Mergo Hensya

Having fun, yet?

As I emerged from the swirling vortex of the portal, a zephyr laced with the sweet concoction of fruit, smoke, and blossoms greeted me. The narrow street, alive with the cacophony of a festival in full swing, seemed an unlikely battleground for otherworldly encounters. Yet here we were, amidst the revelry, tasked with a mission that could ignite chaos as it did in our last fiery debacle.

"Jim, are we certain this is the spot?" I inquired, eyeing the portal's closure with scepticism.

He grinned, adjusting his uniform with a flourish. "What's life without a little carnival chaos? It's been ages since we've mingled with the masquerade."

A memory flickered—a coastal celebration of revolution, where uniforms like ours were shed in favour of anonymity. Jim had learned the hard way that charm doesn't always win over the crowd.

"Remember the blonde and her companion?" he teased, a twinkle in his eye.

I scoffed. "A victory hard-won through sheer persistence. But I must admit, your floundering was a spectacle I relished."

"Now, who's to say you won't find joy in the jostle?" he retorted, a challenge in his voice.

"If only the throng didn't suffocate," I muttered, the sea of bodies a vibrant barrier to our quest.

"Embrace the chaos, follow the rules, and leap at the first sign of our quarry," he instructed, gripping my hand firmly.

I wrenched away, my independence bristling. "I'm not the one prone to destruction, remember?"

Melding into the crowd, my white uniform stood out against the tapestry of colours yet was lost in the sheer volume of the festival-goers. Costumed creatures, leaping dancers, and curious onlookers filled the street to the brim, leaving no space for suspicion or solitude.

Elbows became my compass as I navigated the human maze, seeking a path unseen yet in plain sight. Progress was a slow dance, a mere shuffle of feet that eventually drove me to the refuge of an alleyway.

The city sprawled before me, a flat canvas devoid of vantage points. To discern an alien presence among this throng, proximity was key—assuming it bore a human guise. A detail I should've clarified with Damien before our paths diverged.

Leaning against the chill of the building's facade, I lit a cigarette, the ember a fleeting warmth against the encroaching night. Damien's idea of 'fun' was proving to be a gruelling test of patience. A sense of foreboding gnawed at me—we were better together in this hunt.

The street's tableau shifted, the dancers' vibrant skirts giving way to an odder procession. At its heart, a woman crowned with fiery locks commanded the crowd's unwavering attention. Her bare form, a bold defiance of modesty, was a spectacle I observed with detached interest.

A quick glance, a swift turn of the head—her jubilant perch atop the shoulders of adoring men was a scene I chose not to linger on. The last wisps of smoke from my cigarette trailed behind as I set forth, determined to find our elusive target amidst the revelry. The odds of misjudgment were slim, but in this carnival of curiosities, anything was possible.

The tension in the air was palpable as I forced my way through the crowd, my focus fixed on the enigmatic woman ahead. The plan was a nebulous thought, still forming amidst the chaos. The men surrounding her were a formidable barrier, but I harboured hope they'd scatter like leaves in the wind once we broke free from the throng.

But then, an eerie stillness fell over the crowd. A silent command had been issued, one that I had not heard, yet everyone obeyed. The music ceased, the dancers froze mid-step, and all eyes were on her—the woman with the fiery mane.