Chapter 4: New Kid on the Block

Three humans in dark clothes watched from the shadows. A young man they had never seen before wandered the streets of the Pile, looking from the sign posts to some sort of note in his hand. Everything from his surface-style clothes to his pearlescent silver hair marked him as a suntanner.

The early sun season should have had little effect on the protected citizens of the Capitol. With the dust season ending this early, immagration stopped. A critical source of income for low-level thugs and bottomfeeder gangsters were these immigrants. Immigrants always had this belief that the Capitol was this utopia of opportunity, where anyone could climb the ladder to a better life. Those doomed dreamers were the easiest prey; all others had formed factions. Life was barely affordable before. 

Then, they saw him. A thick cold-warring hat and thick durable coat, a minimalist practical clothing fashion. Their mouths salivated at his satchel, the illusional chatter of coins singing like bells in their ears. No words needed to be said, each walked through the network of alleyways, always keeping the man just within reach. 

The man walked oblivious to them or the many other’s hungry for prey. Then he walked into a pawn shop. This pawn shop had starred in several rumors. The shop wasn’t owned or protected by any gang or faction, and yet none had tried to change that. It was a universal neutral zone, one which no one was allowed to extort. Most didn’t mind, the information of several with fat purses had been offered. The trio and several others waited off to the side, waiting for the signal.

Within each crossed gaze was a war, a brawl of claws and fangs. Hands reached into jackets, grabbing the hilt of knives and daggers. Blood boiled and pumped by the beat of drums and screaming nerves. Then a door opened on the side of the building, and the man walked out. There wasn’t a signal.

Like a bullet to the chest, the tension dropped dead. When a tourist walked into town and wasn’t sold out, that was a signal. A signal to always avoid. All the gangsters and opportunists left, except for the trio. This would be their first big catch in a long time. If this person was important, it would be hard to not know him. Perhaps fortune would bless them, allowing them to just take everything and not have to do anything drastic. If need be, there were many places in the Pile where a body could disappear. 

The trio began the hunt, staying just out of sight. The man started to weave through streets like a drunkard that had lost their way home. It was like watching an amateur trying to throw off a potential tail. The man looped back on himself in another pathetic attempt, ignorant that each of the trio had lived here nearly their entire lives and intimately knew every back alley and corner.

Around a corner, the man sprinted. The gears in their minds jammed for a moment before they rushed after him. He was missing, but both sides of the street were watched, leaving only an alley with a dead end. Each smiled at each other. They reached for their knives and walked down the alley forming a barricade. 

They walked down the alley, checking under trash and behind junk. There was no one. The man had disappeared. Until the click of a gun and a cold metal barrel touched the base of the leader's head. All blood went cold. The two lackeys turned around in horror to see the man they were following right behind them, pointing a rifle at their leader’s head. Everything stopped. They couldn’t think, only stare at their leader and the large gun.

“Why are you pointing a gun at me?”

“Why were you following me while gripping knives in your jackets?”

“There seems to be a misunderstanding…”

“I don’t think so, now since I am in a good mood, I think I will let you live.”

Each of them released the breath caged in their lungs. This man was soft, willing to release men who were willing to kill him. A plan brewed in each of their heads. That plan was killed when the stock of his rifle slammed in the back of their leader’s head. Their leader fell face first into the trash and fece infested alley. 

They tried to scream, but the man rushed at them with inhuman speed and punched right below the lungs. All the air inside of them was forced out, and before they could catch a new breath, a hand vice gripped their mouths and nose. Their knives were dropped and minds screamed as they tried to pry the hand from their mouths. Their lungs roared, desperate for oxygen.

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“Now, what should I do with all of you?” A voice like a demon scraped their ears as their eyes turned dark.

…

Ares sat at the bottom of a staircase on the Second Layer. He consulted the map on his lap while he cleaned his blood-covered dagger. The stairs were well lit compared to the train station, steril and gray. Dust and trash was a rarity when this close to the civilized part of civilization. There were odd dark stains on the wall though. After the blood was wiped clean, Ares got up and walked down the barren hallway into the Hive.

The Hive was an interesting place. Land underground was limited and difficult to create, the Hive was created to solve this. It was an architectural masterpiece, capable of housing an enormous amount of people in a space cheap to mine out. It was also one of the most famous places in the entire Empire, falling short of the University and Talimar Square. Ares heard a story from an old mentor that when the Hive was completed, it was celebrated by the lower class. To them, it represented an opportunity to delve deep permanently, to be safe.

The Hive had a market as well. Many craftsmen made their home there, and although the Hive was purely residential, a residence could be used as a front for immigrants to sell their expertise and establish a foothold. The Hive was a very profitable place for low income individuals and families. 

Ares walked through corridor after corridor, all ash bland. Families and individuals crowded the halls, forming a barrier of human conversation and body odor. Ares slithered through the fields of heads buried in stone coffins. He gripped his satchel and his coat, avoiding clusters and keeping himself to open space.

The Hive did have signs, metal tags identifying the floor and section if they weren’t too small to see and rusted. The only readable signs were next to parts covered in gray paint and bits of color seen through chipped holes. The map from the cartographer was detailed enough, showing the layout of the complex.

The Hive was like dancing in the Dedurgon’s hand. He walked through countless stale hallways and knocked on several doors by accident. A couple of hours lost started to wear him down, preparing him to sleep on the floor. Perhaps a security officer would find and help him. He walked to the final door, one that he had checked several times. He raised his hands, hesitated, then knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” 

“A lost family member.” 

“Huh?” The door was opened to reveal a middle aged man. At first glance, he seemed portly, but toned arms hidden beneath his shirt said otherwise. It was a tall engineer and part-time craftsman, balding with a carefully groomed mustache. His pupils were yellow and pierced through him, examining him fiber by fiber. 

“Ares!” 

“Hey Uncle Kalokos!”

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