Fiddlesticks

TYKE

Vine's lungs fill awkwardly as I help her up, this talking swear jar mumbling, "The dagger is acting like a fucking shield." My eyes thin at how she runs her hand over her chest, shoulders sagging heavily as if trying to cram everything into her tiny frame. "It's darkened with shitty fae magic."

I tilt my head toward some splats chiming around her.

Her thigh...Taking off my gloves, I shove them into my back pocket, my eyes dry and clouded by the bleeding burden standing before me. "You're dripping red."

Despite her headgear, she nods with a hint of a stupid wink. "I know. I'm swell as hell."

I stare at her, boundless thoughts jigging in my head. I'm not even groaning anymore. "You're bleeding, woman."

Her head turns to me in a motion faster than a horror movie puppet. I should find this creepy, but quite frankly, this little mouse wouldn't even scare a toddler in the dark. "You're killing my vibes, captain."

"I told you not to touch it."

"Argh." She curves around her leg before stumbling to one knee. The woman's damning me, and even as I catch her in one stride, her grunts whistling from beneath her helmet scupper me for more. Peals of moans arouse, clashing up the vault. It's rejuvenating in some ways, because the last time I was sent into a trance-like state of dissolution was when I met Fayra. Except, the one being fucked here is not her, but the mission.

"Sit and try not to move... or talk." Once again, I'm at grit level. No matter what, this mission won't end. "Remove your gloves. I need your bare hands."

Vine grunts as she does, and extends her leg to me, her toothy grinding in sync with mine.

"Brave Bell... you're an idiot. Thought you should know."

"Let's stop at 'brave,' shall we?"

My hands hover over her thigh, roving over thin strands of hair she didn't bother gathering into her helmet. As I reach a place sticky and wet, I briefly side-eye her fingers pronged out in star shapes, nails chalking on the slate, making my ears cry.

"Please... captain, slow and easy. It's my first time," this imp hisses.

"Stay still." Carefully, my fingers dab about her swollen limb, her breathing increasing as I press my fingertips close to the wound.

"Bell..." Shifting closer to her, I wrap my hand over hers because she won't like what follows. "I'm going to remove this intruder."

It's a fucking stake sticking out of her leg, which has me unsure whether to abort the mission?—

"The smoke, it's thickening. Let's go," she says in a hushed tone.

I'm guessing not.

"Forget the smoke. Right now, I need you to gather some courage."

"Why?"

"Because it's going to hurt."

She draws in half the air of the cathedral and nods.

"On three." I don't even count; I squeeze her hand vigorously while pulling out the splinter that's bedded deeper in her flesh than I thought.

The woman huffs, pushes, breathes in, breathes out as if giving birth to a monster far bigger than herself.

I bring her hand over her wound and show her the example, half-contained moans fusing between us. "Apply pressure."

She's okay.

Blood is trickling down her trousers, steadily collecting in a small pool. It will take more than just a few stitches to get her out of this mess. "You've got the pain under control?" I rub her arm, pet her repeatedly, stroking her ferine hair, sometimes flitting a hand to her chest, tracking the wildest heartbeats.

She's okay.

"On a leash." Gods, she's a small thing, her bobbing helmet not even reaching my chin. I'm guessing there's a forced smile under there. I grip her wrist, checking her pulse, sipping in the warmth of our touch.

She's okay.

"Jayara..."

"Captain?"

"I-I..." My lips freeze mid-movement.Shlaatak. "I don't like blood on women."

"First time working with one?"

"Yes."

"Is that what it means? Jayara?"

My eyes widen. "Come again?"

"Jayara means blood on women in Orcish?"

Eyes on her gash, unable to think straight, my throat is so tightly packed, it's stifling my unborn words, hacking my breaths in chunks.

"It has no word for it in Faerish. Words in this language are poor when it comes to context. We have many."

"Tell me. I'm curious now."

I rip off a piece of my suit's sleeve, hunker forth, and articulate clearly, "Keep your fiddlesticks for another time."

"Ain't no fiddlesticks. I've got a story, too!" Her fussing has picked up, my two puzzled hands caught at break, hovering a cloth of fortune above her squiggling thigh, trying to fucking bandage it. "Hold still!"

"I'm still, captain. No need to growl." She's knocking off my starch, whooping my patience cell by cell, my fae-manufactured civility meter bucking at subzero level. My past is mine to keep.

Humming in pain, Vine lurches forth, grappling her thigh as if attempting to tame its jerks. A vocal shiver frisks out her tongue, "You've done this before?"

"Part of the training, is it not?"

She curls around her wound in a rather oddly supple way—to put it mildly. "No. Not that technique."

"Maybe my way works better." I pry my eyes on her, chest-palming her to lean back.

"How much?"

My forehead puckers. "How much what, kid?"

"How much did she take from you?"

I stare at my hands doing a song and dance with the cloth of fortune, tethering her, crossing my mind with violence.

"You're a sucker for gossip, aren't you?" I counter, tying a tourniquet around her thigh, and she whimpers as I strain the fabric's ends with more might than usual...

Grabbing one of my working hands, she husks, "Tell me," with such an intense grain that I don't know if it's from pain or striking anger.

"Funny how wisdom chases you, but you always seem two steps ahead of it."

"Was it your mother, a brother?"

"Enough, Vine." My primary concern is avoiding trouble with higher authorities and keeping my bug safe. Most importantly, I will not indulge in some sort of elvish morbid fascination with an orc.

"Fidr took our land, too, you know."

"She didn't; it was your leader who married her." I then whisper, "Zip it." I hope it crackles in her headset loud enough to shut her up.

"She forced him to and then killed him. Her aim is power, dominance, and a claim over all monsterkind." Turns out not.

"Let's go," I say, slipping an arm under hers.

Vine ignores me, shrugging away from my inviting gesture, opting to freeze me with a helmet-to-helmet confrontation. Hell.

"Not before you tell me what Jayara means."

Won't fucking drop the bone! "It's the feeling of sadness and beauty that comes from watching leaves fall from trees. Jayara."

I'm currently hating the silence that has landed between us.

"It's beautiful," she finally rasps, arms welcoming me with flicking hands as if I were her domestic bitch.

My face takes a steep plunge to my feet, humiliation pebbling my skin. Jayara belongs to Orcana's winds. Neither foreigners nor orcs should utter the name of a fallen princess. Bringing up the dead is forbidden, offensive, and dishonorable...

After looking at the ground long enough, I raise my eyebrows sharply, glaring at her bitterly for having backed me into a corner. If she could see my face, I'm pretty sure she'd run.

"Were you a med before?" she asks, her undying curiosity tying my veins into knots of clots.

"Med?"

"A doctor or, um... a healer?" The woman's not even trying to gather her legs, more of well sat on her ass as if waiting for some tea.

"No, why?"

This bloody silence again.

But then, silence isn't all bad. Either way, it's gone now, and because of this, my situation just worsened, my teeth one pressure away from being powderized by the words, "You're alone."

"Where are you heading with this?" I grate, wrapping my arm under her shoulder for the nth time.

"A lot of people enjoy taking care of others because they weren't cared for as much," she says, her elbows tucked in as if lying on a beach somewhere on the West Coast. Glad she feels relaxed! "And I know Fidrbitch left so many... uncared for."

I whisk her up in haste. "You have no taste for life!"

She squeaks, pulling her hand away as if I disgusted her.

For the second time now, she spits at my damn boots before snapping her head back at me. "The authorities will come after me, so why give a shit?"

I inhale and release the air with a, "Can you walk?"

"Yes..." By the look of her two wobbly straws, I don't think so.

"Can you shoot straight?"

"Captain, I need a fucking break." She's cursing under her breath, dragging her leg far from me. She's in a mood. Great.

My helmet chirrs. "Citadel to Dawn Breaker one, why have you stopped?"

"We got..." Vine and I exchange a stiff glance. I feel like I am singing a jazz tune while the world is on fire, my throat lumping as I try to get out my not-so-great improv skills. "Sidetracked. Resuming now."

"Vampire activity disappeared fifty minutes ago. You better watch out. Over."

"They are under us. We need to find stairs. I'll carry you."

Casually throwing her head back as I lift her, she asks, "Smell that? It's sharp, acrid... I'd say chemical-like..."

I nod. "Ink. Someone's burning documents." This fire-like taste drying on my tongue draws my attention to the left, and with Vine in my arms, I take an educated guess, sneaking around the carved-in bulk.

"Jackpot, captain. You're quite the hound."

And indeed, I am because the tips of my boots are currently nudging the edge of the first step of an endless number of them. We've been so absorbed by this corpse that we didn't even notice the ground-born passage beside the throne. "It's a crypt."

A crypt... The thought of the mission coming to an end fills me with fucking joy. "Let's get down to business."

But then, those steps.

"Captain..."

"I see them." My gaze follows this sordid flight of stairs spinning down until they take that twist in the shadows. Paving them, diaphanous, shredded wings resembling those of large flies.

Her rifle!

While I sprint for the one thing we can't leave without, Vine's small arms wrap around my neck, tempting my nose with her scent.

It's enticing. Enough to hoist a big red flag in my head and bite down whatever impulse my instincts may kick out of me.

I reach for her weapon, Vine's body sliding out of my weakening grip. "Where do you think you're going, little fish?"

Little fish? Tyke!

"I'm too heavy? I can try walking."

My grip tightens. "No." And as I yank Vine up firmly against me, her body speaks to me in a combination of languages I don't want to understand. The softness of her touch, how her limbs tuck perfectly into mine, water against a bed of rock, borning a perfect river, I could swim in her.

No!

"You're a hard catch and tougher to keep," I tell her, careful not to exert pressure on her wound or anywhere else... My suit tightens around my groin. Shame. Guilt. Envy... Fuck. There must be something sickening I can think of!

"You've got me all figured out, then, captain." With her quip barely out of her mouth, she snatches her firearm from my hand, flicks a few levers, and pretends to aim, ensuring it's at the ready.

I sigh, amused. Vine's a brave elf. Nothing to do with the wound on her thigh or her fiery political ideas, but because she's that resilient chick. Never holds a grudge and adapts like a glove. And perhaps this mission isn't going as smoothly as I wanted it to go, but our chemistry, odd as it seems, is.

Too much, in fact.

Because as I retrace my steps, Vine's knees rub against my chest, and I slash a cheek with a row of molars when they start grating against my suit—raw heat savaging my nipple rings.

Vine is getting—By Gur' Ul!—extremely comfortable on my forearm, veering her backside against it, presumably for a comfier spot.

There's a trembling in my bones, a tide rising between my legs.

My orcness is getting the best of me. I can't control this thing; it controls me!

Try as I might, I feign riding off this monstrous fever infecting me, coldly groaning, "I'll be your shield. You'll be my rifle woman. Got it?"

"Got it." Vine shrugs a little, and I can tell she's in far more pain than what she's showing.

"You're going to be okay, Bell." I tilt down to look at her, my hand cupping her helmet. She nods without a word as the ghost of her grip layers over mine, making every hair pulse out of me. My father once told me that females are the most frustrating addiction an orc will ever have. I can confirm this, twice.

A part of me has gone unresponsive, and my chest is in twists, fingers in a sweat, searing from my free-flowing hand glazing over her shoulder down her back. I force my attention on what's prickling under my glove: the spiky ridges on Vine's body niggling against her suit.

I'm hesitant to press against them, knowing the small chain of bones running along her spine is vulnerable to catch on the slightest of her uniform threads.

This beddable female co-worker's body is?—

My lips shred, iron drowning my mouth as I punish myself. Vine's a Darinide elf. And this thought is breaking my mind, complicating my current sex craze. They are known as libertine creatures, whose primary method of resolving conflicts is humping each other.

I would love to undo those fuck-knots currently binding me and put her down, never to pick her up again. But that's life. It's constantly testing you, even when you don't bloody need it. Think of something else! Fay...

"Should we get it on, captain?" comes stroking my ear, and I don't need this! A gulp, the consistency of an urchin, is fighting for its life as it grates down my tight throat. What I need is a distraction.

I put my foot down on the first step, the crunch of a wing pulling my mind and body out of my fuckened state.

And as I engage us down these thin, morbid steppingstones, I quickly regain focus on the mission at hand. My throat loosens with a freeing groan, like when holding Fayra. A few more hours, Tyke. Just a few more.

Several bog torches protrude from the walls, obscured by a fog of cobwebs. Feet tumbling along a spiral, there's no way to tell where they're taking us, aside from this glow at the far end, burning war in my eyes.

Fear's been replaced with a thrill, and my rictus with a sneer. They are cornered—that's my hope, at least. What I expect is nothing more than a happy hunting ground.

Light!

In a flash, I leap back and hide us in the shadow behind the turn.

"Don't be shy. Show your little faces." Our breaths catch as a deep feminine voice floods up the narrow stairwell. "I've been waiting for you."

"Vine, move up my arm." I help her, angling my elbow to slide her closer to my shoulder.

With both hands on my weapon, I clutch it tightly. "You can't call us shy when you've been avoiding us," I lance, carefully treading down, one crumbling step at a time.

"Are you ready?" I whisper to Vine.

She bows sharply and, gripping her rifle, twists her torso to the doorway, entering our line of sight.

A densely pave-packed passageway greets us, sending a warm, bright light up my eyes all over again. And finally, the moment I've been waiting for is here. My goggles drop, and my glance falls on a tall woman in high heels with hair blacker than ink. She's quite the statement. While standing erect, a formidable fireplace blazes fiercely behind her. That is one intimidating way to introduce oneself, but I'm not buying it.

I squint as my gaze casts about the room. Dozens of tall barrels are lined up against the walls, brimful with fae wings. Then I whip a glance to my right. The man near the fireplace is to blame. He's just sitting on his knees, not a care in the world about our presence, his back turned, utterly fascinated by the fire he's feeding. Orcs and fairies might be opposites on the cultural spectrum, but vampires aren't even on it. They even define themselves as non-compos mentis—just stark raving mad creatures.

"Captain, what took you so long?" The woman, whose name we've yet to find out, cocks her head, a thick ponytail tied so tightly that it's sharpening her cat-eyed look even further.

I sigh, a shrill of flames coursing in my blood to know the entire operation has been compromised. "Didn't know I was on the guest list." I align my eye in the visor, gently placing the reticle between her brows.

"But you are." She exhales a hum of satisfaction throughout the room, engulfing it in authority. I focus on the arm she's bracing against her. Follow the tracing of a tattoo highlighted by her bleach-like skin—a bat, wings wide, sleeving her entire arm, the mark of the Blood Wringer clan.

My finger hesitates to pull the trigger. There's been a leak in the investigation, most likely a whistleblower. But from which unit? LD, New Orc... And does it even matter now? The whole mission's been blown.

"Who are you?"

"A vampire about to sing you a tune."

"About what?"

"The truth..." Her eyes crease, a predatory intent looming behind them. "Thing is, are you ready for it?"

I keep my aim; it's a shaky one, hands trembling from my close-case bonus that just snapped out of my anemic monthly payroll—much needed money to stock up on fuel. Yes. I was about to make it real for Fay and me. Only inches separate me from my financial goal. It would've been enough to cross the border and make it as far as the roads would allow us. Now? My plans for Fayra's house have come to a grinding halt, which will probably erode, never to be worked on for a long time. I slide my eyes shut for just a heartbeat to hammer my ribs and?—

Bang!

I chin down to my left, a panting thrashing against my cheek. Vine followed my instructions to the letter. Her aim was impeccable.

Yes, in the pinch of this vampire's smoking fingers is the bullet that was about to swat her heart.

"She's invincible." Vine is shaking, fear filling her lungs.

"Stay calm." I keep my eyes well set on the lady vampire, these crinkling at the smell of burning flesh flowing from her fingers. She's unbothered by it, more taken by the cartridge's composition than our presence. And raising the nugget high, she examines it like an expert looking for a flaw.

"Interesting..." she says before rushing her mad red eyes at us. "It's silver!"

"You were expecting gold?" A new aim from Vine and another bang detonates.

Smirking, she flaunts her new favorite jewelry at us as her hands melt away. "They are... What do the young ones say nowadays? Ah, yes. They are fire!" Laughing, she blows on her hands risibly as errant lines scuff my forehead to find her so silver-resistant.

"Sorry to interrupt yo-your..." Vine is struggling as she digs into her undying wit, searching for words. Although, I might guess what these are from the dozens of vampires sprawled across the floor, some with heads, some without. "Business meeting gone wrong?"

The vampire throws her long raven liana behind her shoulder, visibly irked by Vine's comment. But then, something seems to grab hold of her. Taking a closer look at my partner, she does a double-take, eyes flaring crimson as she catches sight of Vine's thigh. "Is that blood? Looks tasty."

Vine tenses, her limbs turning into stone so much she's snicking at my suit.

"There you are, Magnus!" she cheers, arms open for a... hug? My jaw drops to find the dwarf dragon rushing between my feet, racing toward her. He hikes up her leg until finding a spot on her shoulder. "Cute, isn't he?"

Vine cocks her head to it. "What is it?"

A slithering sound erupts from this tiny reptile, a tongue flicking wild against her cheek.

"Oh, we're running out of time, you say?" The vampire pinches her lips as I release a breath of tension. "Some backup is on the way. Let's keep up the pace, shall we?"

Something as hard as a chunk of ice is keeling against my legs. Checking on Vine, I notice she's ogling the vampire in awe. She's so stiff, I'm not even sure she's still breathing. "It... it fucking talks," she mumbles.

I suppress this urge to roll my eyes. Of course it doesn't talk. But then, a shadow of doubt drifts across my mind, seeding stupidity in me. It doesn't talk... right?

"Don't eye me like that, little thing. Is it because of my suit? Come on. It's Fayndi!" she cackles, straightening her black leather tank covered in lace. The tip of my barrel follows her as her high heels hop over a row of corpses before joyfully skedaddling toward her flame tender. "Now that you've met Magnus, let me introduce you to Hugo. He's my Mr. Fix-it, keeping us warm." She pats the vampire's head, who's oddly busy emptying small wooden carts of paper into the fire.

Vine streams out the lowest voice, my headset hardly picking it up. "She's nuts."

I cock my head, watching this vampire lady's back, her hand extending under her minion's chin, visibly scratching it. Yeah, no doubt about that.

Revolving on her heels, she snorts, "Anyway," before flicking the bullets to one side, "you're late!"

"Let me guess, you were expecting us for dinner?"

"Ah, you're funny."

Maintaining my aim, I break a knee, sliding my partner down my shoulder. "Vine," I whisper, "I'm going to put you on the floor, and I want you to stay behind my legs. Are we clear?"

"But cap?—"

"Are. We. Clear?"

Her non-response is enough for me. I lower her to the ground and place myself before her.

A shriek knocks the blood from my face. "Ah! Orcs are so cute," she mocks. "All so protective, so big, so..." she then releases an ear-splitting squawk of what was meant to be a laugh before ending her sentence, "green."

And she's so mind-opening. My shoulders tense as my gaze follows her. She gives away many things as she walks past us, starting with her limp.

"I think you need a new hip." I keep the exchange going, pushing back the inevitable. I have questions now.

A glint at her feet pricks my vision as this woman zigzags amongst bodies toward the only thing between us, a well-preserved refectory table covered in wax, candles, and dust. She is undoubtedly armed, and her weapons are located in a place I have never seen before. Bloodied blades for high heels, tips leaving red dots in their wake.

Dropping eye contact, I glance down at my feet, Vine's rifle peeking between my legs. "Vine, hold your fire."

A finger snap pulls me right up. "Hey, big boy, I am right here."

Maintaining my gaze, she hoists her backside onto the table, stretching a leg out. "Like my heels? I think they're to die for." She smirks, seconded by an unusual cough.

This is new. Vampires are immune to any form of disease, and this lady here has a cough born from a leviathan's lungs. "Got a cold?"

Down and still coming, two sharp fangs shoot down her lips, slyly curved and more protracted than what I've been accustomed to.

Looks like I tapped into her weakness, and she isn't too fond of it. But even as blood drips from her black trousers, she continues to be a wacky, sassy thing and flashes a wink. "I could do with a mint. Have any?"

"Get to the point."

How come the Ops team hasn't contacted me yet?

Her manners aren't fooling me. And as this carpet of vampires suggests, it's not hard to imagine what she is capable of. What I can't figure out, though, is if she's using delaying tactics with her flimsy chit-chat or simply not quite right upstairs.

"Oh! You wanna know what's on the menu?" she asks with a titter resembling a screw gun jammed in concrete, sweeping her shoulders up in more than a merry way.

This lady is undeniably an asylum case.

I don't suppress my growl when two ruby eyes stab at me, the snarl below it slicing. "Tyke."