"No Life 'Til Leather"

Ww

In the name of desperation.

Tick. A head splits into thirds. Blood drips into the keg. Beer's fucked, the whole batch.

In the name of wretched pain.

Tock. The blade dances through a crowd of carefully constructed fibers. Muscle fibers, that is. A splash of red splatters over the girl's face.

In the name of all creation.

Tick. Andrew grips her hand tight. He doesn't want to get his clothes dirty. He doesn't want her blood on himself. His brain is hardwired to prevent that from happening at all costs. From letting her bleed.

Gone insane.

Tock. It takes the tiny swordsman a fracture of a second to sheathe his blade. With each sheathe and unsheathe, another body drops to the soaked balks. Alcohol and blood, it's all the same at this point.

We're so fucked.

Tick. Andrew's a cornered animal. His brain's mush. The shit they serve in Babel? The artificial slushie they dare call "mashed potatoes?" That's the consistency of his body's control center. That's what's controlling the endoskeleton under his skin. Skin and bones, and meat and fat – fibers and nerves, bundles of cables and surges of electricity – all of it, functions wrong. Andrew sees the little swordsman finish another round of ballet routines. His performance garners no cheers or claps, just the grim thudding of flesh splurging on the floor. Weaponry clatters at his feet. A mercenary or two lay out a foundation for his sandals to dance on. W twitches in his hold, but the brain doesn't even allow the thought of letting go.

Shit outta luck.

Outta luck, they were. These poor, underpaid goons. With barely enough silk to cover the scars that mapped their adventures, these Sarkaz warriors had nowhere else to turn, other than their own graves. The city of Kazdel had no graveyards. The Soul Furnace it was, then.

Thud. Andrew, W, the tiny murderer and all the mercenaries who were still alive and, for some reason, eager to attack the mutt, turned towards the nearest wall. The remnants of a wall, now.

The familiar screech of an electric-fed beast creaked their ears inside out. For anyone else, it might've been just the prep-stage of the misery busker-troupe waiting outside, but for Andy and W, it was the welcoming "Hello" of Anton's oversized toy.

Soon, the source had bared its face. A hiss of pistons and steams zig-zaged through the air, as Iron-Gut Betty flew across the bar. Her hat got lost in translation of the constant buzzing, and her graying head of hair was sent as the frontliner to meet a wooden beam supporting the pub's second floor. A grind of machinery crashed into the pole and tore it clean from the ground.

On the other side of the bar, however – light ruled the empty world. Rolls of sunlight tumbled into the establishment, brought and encouraged by the sudden appearance of a bus-sized hole in its wall. Mr Newmaker stood on shaky legs, hair in disarray, with a cruel mockery of what was socially acceptable as a "sword" in his hands. His eyes spilled a waterfall of glaring confidence – or so had everyone thought. You couldn't tell much, with all the random strands of snowy hair in the way.

Only important factor was that he couldn't refuse a grin. Andrew felt himself regaining some shavings of human-like thinking at the sight. His hands tightened around W's, as the whishing hurl of a rapidly spinning blade passed their location and tore apart the nearest few tables, into nothing but a pile of shredded sawdust. Newmaker zoomed by the two and threw himself into the general location of Betty, sword first.