Chapter 4: Prologue (4)

In all honesty, I can't stand to look. I knew quite well that my work would be used for vile acts such as these, but still, I couldn't stand to look.

"See what I mean," the man says, placing the blaster back on the table with a stream of smoke still trailing from it the tip of its barrel.

The waitress is on the ground, a blotch of red slowly spreading from the center of her chest out towards the rest of her white blouse.

"I fired seven shots, only three of them actually worked," the man continues, before waving for his goons to carry the dying woman out of the bar. The other waitresses stare in disbelief for only a short moment, before going back to work. However, this time, all of them are sure not to be anywhere near the man.

"From the looks of it, whoever this person is isn't even using their own parts. These look like scrap that I've molded myself," I infer out loud. Goddamit, couldn't this person have waited just a little longer? After this deal, my father and I would've been off to Vermon, away from all this.

"So there's been a breach of your warehouse?" the man asks seriously.

Warehouse? Sometimes I forget just how big an operation these folks think I'm running.

"No. Looks like they pulled them off redundant blasters. These do have a shelf life after all," I reply.

Well, in reality, they didn't. I just designed them in such a way that they dismantle after a few uses. I know it doesn't make me a better person, but the fewer times it can be fired, the better.

"I'll change up my insignia. That'll probably catch them off guard for a while," I continue once I realize that the man still seems to be waiting for something.

"That's not enough... Merchant," he replies, the word merchant rolling off his tongue in a foreign drawl.

"Tell me, do you believe in the work we do? Us hands of death I mean," the man asks, before standing up, and slowly dragging his chair so that he's sitting right beside me.

I'm conflicted. I could very well lie to the man and tell him that I did, but something tells me that lying is the wrong choice here.

"I believe in money," I reply.

"An honest man. You see, Merchant, we've been talking. The higher-ups and I... and we've decided to have you join our ranks. At a high position, of course. We aren't taking you for a fool," the man says, his face inching closer to mine.

The air around him is unnaturally chilly, and my spine won't stop crawling.

"I've told you guys before. I want nothing to do with this. I'm not willing to die for the goals of others," I reply. I can't give them way... if I hesitate, I'll get pulled into this mess.

"And that's why you'll be in a non-combat position. Come on partner, don't you find it weird? Weird that you just happened to be selling these the moment our resistance started. Almost as if this were your destiny, a role handed to you from god," the man continues. For a moment, his eyes are far away.

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"I can-"

"Don't be too hasty now. You haven't even heard the good part. We'll still pay you the fair amount for your blasters, and we'll provide the materials and instruments you need," the man interrupts.

"I'm not sharing my designs," I say unintentionally. This sounds awfully suspicious, and I can't help but be on edge.

"And we aren't asking you to. You'll be head of an entire sector... a nice portion off of Vermon. Our biggest branch is having trouble, and having the Merchant of Death close by will be good for morale," the man explains.

Vermon? What are the odds... 'just like a role handed from god'. In which case, I should probably be afraid. Whatever god sends down demons isn't one to give out blessings.

"I'll think about it," I reply. In actual fact, I won't. It's a no. I don't need them, with this I have everything ready to move to Vermon. All that's required is a Shane or two to help me traverse.

"I'll be looking forward to your answer," the man says. "By the way, the name's De La Muerte," he adds as I'm about to leave.

A foreigner, I knew it. But what's a foreigner doing in the Black Hand? And now that I think about it... how's the Black Hand able to afford having multiple branches? The more I think about this, the less sense it makes.

*

Last night I started work on a new type of blaster, one that uses the Arcane. I've been up ever since midnight, trying to find a way to convert the Arcane in the carbonite gems into something usable for the blasters. But so far I haven't been having much luck.

Anyway, tonight I turn 21... and so does Canary. I already sent her a letter a week ago, it should've arrived by now. Mine's probably waiting for me at the post office as well.

"You coming to eat son?" my father's voice calls out as he opens my door ever so slightly to check if I'm awake.

"Yeah, I'm coming," I reply, quickly stuffing all my drawings into a briefcase. My room's a clustered mess; springs, pieces of copper, and old designs are sprawled all about. I've been meaning to clean up, but haven't gotten the time to do it yet.

"So paps, you packed up yet?" I ask as I walk into the kitchen. My father had been against us moving initially, but recently it seems something's changed his mind, not sure what but I'm glad for it.

"I haven't gotten around to it yet. But I don't have a lot to pack anyway," my father replies, his voice kind of distant as he opens one of the pots on the stove.

I can already guess what's for breakfast... gruel. Even though my father is one of the more well-off people in this city, we still have to eat this shit.

Rumor has it that he got a fat check for handing my mother over. Apparently, she was some sort of rare Bullion holder, though he never tells me anything about that. I've learned not to ask. Every time I bring her up, I can see the sadness in his eyes.

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