Inkslayer

Chapter 4: Negotiation by Gunfire

The Coilhunter dived as the gunfight began. He rolled, triggering a switch on the guitar strapped to his back, which covered the area in a thick plume of smoke. His first bullet puckered the ground near Lokk's parked foot, a little warning shot. His second skimmed the top of Lokk's bald head, just in case he needed a louder warning.

The answering bullets came like machine gun fire, all focused on the spot he tumbled. Of course, he was gone by then, vanishing into the smog. He hopped over one bike, tapping a biker on the shoulder. The man flinched and turned, pointing his gun into the haze. He stopped himself from firing, because he couldn't tell if he was pointing at one of his companions—or worse, one of their bikes.

Nox continued on, zig-zagging through the dust and the smoke, throwing a noise-maker overhead to mask his movements, and to send their guns in all directions. He could've used his butterfly canisters, but there was no point in a negotiation if the other parties were asleep. He tip-toed past bikers, prodding them with his gloved fingers or blowing black smoke into their faces. He toyed with them, making them understand that he could've killed them at any minute.

And he could've. Why, he could've done it in the past as well. Boy, it would've been easier. Easier if he didn't have a conscience. It wouldn't plague him, and folk like the Oxen clan wouldn't plague him either. But if you didn't have a conscience in the Wild North, then chances were that something else'd be following you. Chances were it'd be the Coilhunter.

"End this game, Nox!" Lokk shouted. "You ain't playin' fair."

Nox scoffed at the notion. No one played fair. Not here. See, if you were foolish enough to play fair, you wound up dead pretty quick. You weren't a player then at all. So, all the ones still in the game played by their own, ever-shifting set of rules. You didn't just hide a few cards up your sleeves. You hid the whole deck.

"Let's do a deal, Lockdown," Nox said. "That's fair."

Why, it was more than most would've given the Oxen. Nox could've easily stolen one of their bikes in the blindness of the battle, knowing they wouldn't even fire upon him, in case they'd hit their own hog. That was an odd kind of honour, but it was honour all the same. It was why Nox didn't steal from them, why he didn't blind or kill them, why he felt he'd do this right, even if in their eyes it all came out looking wrong.

"A hog is life," Lokk said. "You know that."

And, sure enough, Nox did. His own monowheel was life to him too often enough. It was dependable. It was what got him out of tricky situations, and into the ones criminals didn't think were tricky at all. And it was an icon of something else, of that other tiny toy monowheel that little Aaron wanted, that he could only ever give him in the grave. So, maybe it was life, and maybe it was death. Either way, it was the same coin.

"I'll look after it," Nox said. "Bring it back in one piece."

Nox meant it, and went a long way to keep his promises. Being a mechanic would help too. It could come back in one piece, but that didn't mean it had to be intact for all the journey. But what really mattered more was bringing back the Inkslayer. It didn't matter how many pieces.

There was a brief silence, where Lokk must've been thinking it through. Everyone was stubborn in their own way, but everyone also had a price. Nox could hear Lokk patting that four-barrel shotgun in his hand.

"A loan, then," Lokk said reluctantly. There was some quickly-stifled muttering from the others. This was unconscionable. It was like whoring out their own wives. Worse, even. And to him? Not the one who mocked them. Not the one who made them look slow in the Ridge Race. Not the one who saw his vehicle as just another gadget instead of a companion. Not the Man with a Thousand Names, who didn't even have one for his steed. No. Not him.

"A loan," Nox repeated, making it sound like an oath. More often than not, that's what his words were. He knew Lokk knew it. He wore honour like another sheriff's badge.

The mutters and mumbles came back, louder now. Nox could make out some of them, enough to know that they were all objections. Lokk might've been coming 'round, but they weren't. Yet in the world of the Oxen clan, Lokk's word was law.

"Let's make this trade then," Nox said. The smog was quickly fading, enough to reveal parts of his silhouette, that familiar, frightening shape. He just hoped the urge to do a deal wouldn't fade with it.

"Not so fast, Coilhunter," Lokk replied.

Nox shifted, reaching again for his pistol. He wondered if he'd have to kill one of them, or kill their engines. He wondered if he'd have to walk the trail of the Inkslayer instead, or risk death by trying his own ink-covered steed.

"If you're gonna ride a hyper-hog," Lokk said, his own, intimidating form punching through the smoke, "then you're gonna have to become one o' us."

The mutters and mumbles ceased, replaced now by surprise. Lokk's word was law all right, and he'd just used a loophole they hadn't considered. You didn't give out your iron steed to just anyone. But to a fellow biker? Well, that was different.

Lokk's smile burrowed through his beard. "Well, whadya say ... Ox?"