Middle Ground - Chapter 3

Middle Ground - Chapter 3

Chapter 3
[Calm Like A Bomb]

“It isn’t very fun staring down a loaded gun…”
-[My Chemical Romance]

The chair was still stuck to his arm.

Brigg stared in disapproval at the furniture he’d impaled on his fist, and with a shake of his arm he flung the broken chair idly aside, flexing a gloved hand. He’d certainly managed to garner everyone’s attention. He glanced around at the patrons who seemed to be fixated on him, frozen in…what? Fear? Surprise? Confusion?

In any case the fighting had stopped. Brigg found the whole thing pointless. Besides the fact that the men were drunk and needed to just leave the girl alone, he hated people who bore grudges against Inhumans, especially when they expressed those grudges through violence. He’d seen it all too many times before. He himself had been scarred by it.

Inhumans may have been superior to humans in many ways, but with enough guns pointed your way and a whole town against you, superiority wasn’t much help. They were just lucky that none of these men had drawn weapons. Yet.

Besides, women were supposed to be treated with a least a little respect. Childbirth, alone, was Brigg’s proof of that.

That girl threw a good punch, though. She’d nearly knocked him over, and she probably hadn’t even been trying hard. She wasn’t your everyday woman, he could tell that just by looking at her. Everyone who lived on the outlands was rugged and toughened in one way or another, even the women, but this girl was different. She wasn’t just tough, she was… strong. There was strength in her actions, in her words, in her bearing. It wasn’t the sort of strength one saw in women often. It wasn’t exactly a well-desired quality.

She seemed to have plenty of anger to go along with that strength, as well. But her attractiveness more than made up for that, in his mind. He liked a woman with some spunk.

The cowboy heard a whining sound beside him, rising in pitch, and he glanced to his left. The bartender in the Oriental getup had apparently grown fed up of playing bystander, and was now holding a caster in his hands, the barrel aimed directly at Brigg’s head. Powered with magic, caster guns were on a level above the average sixguns and rifles often found in the outlands.

Brigg calmly looked the shotgun-like weapon over and surmised that it was an ethocaster, which meant that it fired pure ether rather than require special spells. A glowing blue ring encircling the weapon where the chamber should have been confirmed it. With his reflexes he could probably dodge a shot even from this range. But if he couldn’t, the blast could easily vaporize his head.

There was a reason that casters weren’t common on the outlands, and that was because they were expensive. Between that and the songbox playing on the bar the tender probably owned what amounted to a small fortune here on the outlands. Where had he gotten that kind of money, and why was he still running a saloon in a rundown town like this? Brigg assumed that the man had some connections somewhere, possibly with the Legion. An ex-Legionnaire wishing to live out his days in peace, maybe.

The bartender’s bland expression hadn’t changed, but Brigg sensed a threatening aura hidden behind the veiled expression. He got the feeling that the man would have no qualms about killing him right there, as opposed to the fact that Brigg had quite a few qualms about dying. Slowly, cautiously, he raised his visible arm into the air, glancing over at the men gathered nearby. They still hadn’t moved.

“Look…” He met the bartender’s eyes and realized that they reminded him of his own. Lidded, bored, and unblinking. General apathy was something they had in common. Yippee. “I don’ want no trouble.”

The bartender’s eyes drifted to the man laid out on the floor several feet away.

“I weren’t tryin’ t’ start a fight. I was tryin’ t’ stop one. Less you want these drunk bastards t’ tear up yer place. Don’ see you pointin’ a gun at them…”

“They can’t use magic.” The bartender’s statement was simple and direct. His gun didn’t waver.

“Look, I ain’t gonna… magic y’all into oblivion ‘r nothin’ like that.” Brigg’s tone suggested that he was used to this sort of treatment. Which he was. The best thing to do was remain calm. Getting mad about it just made people shoot at you. “I don’ wanna fight. I sure as hell don’ wanna get wiped.” He paused for a moment, but the bony man didn’t seem convinced.

Brigg sighed. “Okay, feller… What say you let me rent one o’ yer rooms? I’ll go upstairs, sit in my room, ‘n go t’ sleep. I’ll be outta yer hair ‘fore the sun rises come ‘morrow. I doubt you’ll even have t’ see me again. I got money, yeah?”

Their eyes met again and didn’t move for several seconds. Everyone else in the bar was stone-still, silently watching the confrontation with bated breath. Well, almost everyone. The girl at the bar shifted impatiently, eyes darting between him and the bartender. She seemed almost agitated, and he wondered why. After all, he’d taken the attention off of her and her brother.

But as she shifted again he realized that she was subtly moving her lower body in front of a silver case that sat at her feet, hiding it from view. Brigg glanced over at her brother, the large blonde Natural, and saw him dart glances at the briefcase as well. A-ha. Well, whatever their business was, it was none of his.

“No one else has t’ get hurt here,” he said, glancing back up at the bartender. The man was taking too long and he was tired of holding his arm in the air.

The bartender blinked lazily. “Sounds like a threat t’ me.”

“It’s a cautionin’, ‘fore ya go ‘n do somethin’… rash.” Brigg had almost said “stupid” or something of the sort, but he doubted that would go over well. He arched an eyebrow at the bartender in the silence that followed. It seemed like an eternity passed before the man slowly shrugged a single shoulder. Brigg took that as a yes.

Relieved, he lowered his arm again, careful not to make any sudden movements. The caster hadn’t lowered, but the tender gave a very slight nod. Brigg nodded back in gratitude.

There was a general murmur among the crowd, mainly one of disagreement among the disgruntled men. The Inhuman siblings neither moved nor spoke, watching things play out. Brigg glanced at the girl, and then at her brother, still surrounded by drunkards. He wouldn’t have felt right leaving them hanging when he’d gotten involved for their sake in the first place.

“Them too,” he said, jabbing his thumb in their general direction. “Let ‘em stay the night. Wit’out no more trouble.”

At that, the murmuring rose to cries of outrage. The gray-haired father of the weasel-faced jackass who’d started all this stepped forward, tightening his jaw as he stared the bartender down. “Look here, now,” he began. “You’d best boot these freaks out on their asses ‘fore they decide to try ‘n rob us all blind!”

The tender glanced at him but didn’t answer, returning his focus to Brigg a moment later.

Apparently this didn’t please the other man, as he slammed his fist down on the bar and growled. “I’m talkin’ t’ you, dammit!”

Without hesitation the bartender turned his body enough to bring his caster gun to bear on the drunken father, practically sticking the barrel up his nostrils. He didn’t seem to waste any time with words. Brigg could appreciate a guy like that.

Understandably, the man backed up hurriedly, though still glaring. He stammered and fumbled over his words, trying to say something. “What the… Get that… I… You… You can’t be serious!”

The bartender took one hand off of the gun and pointed back to a sign that hung on the wall behind him. It read T. Malachi – Owner. Brigg guessed that T. Malachi was the bartender’s name. In other words, this was his establishment and he was going to do whatever the hell he wanted. Point well taken. He liked this guy.

The drunken man’s face went red, and though his mouth began to move nothing came out.

“They stay the night,” Malachi said blankly. “They’re gone in the mornin’. End of story.” He gestured with the barrel of his gun. “Sit down, Darryn. Unless you still wanna fight.”

Apparently Darryn did not, as the man turned and walked away in disgust. Muscling his way through the crowd he rammed his shoulder into his son’s, nearly knocking him over, and headed back to his table. His son followed, giving a last surly look over his shoulder at the girl.

The bartender and innkeeper turned and swept the barrel of his gun over the remaining men, silently challenging them. They all drifted silently back to their tables, some dragging their unconscious buddies with them. Eventually the three Inhumans were the only ones left near the bar.

“Men…” one woman remarked in disgust, shaking her head from a table in the back as she drew on a cigarette. Brigg had to agree with her.

Malachi finally lowered his gun and worked a pump-like mechanism below the caster’s barrel, sliding it forward. The gun whined again, this time the sound growing lower and dying away, and the blue glow faded from the ring. He stowed it somewhere beneath the counter and then straightened up with Brigg’s sunglasses in hand, acting as if nothing had happened.

He looked at Brigg expectantly. “Fifteen Ethos.”

Brigg arched an eyebrow slightly, suspecting that the man was jacking up the price just because he could. Either that or the rooms here were damn nice. Either way, it was either pay up or walk out. So he pulled some money out of his pocket and slapped a twenty Etho card down on the bar.

“Here. This’ll cover the lady’s food, too.” He fixed the girl beside him with a pointed stare just as she opened her mouth to protest, his expression offering no room for complaints. His new notoriety had its perks, as she seemed to get the hint, but as she closed her mouth again her gaze bored into him as she attempted to express her displeasure through her eyes. She succeeded pretty well, too.

“You can keep the rest,” Brigg said to Malachi. “I was never here.” It wouldn’t do for the innkeeper to go blabbing around about an Arcanus appearing in his bar. Brigg was on the run, after all. Malachi didn’t seem to be the tattling type, but it didn’t hurt to be careful. Of course Brigg couldn’t do anything about everyone else in the bar, but odds are anyone following him would simply ask the bartender.

Malachi glanced down at the money and then met Brigg’s eyes, making no move to accept it. “You broke my chair.” Man, this guy was an extortionist. As Brigg sighed quietly and fished out five more Ethos to add to the offer, Malachi finally gave a satisfied nod and collected the money. Then he reached to a row of keys hanging on the wall and grabbed one, sliding it over the counter to Brigg along with the glasses. “Room 105.” If everyone here was as stingy as this guy, Brigg didn’t even want to know how much it would cost to rent a horse in the morning. At least he’d said the room number quietly and hadn’t broadcast it to the entire saloon.

True to his word, Brigg took a moment to drain the contents of his whiskey bottle before grabbing up his bag and sword. There was no reason to wear the sunglasses now, their main purpose being to hide his eyes, so he slipped them into his pocket. He had no interest in remaining here any longer, and he was ready for bed. The longer the Inhumans stayed there the more chance there was of some idiot starting a fight, which would inevitably end up with someone dead. And that’d land them a whole other kind of trouble.

With a nod to Malachi and the girl beside him he turned to leave, but was stopped as the tall blonde approached him. Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked almost awkward as he seemed to search for the right words. “Hey… t’anks f’ dat back dere,” he said in a low voice. “T’ing was gettin’ ugly an’… Well, t’anks.”

Brigg gave a small shrug and nodded again, brushing past the young man before any meaningless small talk could ensue. “Don’ mention it.” Honestly he was beginning to regret the decision. If he’d just stayed where he was and kept his head down, he might have remained relatively unnoticeable amongst the commotion. Other people would have been less likely to identify him to his pursuers. Plus he might not have had to pay so damn much.

But if he hadn’t, no one else would have. That thought did away with any regrets he might have had.

Still, as he walked past all the tables and began to ascend the stairs at the end of the room, part of him still thought it may not have been wholly worth it in the long run. He’d played the good guy and did the right thing, but all he’d really gotten out of it was discrimination and a punch to the face. That didn’t really add up, somehow. He pushed those thoughts aside.

“Can’t ya cut a guy a break?” he said aloud in a low voice. “Bad enough I’m a wanted man, but I had t’ stumble onto a village o’ idjits who just hate me ‘cause they damn well can.” He glanced up at the ceiling in a silent plea. “This’s payback fer earlier, in’it? Fair ‘nough, I guess… But damn.”

He found his room in a hallway around the corner. He instinctively made sure that the hall was empty before unlocking it and slipping inside. The room wasn’t big, and held a bed and a dresser, as well as a half-full bookshelf and a chair in the corner. A window overlooked the main street, now empty and dotted with lamps. Certainly not worth the money he’d paid for it, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t slept in a real bed in at least a week.

And now that he thought about it, he probably wouldn’t tonight, either. The last time he’d slept in an inn he’d been rudely awakened and forced to make a rather hasty exit. It wasn’t as easy to jump up from a bed as it was to jump up from, say… a chair, which was likely where he would be sleeping tonight.

He gave a wistful look at the bed, but ended up dragging the chair over in front of the door. It was easier to get up and go from a chair than from a bed. He highly doubted he would need the precautions. He was expecting to be long gone by the time she got here. But being careful had kept him alive this long.

Now for the first order of business: he’d passed a public bathing room near the stairs, and he was due for some personal hygiene. For one who spent most of his nights sleeping outside in the desert, needless to say showers were difficult to come by. Thankfully even small villages boasted underground reservoirs to allow for a plentiful water supply. Though the desert itself was arid and dry, it boasted a number of underground lakes and rivers deep beneath its surface.

He didn’t trust this place enough to leave any of his things out of his sight, so he turned right back around and left the room, heading to the bathing room he’d spotted. A row of four or five shower stalls took up most of the space, with benches placed against the wall across from them and a few sinks near the door.

Brigg removed his hat, followed by his duster, and tossed them onto the closest bench. The coat concealed the lidium spaulders he wore, metallic shoulder pads, as well as the bracers on his arms. Normally armor signified either military service or a wealthy stature, neither of which were seen too often out here, so he had to keep his out of sight lest he attract even more attention. He also wore a light yet exceedingly sturdy shirt of mail beneath his shirt and buttoned vest.

Then followed his guns. One of the gun belts held his Flyleaf, while the other held a much larger, double-barreled revolver known as the Hellhammer. He reserved it for special cases. He put the belts on the bench as well and then reached back to a third firearm tucked in a holster at the back of his pants. This one, black and glossy, wasn’t a revolver, but a type of caster handgun sporting a long triangular barrel covered in Ethric letters. It was more of a desperation weapon than anything else.

He stripped out of his armor and clothes and left everything on the bench, save his sword, which he leaned against the side of the stall. He didn’t trust this place any farther than he could throw it, and he lived his life by the words ‘better safe than sorry’.

Brigg caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His body was covered nearly from head to toe in glowing Ethric symbols, matching the bright color of his eyes. Small lettering ran up his arms, legs, and neck, centering on his torso, where a symbol larger than all the rest sat in the center of his chest. It resembled something of an X laid over a crosshair, almost like an asterisk. The same symbol was evident on the backs of his hands and the tops of his feet. Only his face and some of his pelvis remained bare.

He shook his head in mild disgust. Those were the reason he was careful to keep every part of his body covered in public. To say that he stood out in a crowd was a major understatement. Along with his eyes, the lettering just made keeping a low profile that much more difficult.

“Y’ know, I’m thankful for the powers ‘n all, really,” he spoke to the ceiling again. “But did ya really have t’ go ‘n make it so damn obvious?”

He twisted the knobs until the water was blasting and stood with his face in the spray. He didn’t know if it was hot or cold, and he didn’t much care. He couldn’t feel any sort of temperature, and he didn’t have to worry about being burned. As such, he never particularly enjoyed showers like others did, but a guy needed to clean himself once in a while.

His abnormally long hair hung limply down his back and plastered over his face, freed from its tail. He never did much with it except tie it back out of the way. But he refused to cut it, for personal reasons. It was just one of those things.

He stood in the shower, made sure he was as clean as he was going to get for tonight, and just generally tried not to think for a while. A sign posted outside of the stall stated that he was limited to fifteen minutes, but he didn’t need much time to begin with. Besides, the less time it took him, the less chance someone would figure out he was in here and try to shank him in the back.

He finished up shortly and turned the water off. Steam rose from him as his unusually high body temperature began evaporating the water. He grabbed a thin towel hanging nearby in order to speed up the process and redressed himself before heading back to his room. Judging from the noise that had resumed downstairs the saloon patrons weren’t quite ready for bed yet. He wished he could have stayed for a few more drinks, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He had a feeling that if he took one step down those stairs now Malachi would blow his foot off. And then follow up with the rest of him.

He returned to the room and tossed his bag down beside the chair. There wasn’t much of anything for him to do now except sleep, unless he decided to pick up something to read from the bookshelf. And he wasn’t much of a reader. But before he settled down to rest there was one thing he had to do. It was his nightly ritual of sorts. And he meant that in the literal sense.

Past experience had shown him that the fruits of his labor were best kept out of sight in cases like these. Finicky innkeepers tended to object, and given the nature of this town Malachi might come up to check on him. So he opted to go with the only viable location: under the bed.

He moved over to the bed and slid it out of the way, thankful that it wasn’t bolted down. Not that that would have stopped him, but now he wouldn’t have to feel guilty about breaking anything. Placing his sword aside he knelt in the space the bed had occupied and recalled to mind the spell he was about to set up. He rarely used magic these days, but when he did he preferred to use it toward more constructive purposes than simply blowing stuff up.

He held up the fore and middle fingers of one hand and focused on their tips. He would need a rune circle to work this spell, and though he didn’t plan on using it now, if he did need to use it he would be in a hurry, so he wanted to set it up in advance. Just in case.

The main benefit of the Arcane was that they got the best of both worlds in terms of Gifts. They had the enhanced physical abilities of the Naturals, and the powerful magical abilities of the Ethereals. Ethereals were the polar opposite of the Naturals. They received no physical enhancements; instead, their abilities lay within their mind, with the ability to sense and manipulate a mystical energy known as ether.

Ether was a natural omnipresent energy. It could be found in everything, physical, liquid, or gas, at a level far removed from normal human senses. Some referred to it as life itself. Only Ethereals (and of course, Arcane) were able to sense these energies, and through the use of various runes known as Ethric, they could manipulate the energies toward a variety of reactions.

Ethereals and Arcane naturally understood Ethric, though its origins were unknown. It were two variations: written and spoken. Written Ethric was simply a language, each symbol representing a letter or number. With so many people and cultures now spread over so many planets and systems, written Ethric was becoming a universal alphabet, though it had no verbal sounds. Spoken Ethric was not actually spoken aloud at all, but consisted of a different set of symbols that each represented an aspect of ether. They were used as catalysts to direct and shape ether in ways necessary to elicit reactions in the physical world.

In other words, spoken Ethric was used as a means of casting spells.

Brigg touched both fingers to the floor and began to trace shapes over the wood, and as he did, lines of luminescent gold were left behind, as if he’d dipped his fingers in some strange ink. Using the ether residing in his body he was able to transcribe it into a visible form, which was usually the first step of casting any spell. The Ethric tattooed onto his body made that possible.

He wrote out lines of Ethric over the floor, first in a large circle, then a much smaller circle in the center of that, and lastly lines of runes that connected the two circles together, almost like a wheel. It took him around fifteen minutes to finish, writing out dozens of letters, as this was a very complicated spell.

Ethologists had a ball playing around with various combinations of symbols and researching the effects, and most of the spells were documented in databases. Many schools taught young Ethereals their first few spells, and they were only able to learn more from there by either reading up on more or figuring it out for themselves, the latter method being decidedly more dangerous.

When he’d finally finished he exhaled a low breath and stood up. He hadn’t invested much energy in the runes, so they pulsed with a dim light, disappearing for a few seconds at a time and then faintly reappearing again. The spell wouldn’t activate until he added more of his own energy, but the circle would remain dormant for a while. If he didn’t end up using the spell, he could will the energy in the letters to dissipate.

Brigg finished up the last order of business and shifted the bed back over the circle. No one would see it unless they actually looked under there. That particular spell was his escape plan, an insurance policy of sorts. He’d been attacked in his sleep more than a few times, and this would help him get away in a hurry if the odds weren’t in his favor. And they usually weren’t. He hadn’t had to use it in a while. He was hoping his luck would continue, but considering where he was and what had transpired down in the bar earlier, he was doubtful.

“Ce salaud dégoûtant!” As he walked over to his chair he heard a raised voice from the room next door, recognizing it as the Inhuman girl from downstairs. Somehow he doubted this was a coincidence. Did the innkeeper have some sort of ulterior motive, lumping the Inhumans close together like this? Maybe not, but Brigg wasn’t going to ignore it. Better to be needlessly paranoid than ignorantly lax.

He sat down in the chair in front of the door and leaned over to grab his sword, laying it on his lap. He kept his left hand in his duster, resting on the butt of his Flyleaf. Just in case. And then he settled in to sleep. Oh, the glamorous life of a wanted paranoid crackpot.

The walls weren’t all that thin, but with his hearing he could pick up a somewhat muffled conversation next door. With nothing better to do, Brigg pulled his hat low and closed his eyes, an ear trained in the room’s direction. Maybe he’d have some entertainment before he nodded off to sleep. But he was tired.

Oh, so very tired.



******



“Mon Dieu, calm y’self, Ma’.” Aouri said with a small smile, seated in the chair in the corner. His sister was always amusing when she was angry. Unless it was directed at him. “You t’ink you be used t’ catchin’ d’ coot by now. Man can’t resist yo’ feminine charm.”

“Ne soit pas ridicule,” Mari replied with a roll of her eyes. “Dat ain’ what I’s talkin’ ‘bout. Dat guy were an idjit, but dat ain’ nuttin’ new.” She kicked the side of the bed, shifting it over a few inches, and then flopped back onto it to stare at the ceiling. “I mean dat owner! Shut us ‘way up ‘ere like… like some animal ‘r somethin’!”

Aouri laughed loudly. “Weren’ you d’ one say you rather be up ‘ere anyway?”

“I know dat,” Mari grumbled. “It’s d’ principle o’ d’ t’ing!”

“Bah, don’ see why you so hot,” he muttered. “You got what you want. Even got t’ eat ‘fo we come up here. Me, now I gotta set my record back down t’ none.”

“What record?” Mari looked over at him skeptically.

“Conquêtes, Ma’, conquêtes,” he insisted. Conquests. “I’s had a fine youn’ lady-friend in ev’ry town we done been through. Was goin’ on a streak, but don’ look like dat’s no option dis timeabouts.” Aouri prided himself on his physical attractiveness, and he was the type who enjoyed “spreading the love around”, in a sense. Women were God’s gift, he always said, and it would be a shame to waste it.

Mari gave him a blank stare, and then grabbed a pillow from the bed and chucked it at him. “You a pig sometimes, Riri, I swear.”

Aouri laughed and caught the pillow, throwing it back. “Jus’ ‘cause I don’ believe in true love ‘n settlin’ down ‘n all dat don’ make me no pig. Mebbe you jus’ jealous dat you ain’ gettin’ none y’ self, yeah?”

The pillow landed on Mari’s face, but she made no move to remove it. “Shut up.”

They spent the next few minutes in silence, neither of them moving until Aouri drew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He’d tried to quit multiple times, but he wasn’t really sure that he actually wanted to. After picking one out he ripped off a small tab on the end and it lit with a brief flare of embers.

As he drew on it Mari nudged the pillow aside and looked at him. “Thought I tol’ you t’ quit that.”

“Don’ quite work dat way, Ma’,” he replied, blowing smoke into the air.

“It’s bad fo’ you.”

“S’ why it’s called a ‘bad habit’, yeah?”

“Bad fo’ me, too. Don’ make me come o’er dere ‘n take it. We gotta sleep in here.”

“Ma’…”

“I’ll get up, too. You know I will.”

“Ma’.” Aouri’s tone was firmer, quieter. He took another drag on his cigarette and sighed. Joking around with his sister was all fine and good, but it wouldn’t allay the worries that had been plaguing his mind for two days. “What we gon’ do ‘bout d’ money?”

Mari flung the pillow away from her into the wall and resumed staring at the ceiling. “Hell if I know, Riri! …What can we do, ‘cept go home?”

Aouri’s gaze turned to the briefcase that sat at the foot of the bed, between him and Mari. “Sayin’ dey follow us?”

“I dunno.” Mari shook her head helplessly, throwing an arm over her eyes. “I dunno… Depend on how bad dey want d’ money back.”

Aouri scoffed. “We cleaned out d’ town vault, Ma’. How bad you t’ink dey want it?”

“Jus’ shut the fuck up, Aouri. I don’ wanna be t’inkin’ ‘bout dis right now…”

“Well what d’ hell else should we be t’inkin’ ‘bout?” Aouri asked, louder than he’d intended. He calmed himself down before continuing. “We’s in a bad spot, Ma’.”

“Well, it don’ matter, do it? Ma ‘n Pa’s in a bad spot, too! Dat’s d’ whole reason we done done dis, yeah? Long as we can help dem… it don’ matter.”

Aouri’s face was grim but he made no immediate reply. He knew that like him, his sister valued their parents’ well-beings over everything else. After all, aside from each other who else did they have? But for the same reasons, he was plagued with guilt and doubt over their most recent turn of events. “Bringin’ mo’ trouble deir way won’ be helpin’ nobody…”

Mari didn’t have an answer to that. She lay in silence for a few more minutes and then rolled over with her back to Aouri. “G’night, Riri.”

Aouri sighed and stretched his leg out, resting a foot atop the briefcase and rocking it gently back and forth. Sometimes his sister’s stubbornness worked against him. “Dere gon’ come a time we can’t be runnin’ no more, Ma’.”

“G’night.”

Aouri gave the case a shove with his foot and let it fall over with a soft thump. “Night…”