van with mismatched rims, tinted windows, and a sticker of a busty Elf girl in a bikini on the rear window. Valletta pulled herself into the driver's seat as the rest of us piled into the back of the vehicle.

During the drive, we discussed our trials. I won’t go over the entire conversation, but I’ll give you the cliff notes. Ferris had to rob a corner store and avoid Regulators chasing him. He pulled it off but had to wound one Regulator severely.

Nennel had to follow and observe a girl to see if she was going to leak gang information to Regulators. When she did, Nennel had to attack the girl and the Regulators. Nel injured all of them badly enough that they would’ve needed hospitalization soon after, or they would die.

Kharmor had to track down a former gang member and torture then execute them and display the corpse as a warning. He did the job and seemed to be the least troubled of the group despite having the most morbid job out of all of us. I found just how unmoved Kharmor was by the task to be unnerving.

I verbally told the others about the trial I was supposed to have while I sent text messages to the group explaining what actually happened without digging too deep. I talked about how I had to hunt down and kill a shopkeeper who refused to pay protection money to the gang and was going to act as an informant to a party of Adventurers who were hired to stamp out crime in the local area.

I expressed unease and remorse for what I had to do, but also did my best to inject dedication into my tone. As the others read my messages, I watched as their expressions shifted from confusion to full concern. The verbal conversation died after we each explained our experiences, but we continued to converse through text. I did my best to answer their questions and straighten out what I had learned.

Ferris and Kharmor were fascinated with the cyber phantom. Ferris kept comparing Weaver to characters in stories, shows, and games in a similar state. Kharmor was intrigued by what should have been an impossible state to exist in. Khar’ was looking at it all as an experiment that defied reality. Nennel, on the other hand, was shocked by the fact that we were working against what should have been a myth.

There were always stories of souls getting trapped in the network and haunting cursed websites or second-hand devices. But everything we had been taught, not only at the academy, but even in grade school, said that it was impossible for a soul to get trapped in cyberspace. A person’s soul is permanently linked to their body. When someone enters full-dive, the cybernetic that allows it simply intercepts all sensations from the outer world and injects sensations from cyberspace. Along the same principle, mental commands to the body are intercepted and injected into the user’s cyber body. A soul could only be extracted from the body by invasive and lethal methods. When a soul is severed from the body, it will always pass on to the afterlife unless caught and trapped inside of a Soul Shard or Soul Core. Weaver’s then-present state defied laws of nature and magic alike.

We discussed theories on how Weaver could’ve become what he had, and tactics we might be able to use to interfere, trap, or even attack the cyber phantom. The drive continued for over an hour, and we plotted and schemed until Valletta spoke up.

“You all are awfully quiet. Were the tests really that bad? If it’s causing ya’ll that much trouble, ya might want me to drop ya off before we reach the hideout.”

“What? No, no.” I said hurriedly. “We’ve all seen and done some pretty dark dreck. But… I’ve never been a fan of hurting others.”

“What Iven says is true for all of us.” Nennel said. “We’ve all seen plenty of trouble, and none of us like harming anyone. But we all have fangs. Iven is probably the most gentle of any of us, but he’s also got the sharpest fangs. I watched him go toe to toe with an Arsenal class Regulator and almost put the drake-eyed nog in the ground.”

“You’re kidding.” Valletta said in disbelief. “That half-height cut ear stepped up to an Arsenal and won?”

“Almost won.” I corrected. “We all got knocked around pretty bad. We also had to ject’ out of that scene pretty fast after I… killed his partner.”

“How many chains he have?” Valletta asked.

“Eight when we started.” I mumbled, embarrassed at the thought of how I had lost control during that fight.

“You’ve gotta be joking, Fresh Meat. You stepped toe to toe with an Elite ranked Arsenal and walked out. No way I believe that.” Valletta accused.

“He’s telling the truth.” Nennel spoke up in my defense. “Ives’ stepped in and saved me during that fight. The trog almost put me down.”

“I can back that statement.” Ferris interjected. “I was going toe to toe with the Arsenal’s partner. Iven stepped in to save me from the witch. That’s when he killed her.”

That last bit was a bald-faced lie, but he was selling the story. At this point, the van turned into a run-down parking lot of a decrepit hospital. “Well, true or not, doesn’t matter, cuz we’re here. Gunna park in the back lot and walk ya’ll in.”

After the van parked and we all offloaded, our ganger guide led us to a back door, where she waved her BIC over the lock scanner. The lock clicked open, and the door swung wide. Valletta led us through long halls lined with abandoned hospital rooms. The halls and rooms were littered with debris ranging from trash to discarded hospital equipment like wheelchairs, bedpans, and hypo-jectors. I spotted a blood-stained scalpel half-perched on the end of an operating table in a room we passed by. The room was too dark for anyone else to spot the haunting scene, but it still made my skin crawl. Valletta led down one hall, then another, and up three flights of stairs before she stopped in front of a pair of doors with a cracked sign above labeled ‘Critical Care Ward’.

”You’d best find dat iron in yer gut. Passed these doors is the gang. They’re gonna give ya trouble to see how far they can push and test yer iron.” Said our guide as she playfully gave her chest two thumps with a fist.

“I, uh, what?” I asked. Valletta's speech had become much more rough and slang-filled.

She shot me an annoyed look. “I ain’t gonna keep talken like some clean-cut. That kinda talk’ll only get 'em slingin’ glass. If I ‘ere ya, I’d drop that straight-lace talk.

“I’m…sorry?”

Ferris stepped up beside me. “I got this.” He turned to me. “She’s telling you to stop talking with your flowery and proper speech. Basically, if you don’t use street slang, the gangers are going to give you grief. I’m guessing you don’t know street speak.”

I bit my lip and gave an embarrassed shake of my head.

“Not a problem. I’ll translate.” Ferris said with a proud grin.

“What, is young blood cut ear a high blood? He too good for us street scuffers?” Valletta asked in a hostile tone.

“Na. He’s just a bright thought kinda guy. He was born a dust kicker, not a street scuffer. The guy’s got the smart talk goin strong cuz he does plenty of bookwork.” Ferris answered her with an easy tongue as if he was speaking the foreign language like a native. He then turned to me and explained. “She asked if you’re a high-born and too good for street slang. I told her you’re just an intellectual and was born in a small town and not raised in the city. I also said that you do a lot of studying, and that’s why you talk weird.”

“I don’t talk weird!” I said in an offended tone.

Ferris shot me a knowing look. “Ives’, you talk like you grew up reading a dictionary instead of bedtime stories. You’re lucky I was raised the way I was. Otherwise, I’d think you were being a pretentious ass.”

Valletta spoke up. “Your friend’s got it on the nose. Now, this is the last time I’ll use high-class speak. You talk like you’re a noble playing at the street life. I only talk like this because it throws the fresh meat off their game. But you, kid, are just plain weird. If you can’t pull street speak, you’d best keep quiet unless you really need to speak.”

“Welp, I’m screwed.” I cursed.

“I got you covered, dude.” Ferris said with a bright grin. With that, we passed through the doors.

Beyond those double doors was another world. The walls of the large room were stripped down to bare brick and covered with sprawling graffiti, posters, and random trophies. A mismatched series of chairs, couches, and tables were set about the room in a haphazard manner. Every surface that wasn’t the floor, and even some of the floor, was littered with ashtrays, empty food wrappers, and more liquor bottles and cans than I wanted to count in a range of brands and types of liquors than I could exist. Then again, I was pretty ignorant about the topic of alcohol at this point in my life.

The room was filled with people of every species, breed, shape, and size, but they all looked the part of gangers. From a quick glance, I noticed higher numbers of certain breeds than others per species. Most of the Orcs were the massive green-skinned Gredgore. The majority of the Elves in the room were Wild Elves or Sun Elves. Most of the Primals in the space were Rodent breeds with a smattering of Canines and Felines. Almost all of the Dracose in the room were the large Dezzar warrior breed, like Demierra. All of the Ceangar I saw in the room were Sarthorran Wild Riders with their dusky skin colors and red hair. What few Dwarves I saw were the dark-skinned and light-haired Canyon Dwarves. The Humans I noticed in the room, which took up most of the pure-bred population, didn’t really have a majority of any one breed. I did see plenty of Halflings. The crossbreeds were everywhere. I guess coming from parents with two different species often resulted in arduous lives.

As we entered the space, everyone went quiet and turned to stare at us. It was at that moment that I noticed that every single person in the room was armed. Many of the gangers were armed with more than was reasonably needed, but I had no room to judge. I did just walk in with a sword, two sidearms, an Infusion Dagger, enough ammunition to make a military squad question my motives, and a cybernetic arm with enough lethal power to put down almost anything I could encounter within the city walls short of another Stigmagaunt. But only a fraction of what I carried was visible.

A monolithic green-skinned Orc stepped up to us. The wall of muscle had shoulders four feet wide and was dressed in ratty and worn gray jeans and a black t-shirt with sleeves torn off to display arms of massive and toned muscle. Thick-linked chains were wrapped around his right arm from wrist to shoulder. Around his neck was a slightly smaller chain holding empty bullet casings flanking a broken dagger. His exposed left arm was covered in scars from bullet wounds and blade slashes. His beady eyes were a pale gray that shone with what I read as a malicious light under a cliff crag of a brow. “Dis dat new meat, Val?” He asked. “Slim pickins from da count. None of da odders break da bank?”

“Na. These er’ the only ones. But they’re some prime rib.” Valletta replied with a smirk.

“Prime rib, eh? Dae all look twigged to me. Did dey really beat da gate?” The Orc asked.

Ferris leaned over and translated for me. “The big guy asked if we were the only ones to beat the challenge. Valletta said that we were the only ones and that we seem pretty skilled. He asked if we were actually any good because we look weak. Then he asked if we really did meet their standards.”

I gave an annoyed sigh as Valletta continued, unphased. “They broke the gate with preem mad fists. None blinked at the blood and only wheezed from popping their dive cherry. They even all say one leg with em stepped boots against an Arsenal Reg and dropped cold meat.”

Ferris explained. “Valletta said that we all showed serious skill and weren’t phased by what we did. She said that the only trouble we had was getting out of our first dive. She then said that one of us fought with an Arsenal Regulator and killed someone.”

I muttered in Ferris’s ear in a harsh whisper. “She makes it sound like I killed the Regulator. Is she trying to get me into trouble?”

“No, dude. She’s trying to talk you up and make you sound tougher.” Ferris replied.

The Orc eyed each of us, one by one. “Da pint beard drop da Reg? He looks ta be da only one with spine.”

“He asked if Khar’ was the one to kill the Regulator because he was the only one with courage.”

I bared my teeth as an ember lit in my eyes. I stepped forward with no heed for what Valletta had warned. “Listen here, you wall of dumb muscle. I’m the one that won that fight with the Reg. I might not be tall or thick, like your meaty frame, but I’ve crossed blades with opponents that would make even someone as monolithic as you faint.” Even as I spoke, I knew to some degree just how stupid I was being. If I had kept my head down and played the weakling, I would’ve had a much easier time getting the information that I needed. But there I was, getting upset at someone questioning my skill and courage. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve thought that skipped my daily dose of anti-crazy juice. I had, in fact, made sure to take my dose before heading out. But something was goading me, pushing me to get aggressive with the urge to prove myself.

The Orc just stared at me in confusion for a long moment, leaning back a bit as if in shock. After his shock wore off, he put on an annoyed expression and leaned toward me as he looked me up and down. “Val, ya tellin me dat dis cut ear stepped boots with da Reg an’ made em breath dirt? I ain't lettin' dat slip ears wid me. Dis twig slaps lips like he’s got a book between his ears. No way a clean cut made dat blade break. If he’s prime rib, I’m a cut ear.”

I was starting to understand what was being said, and while I couldn’t speak it fluently, I knew enough to know that this trog was talking trash. I partly turned my head back toward Ferris to speak to him without breaking eye contact with the Orc. “Fer’, mind translating what I had just said.” I requested.

Without skipping a beat, my Quint friend stepped up beside me. “Ives’ here wants me to tongue-trans so you can get his bright thought kinda speak when he slings glass. He said perk your ears, muscle man, cuz ya got lead lobes. He’s the one to clash steel with that Reg. He ain’t got feet up or a brick stack like your stake ass, but he’s stepped boots with nemes that’d make your thonk-high ass flatline.”

Without waiting for the Orc to respond, I continued. “I might talk like an intellectual, but you’d best remember that I’ll carve you up and put you down without thinking twice if you do me wrong. I earned my right to be here, just like anyone else in this room.”

Nennel stepped up and put a hand on my arm. “Ives’.” She said in a warning tone.

I shrugged off her hand and pressed ahead. “I’ll fight any two of you here and make you taste dirt if that’s what it takes to prove it.”

Ferris shot me a side-long glance of worry before translating. “He said he might talk like a big brain, but you’d best etch it in your gray that he’d slice you good and grave you and not pass that thought back round if you gashed his good. He bought his spot like any all here. He said he’d drop any two brandos to sniff dust if it will gleam him good.”

The Orc gave a derisive snort before looking down his slab nose at me as he cracked the knuckles of one hand in the palm of his other. “If dis neffer wanna scrap to gleam, he ain’t gotta dance twice. I’ll make em’ sniff dust without huffen twice.”

I glanced sidelong at Ferris. “Did he just say he’ll fight me alone to prove a point?”

Ferris flashed me a proud smile. “Sounds like you’re learning. Yeah, that’s what he said.”

This time, I gave a derisive sniff before rolling my neck and shoulders. In wordless response, the other gangers cleared a space in the center of the room and made a makeshift ring from tables and chairs.

My opponent turned his back to me and strolled with confidence into the space. As he walked, he spoke over his shoulder to me. “I’m Borgor Merrowsapper. Better etch dat on yer lobes.”

I followed him with a confident stride that I did not feel. I had just talked myself into trouble, and I wasn’t sure if I could stand up to my boasts. Inside, I was quaking like a leaf in the wind. But I displayed none of that nervousness. Borger and I stood on either side of the center of the space, four feet from each other. I locked eyes with him and simply asked, “Weapons or fists?”

Borger gave me an amused smirk. “I’ll tread with no edges. But I’ll give ya a crimp. Finger one piece for dis scrap, just no lead steel, got it.”

If I understood right, he said that he would fight with no weapons, but he’d allow me to use one weapon if it wasn’t a firearm. I gave him a single nod in answer before removing my holsters and handing them off to Nennel, who wordlessly stepped up to take them.

“Yer usen dat poker?” Borger asked, pointing a sausage of a finger at Devil’s Tail. I flashed him a wicked grin as I unbuckled the swords and sheath from my hip and handed it over to Nennel without breaking eye contact with the Orc.

“Ya goin widout? I don’t know if yer brave er thick.”

I held my grin as I said, “I’m still armed, but I’m not starting with it in hand. I want to keep this fair after all.”

His amused smirk turned to a snarl, and we both took a ready stance. I still had my Infusion Dagger tucked away in my boot. It was still accessible, but I thought that the taunt would be effective in forcing him into a mistake.

Borger’s starting stance was simple: left foot back, both legs bent, fists in a boxer position. I could tell that he was a veteran of street fights, but I could tell that he didn’t have much experience fighting someone with my kind of training. He doubtlessly relied on his size, mass, and raw strength to beat anyone he encountered. I couldn’t help but wonder how he would fight against someone his size or bigger, like a Bear Primal or a Kolterath like Stroder.

The ready stance I took was one that I had learned to use against larger opponents. Because Borger’s left foot was back, I mirrored him with my right foot back. My hands were open and loose, with the left forward and right close to my chest. I kept my profile slim to reduce the surface area he could target.

Valletta, can you call match star-” Before I could finish my request, Borger rushed at me, throwing a forward jab. He was expecting to catch me by surprise. But I was ready. I leaned aside to my right to avoid the punch. Before he could retract his strike, I pulled his wrist toward my chest with my left hand. At the same time as snatching his forward limb, I thrust my forearm against the joint of his forward elbow and pushed against the joint with all my strength. Following that first action by a fraction of a second, I spun on my forward heel, and swiped my rear foot around in a wide arc. I used this motion, in conjunction with the actions of my hands to throw the massive Orc off his balance and throw him to the ground with a quaking boom.

He struck that ground face-first and landed hard enough to shake the floor, but I didn’t stop. I closed in for a full mount, putting my feet on either side of his thick torso. But as I moved in, Borger flipped onto his back faster than I thought someone his size could manage. He lashed out with a kick to my hip. His foot struck my left hip with the force of a runaway truck. I was launched backward with massive power. I attempted to slow my speed by driving the balls of my feet into the cement floor and leaning forward to counter the momentum. The act was almost completely ineffective. The small of my back struck a table hard enough to knock it over, sending me tumbling with it, but I was still in the space of the ring, so I could keep fighting.

My horizontal fall left what would soon be an impressive bruise across my back my back and knock the wind from me. The only saving grace was that I hadn’t broken my spine. I had only just adapted to having an artificial arm, so I would rather not have had to learn how to live with a cybernetic spine.

I rolled onto my hands and knees and let out a coughing snarl of pain. Borger pulled himself to his feet with a grunt. As he was recentering his balance, I pulled myself into a runner’s stance and kicked off with a kinetic burst from both of my new feet.

I shot forward with blurring speed and caught Borger around the neck in the crook of my arm. I hit the titan of a man with enough force to throw him off his feet yet again. But this time, I was ready. He struck the ground like thunder, and I pushed the advantage by driving a boot into his neck, the same boot that held my Infusion Dagger. As I pushed my boot down with the threat of pressure, I pulled free the dagger, triggered the infusion of Fire Myst into the edge, and held it a hair’s breadth from Borger’s right eye. I knew that my blade was close enough that the heat from it would be drying his eye to an uncomfortable degree.

“Kay, kay! I sub!” he called in a choked panic. I stepped off of the massive Orc, deactivated the dagger, and flipped it in the air before snatching it and re-sheathing it.

“I’m no slouch, jack-twit. You can take that as fact.” I proclaimed as I took my weapons back from Nennel.

I was worried that Borger would resent me for my victory, but the Orc sat up laughing. “Dis cut ear has mad slaps. Dis bro lives up to tales tall and small.”

“Glad to hear it.” I said with an openly happy grin that remained hidden behind my mask, but I hoped it could be seen in my eyes. “I’ve got a few questions for anyone who knows anything about what’s going on around here.”

Ferris stepped up beside me and translated for me. “The dude has grins at the gain. But the man has Qs about the happenings about.”

Borger gave a hearty laugh. “Da bro got big Qs about da happenings, eh? Yo! Nimblefoot! Get your toes shiften. You know da knows about here.” He turned back to me. “I’m just a meat pounder with lead lobs. If ya wants to know the knows, Nimblefoot has the tongue to drop those Qs of yours.” He gave another boisterous chuckle before strolling off to pick up a bottle of something strong to chug.

In answer to the Orc’s call, a Ceangar came rushing up from out of nowhere. The compact individual was tall for a Ceangar of his breed. He was clearly a Sandarra Sand Sprinter, with ink-black hair, rosewood skin, and bronze eyes. The short man was dressed in tan jeans with holes in the knees and a red t-shirt emblazoned with a blue and white fox chasing an orange rabbit. His hair was greased back across most of his head with a spiked ridge up front. His chin was covered in a simple goatee with no lip hair.

“The guy got some Qs about the happenings around the gang? What’s yer Qs?” His voice was high and almost whiny, but not to the point of annoying.

“Uh, yeah. I’ve got a few…Qs. First, I was wondering where you guys got your Zyzivane formula?”

Nimblefoot gave me a very long, suspicious look before asking, “Ya mean where we gots our ZipVane from?”

“Uh, yeah?” I asked more than answered.

Gig and his brothers had mentioned ZipVane, but I had totally forgotten that it was the street name for Zyzivane. Given the look that the Ceangar was giving me, I was terrified that I had blown my cover with a simple slip of memory.

I panicked, hurrying to find an excuse for my word choice, when a stranger stepped in to save my bacon. A smaller-than-average gray-skinned Grytess Orc stepped in on my behalf. “I think the Fresh Meat is talkin bout ZipVane. I heard that Zyzi-stuff name from a corp-rat. He does talk all classy-like. I’m pretty sure that the dude’s a runaway from a bad corp fam.”

Nimblefoot eyed the Orc, then me. “That would pull the math. He ain’t the first corp-kin runner we picked up.” He turned to me. “Ya a corp-kin, Fresh Meat?”

I took the out and played along. I lowered my eyes and muttered my answer. “Yeah, my fam are corp-rats. But they weren’t good to me. I’d rather leave that dreck behind. I want a new life away from them.”

Nimblefoot waited for a few moments before giving me an understanding smile. “I get leaving kin-binds behind, kid. Bad fam is bad fam, plain and easy. Yeah, We got that Zyzivane stuff. But it aint good. The corp-rat scum that passed it gave us rotted goods.”

“Rotted goods how?” I asked.

The Ceangar was about to answer when a strong female voice called out from behind a closed door at the back of the room. “Fresh Meat, join me!”

At those words, the entire room flinched. The room the voice originated from was marked with a sign above the door labeled ‘Operating Room’. After everyone in the room recovered from the synched cringe, they all looked at me with an expectant stare.

“Who… was.. that?” I asked in clear worry.

Nimblefoot was the first to answer. “That was the boss. You should go meet her.”

I gave an audible gulp before nodding and looking at the others. Ferris and Nennel looked worried, but Kharmor looked totally unphased while still nodding in agreement.

So, with a heavy sigh, I took leaden steps toward the door that led to the boss of the gang.

I led the procession through the door into a room that shocked me. The room was spotlessly clean. The walls were decorated with fine paintings over clean and painted walls the color of cream. In the center of the room was a fine oak table with a game board atop it, flanked by two overstuffed leather couches. A fine table sat in the back corner of the room, covered in classy food treats.

From a quick inspection, I recognized caviar and fine crackers, roasted Hydra tail, Griffin wing bites, boiled Manticor tail with baked Manticor stake, and more I couldn’t identify. I only knew the ones I could identify on sight because of a cooking channel I had watched on occasion when I still lived with my father.

Sitting in the center of the couch facing us was a Ceangar woman. She was an Irdorra Iron Runner breed, recognizable by her bronze skin, ash blond hair, and stunning silver and dark blue eyes. Her hair was worn simply, tied back in a ponytail that flowed down her back and vanished behind her only to peak out just to her right, laying along the cushion of the couch. She was dressed in clean and crisp ash-gray dress slacks over a ratty moss-green tank top that exposed a strap of her black bra. She lay there. Completely relaxed with an ankle propped atop her opposite knee and arms draped over the back.

Laying at the head of the couch was a kinetic pistol that could only be brick caliber rounds. A single brick caliber round was large enough to not just punch a hole through my shoulder, but remove the joint entirely. And given how the room around me displayed opulence and wealth, that gun wasn’t loaded with anything as simple as standard rounds. If I was lucky, they would be opal legal class. But given my luck up to this point and the obvious intelligence of the woman, I was likely dealing with Mage Killer Rounds, Bloodburn Rounds, or Stain Glass Rounds. If I were in her position, I would have all three loaded in that revolver just to cover all bases.

I gave an audible gulp as I locked eyes with the gun. I held that stare for a few seconds longer than necessary to let her know that I noticed the weapon, was aware of it, and would keep note of it moving forward.

The woman gave an expansive wave of her hand toward the couch across from her. “Please, have a seat.” Her voice was thick with a Temprantissan accent, all hard and long Rs, sharp Vs, and hard Os.

I did as instructed and moved to take a seat directly across from the boss. I needed to be very careful moving forward. As the gang boss, she would have more information than anyone else I could talk to. But she not only could put enough holes in me to make me a wind chime of bone and sinew, she could also bring down the entire gang on me if I did anything wrong. Just from what I saw around the room and how she dressed, my best tactic was to remain polite but also show spine.

I took my seat and eyed the game board on the table while Nennel took a seat to my right, Ferris sat on my left, and Kharmor sat beside him.

“Is this a Garden of the Gods game board?” I asked, both nervous and curious.

“Good eye, boy. Do you play?” the Ceangar asked.

I shrugged and attempted to causally say “A bit.” But I was pretty sure that I failed to make it look casual.

My assumptions were proven correct when she gave an amused chuff through a grin before continuing. “It’s nice to meet the new meat who can speak a complete proper sentence.”

I gave my host my best polite smile before asking, “Is it really so rare?”

She rolled her eyes and gave a tired sigh before saying, “Sonny, Almost no one looking to join this gang wasn’t a street scuffer, or if you prefer, a local, born and raised.”

“That’s legitimately saddening to hear.” I said. “But how should I address the hostess? Would you prefer Boss, Mz.Boss, Big Lady?” I asked in an attempt at humor. Only after uttering it did I panic and worry that I had overstepped a boundary. But she gave a throaty laugh.

“You can simply call me Lynn. The grunts call me Mz.Lynn, Boss and so on. But, honestly, if you can speak like a civilized sapient, then you’ve earned more respect than most others.”

I gave a nod of understanding, about to ask a question when Kharmor spoke up. “Pardon me, Ma’am, but is that an Executioner 34S?” He asked, pointing at the side arm beside Lynn.

“My, my, doesn’t someone have an eye for the nicer things.” Lynn commented as she picked up the side arm and turned it back and forth. The revolver was larger than her forearm, and she still held it with such ease that I would think the weapon was weightless. Ceangar were a strong species, but even that simple act was setting off alarm bells in my head.

“This is, in fact, not an Executioner 34SRD. Only one of thirty made.”

“Crafted in between the years 335 and 350 A.o.D.K to celebrate the end of the Servotex Renegade Years. Each piece was an updated version of the original model with a series of improvements and additions. Like the metagraphic palm identification readers in the grip. Or the mental intent trigger and trigger lock that would only fire when the designated user would desire to fire.” Kharmor listed off these facts with an excited energy, unlike anything I had seen from him before. I would have to keep this information in mind moving forward.

“I must admit that I am impressed with your knowledge of rare collectible firearms.” She turned to me. “Are you as knowledgeable as your bearded friend? You may speak well, but is that all you can do other than fight?”

I looked at her for a long moment as I pondered my answer, and I made sure that she knew that I was thinking it through. “How about we play a game.” I gestured to the board on the table with a sweeping hand. “I have some questions about operations that I hope you would be willing to answer while we play?”

“Intrieging.” Lynn said as she pressed a thumb to the corner of her mouth in thought. “Very well. Your name is Iven, correct?” I gave a nod in confirmation.

She pressed an icon on her side of the board, and it lit with a pale blue light. A hologram image appeared above the round board. Lynn spun the hologram wheel of faction choices, stopping it with a single finger, seemingly at random. “Very well, Iven. I will choose the Mage Faction. How about yourself? The Hell Faction, perhaps? The Pandemonium Faction, maybe?”

I noticed that subtle jab. She knew what I was. She knew that I was a Darkling. But how?