Cold Smoke

Quid pro quo

AN: Yet another shortish chapter but you'll understand why soon enough c:

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The smell of damp, rotting wood lingered in Winter's nose, long before he woke up. His eye shifted beneath his eyelid in his unconscious state, the right side of his face patched up with thick bandages with a sore dark pink painted around the stitches. His cheekbone had swollen up, and his mouth tasted of old, dry blood.

Subconsciously, his hand grabbed at the shirt on his stomach, fisting the fabric, only for his grip to weaken again. He exhaled sharply through his nose, his head falling to the side onto the thin, feather downed mattress, jolting him awake.

Winter's working eye flickered slightly, vision fading to clearness from his weary state. For several moments he did not move, his somewhat comfortable position was enervating, He titled his head to the other side, only to let out a strained yelp as he grazed against his wound, teeth gritting as he winced.

Softly touching his bandages, he was given a brutal reminder of the events that unfolded for him to lose an entire eyeball. Rather than choking up over the loss of an organ, he merely felt numb, sighing softly. He pulled his fingers away and laid back, staring up at the ceiling.

He examined his surroundings; old, decaying wooden beams supported what seemed to be a limitless roof as darkness clouded his vision, and he squinted. Winter's eyes wandered, snapping from the musky candle upon rusted iron sconces to dusty shelves and other indistinguishable furniture. Wherever he was, they had patched him up and brought him here, to this derelict refuge.

Winter finally sat up, his head complaining as it ached, his parched throat stung as he swallowed and his joints made no effort to ease up. He raised his arms over his head, grabbing at his shoulder blades as he stretched, grunting through his nostrils.

Whether to feel grateful for being in such a run down place was barely an option, as his entire surroundings were tranquil and unmoving. Wherever he was, it was better than lying on the cobblestone in a pool of his own blood.

Across the room, he noticed what looked like a mirror which was seemingly the cleanest object in the room. Ignoring the aching of his limbs, he tottered over, sucking his teeth as he stumbled against the wall, planting his hands either side of the mirror. Stepping on his tip toes to reach it, he looked straight into himself.

The bile rose in his throat as he saw his reflection staring back at him; his near black hair was matted in areas, dirtied with dust and grease. His skin was patchy and pale, his lips cracked and painted with dried blood. He could not miss the huge bandage that covered the right side of his face, with his fringe falling over it.

His previous numbness turned to pain, and he choked up. He never thought seeing himself in such a pitiful state would be enough to bring him to tears. His heart sank and he stepped down from the mirror, stumbling back against a broken armchair.

The sound of footsteps made Winter jump, and he leaped up onto his feet, eye wide and weary.

A figure stopped by the doorway, peaking their head in to see the bed empty. They stepped into room completely, and Winter froze as their eyes turned to his small self.

"Oh," They began. "You're awake."

Winter's body tensed.

"I was beginning to think I had wasted my money getting you patched up."

The figure stepped towards him, and the candlelight lit up their features. He was a tall, lean young man, with sleekly styled black hair whereupon a set of tinted goggles perched on his crown, nestled in his locks. His eyes were a piercing blue, and they tore right through Winter.

"Uh...erm..."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'thank you'," He spat, obviously not amused by the fact that Winter wasn't grovelling at his feet in gratitude. Folding his arms, he cocked his head slightly, licking his top teeth slowly. "You must have severely provoked Karawan to cause him to gouge your bloody eye out."

Winter remained silent. This man obviously knew of his attacker, and his motives. He examined the man's bored expression further, and nodded his head hesitantly.

"Worry not, you merely exacerbated the situation," the man noted, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear. He lit it quickly and took a long draw of it, to exhale through his nose. He lifted his occupied hand and pointed at Winter with the lit cigarette between his fingers. "You could have been killed, but you weren't. Lucky you."

"I don't see how that's lucky," Winter hissed beneath his breath.

"Oh, so you can speak," the man retorted sardonically, with a grin. "Well, think of it this way. If I hadn't ripped my coin purse open to save you, we wouldn't be having this conversation," he gestured between them. "You may not weigh much but you're definitely pricey."

Winter thought about it intently. The man was right. If he had been left on the cobblestone, he knew nobody in Bloodstone had the heart to help. He would've been dead within several hours of bleeding to death.

The man kept mentioning money, so did he want the debt to be repaid? In which case, Winter would be in a lot of trouble. Feeling for his pockets, there was no jangle of coins or any other method of payment.

"I understand. You don't have the money, do you?" The man interrupted his thoughts. He chuckled lightly. "Well, I always need an extra pair of hands. Consider it as labour to pay back your debt. Quid pro quo."

Winter's brows furrowed and he stepped back. His eyes darted the room quickly once more, and he reluctantly spat out, "What labour?"

The man's face darkened, and he took another draw of his smoke. He stepped towards Winter, towering over the smaller man. He leaned down, almost pressing his mouth against his ear. "It's undisclosed."

His breath reeked of wine and smoke, and as he backed off, Winter raised his voice higher than he intended. "That's just-"

The man tossed his cigarette to the floor, stomping it out with the sole of his boot. He grabbed for a pistol in a holster on the back of his belt, whipping it out and aiming it at Winter. His face remained expressionless.

Winter jumped back, scrambling up against the wall. His heart was pounding against his ribcage and fear surged through him. He had no cocky remarks like his previous confrontation.

"Listen, kid. I do not take risks with children as...intelligent as you. Your naïveté to question me is going to get you killed," he cocked the gun. "So, I'll ask again. Do we have a quid pro quo?"

Winter swallowed. He wasn't afraid to kill. His hands weren't even trembling at the trigger. He was trained and had no remorse. Winter began to panic, and sweat beaded at his hair line. It wasn't as if Winter had any other method of repaying him, so a little manual labour wouldn't do him any harm. Anything to stop a bullet from piercing his other eye.

"Okay!" He conceded loudly. "Okay!" He panted. "Whatever you want me to do, I'll do it. I promise."

He man glared at him.

"Quid pro quo."

The aim on his head was diverted, and the man shook his head, smirking. "Good," he returned his gun to its holster. "Welcome to Bloodstone's one and only Melice cartel."

Winter's jaw dropped slowly in disbelief.

The man placed his hand on his chest, bowing his head. "I am Reaver," he extended his hand out in gesture to shake it.

The younger man gazed at it reluctantly, and slowly stepped forward to take his offer. "Winter..."

Reaver raised his eyebrows considerably, refraining from making any further degrading comments about such a ridiculous name. He bit his lip, and grabbed Winter by the arm.

There was no escape now. It was either an incredibly illegal career or a bullet through the head. And in Reaver's mind, it was either/or.