[The Basin]
The transition from the sweltering passage to the marketplace was like plunging into cold water. As they walked through the entrance, the temperature dropped drastically, so the night was unusually refreshing.
But the physical relief was short-lived, immediately eclipsed by a sensory riot.
Loud noises, bright lights, hurried conversations. The Basin pulsated.
Neon signs bled jagged colours into the dark, and a cacophony of hurried haggling and mechanical whirs pressed against their eardrums. It was a chaotic overstimulation.
Charred, savoury tang of grilled meat and the cloying sweetness of spiced pastries filled the air.
Above, the dark sky promised rain, even though the stars were visible through the thin veil of the force field and there were practically no clouds.
Ratelsi didn't look at the vendors.
Her fingers drummed a disconnected staccato against her thigh, keeping time with the rhythmic scrape of countless boots on the corrugated metal road.
Artificial warmth radiated from the floating halo orbs hovering just above her shoulders. Every few seconds, the breeze caught her long, dark hair, whipping it across her face.
Walking ahead, Timoth moved with a hand shoved deep into his pocket while the other anchored two contra bags against his shoulder. He glanced every few paces to make sure Ratelsi was still close by.
She, however, was drifting.
Her attention had been snared by a passing pair of Peculiars. The woman's skin was the texture of aged oak, and her hair a mane of verdant leaves. Her boyfriend bore the Arcane Eye, emblazoned in dark ink across the back of his hand.
But Ratelsi didn't care about the brand, nor the bark-fleshed woman.
Her world had narrowed entirely to the cream-filled bun held in the man's tattooed hand.
She watched, mesmerized, as he took a casual bite.
The pastry yielded with a soft, pillowy sigh, venting a puff of steam. Dear gods, it was fresh from the oven! A dollop of rich, pale cream threatened to fall off the edge, and Ratelsi felt an ache of pure envy.
Her mouth watered instantly, conjuring the taste of toasted sugar and velvet filling in her mind.
She lingered a second too long, dragging her feet until the distance between her and Timoth began to stretch. Realizing she was falling behind, she longingly licked her lips then hurried to close the gap.
But the audible grinding of her teeth caused Timoth to falter. He canted his head, eyeing her with growing concern.
"Quit eyein' the crowd and look at me for a sec, would you?" Timoth spoke loud enough to hear but it barely registered.
Or rather, she didn't hear him over the hunger clouding her thoughts. It pulsed behind her glowing malachite eyes.
The Basin felt even more suffocating with the stench of unwashed bodies and the fragrance of mana residue.
And soon, the crowd slowly blurred into a haze as thin trails of iridescent vapour drifted lazily in the breeze, rippling and distorting the air with heatless energy.
Visible only to Peculiar eyes, it created a mirage effect, revealing the invisible currents of magic in certain areas where spells had recently been cast.
But then, Timoth abruptly stopped and blocked her path with his body.
Making a show of studying her from every angle—as if he were inspecting a particularly moody piece of art—he reached out. He touched her cheek and ran his finger along her face, outlining her cheekbone and chin.
The warmth, so tender against her jaw as he gently guided her face upward, forced her to meet his worried gaze.
"Lost you for a sec there," he said, smiling.
"Now, what do you say we find Hexoset? I have a feelin' you could use a good pint right about now."
Ratelsi didn't pull away.
Instead, she seized his hand. Her grip was perhaps a bit tighter than intended, still, she arched an eyebrow, trying to pull her mask of composure back into place.
"I wasn't staring at anyone, Timoth. Do I look paranoid to you?"
"Paranoid?" Timoth chuckled.
He hooked his hand around Ratelsi's shoulders and drew her into his personal space, steering past a group of Peculiars whose marbled skin shimmered like oil on water.
As she's pulled off-balance, Ratelsi let out a tiny, muffled "oh!" of surprise.
She stumbled into his side, her thick strands brushing against his nose.
Clove. The earthy musk of clove cigarette smoke clung to them.
Ratelsi's face instantly warmed.
Thank Liyuen for her brown skin hiding the blush spreading across her cheeks, because sometimes, Timoth could be so...
Caring?
Bold with his gestures?
Protective in his own way?
She didn't know which it was.
But she no longer saw the crowd as a magical haze, only Timoth's satisfied expression as she looked up at him with wide, startled eyes.
Once she regained her footing, he leaned down, his blue eyes flashing with a teasing, dangerous glint. "You don't look paranoid, Rat. You look ravenous. Like someone itchin' for a lot more than just a meal."
Then a knowing smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. "So, let's go find that pint, shall we? Maybe once you've had a drink, you'll finally spill whatever it is that's got you so restless."
A shadow crossed her face. Her expression darkened as she considered how to respond, but no words came.
Tch.
She didn't even bother denying it — she knew her glowing eyes had already given her away. Their dilating slits darted toward every moving shadow and passing colour like a moth to flame.
Timoth noticed her hand hovering near her bulging pocket, thinking the Verenites inside the capsule were the real reason behind this sudden thirst for adventure.
Yet he opted for silence.
Experience with living with Ratelsi had taught him that pointing out the obvious was the fastest way to get his head bitten off, and he wasn't in the mood for a scar today.
She recoiled as if stung, then continued walking. "Is Hexoset where we find the scum, then?" Ratelsi asked. The words were clipped.
Timoth let out a dry, rattling snort and fell in line behind her. "If by 'scum' you mean Broco, then yeah. That's the hive he calls home."
The mention of their target seemed to snap the wire of Ratelsi's nerves. The rigidity in her shoulders collapsed, replaced by a predatory grin that didn't reach her eyes.
"Wanna bet on how much of his hoard he pisses away on the strippers every night?"
"Hmmm. I'd say at least five hundred Aures. He was always an easy mark for a painted face and a bit of flattery."
"Five hundred? Please," she scoffed, tossing her head back with a theatrical groan. "That ugly oaf sure as hell pisses more than that. It's the only way he can get a woman to look at him without gagging her intestines out."
Their chat flowed effortlessly as they strode down the winding paths of the black market - a playground where all the shady stuff happened. Here, you could score just about anything if you asked the right questions. Even the wrong ones might work, but never too many.
Because, c'mon, you wouldn't want to find yourself at the bottom of the river, now, would you?
Getting around this sort of place required a certain level of street smarts.
You had to have a mental map of exits and safe routes ready to go, because one misstep could turn your night upside down. Those offering the most tempting deals might just be the same folks who'd make sure you didn't return for more.
Trust was in short supply here. All it took was a little suspicion.
Just like Hexoset, The Basin housed many treasure troves; Red Light Street with its pleasure houses indulging every hedonistic whim. Spillpits, where Peculiars fought to prove themselves to paying sickfucks who gambled in blood sports.
Armsmiths, repair shops, food stalls, The Basin had it all.
But amongst its clandestine activities, only two operators were most prevalent: Mongers and Mercs.
The first were gatekeepers of access, peddling pretty much everything from random junk to stolen weapons, drugs, mutated animals, and most importantly, intel. If you had a talent for being a sleazy piece of shit, then being a Monger was a pretty sweet gig.
Hence, the unspoken rule is never to trust them. Ever!
They were as sketchy as they come, the apex predators in this somehow thriving hotspot for vice.
Second to them were the Mercs. If you craved thrills or had a taste for danger, this was your calling. Say delivery runners, miners, bodyguards, escorts - the list goes on and on.
Mercs were freelance operatives, mostly Peculiars, who took on high-risk gigs in The Basin and beyond. Though the gigs varied widely based on the client and contract terms.
However, despite being the second biggest operation, Mercs were still at the bottom of the social ladder, often exploited by Mongers and distrusted by clients.
Their Peculiar status was what made them valuable in the first place. And don't fool yourself into thinking Normies weren't at least a little curious about what happened in this underbelly, because oh man, that would be so naïve.
How else would they get a taste of lawlessness without getting their hands dirty?
Most belonged to a tier of society where the concept of a leftover meal was as foreign to them as manual labour. The idea of eating the same thing twice would have felt like a personal failure, or perhaps a glitch in the universe.
They were accustomed to a world that arrived on a silver platter.
This type of Normies paraded The Basin as patrons, or just curious clients looking to indulge in whatever erotic and bizarre shit this black market had to offer.
Y'know, the usual fun stuff.
It wasn't uncommon to see them flinging Aures around for the oddest schemes you wouldn't find in Balun.
It's not like they had to worry about ticking off street scanners or raising an alarm with the Paladins at checkpoints. That's what Mercs were hired for. To be the shield and sword for those with money but no guts.
Still, it took three to tango in this dance of dubious dealings: Mongers needed Mercs to handle the heavy work, while Mercs relied on Mongers for gigs. Both groups depended on client demands to keep the Basin's ecosystem running.
It was a well-oiled machine of transactional dependency where trust issues abounded, but everyone knew their role and worked to maintain the status quo.
So, tonight was a big night for the two Mercs about to wrap up their six-month contract with Broco Aqqa. Finally, fi-na-lly, they wouldn't have to deal with that balding puss of a boss anymore.
Freedom was tantalizingly close, Ratelsi thought as she ducked under some leopard skins hanging from a Monger's kiosk.
Balancing a jelly cube in the crook of her finger, Ratelsi watched it perform a sluggish, awkward dance.
It was a pathetic specimen of a dessert so structurally unsound that it was threatening to liquefy under the mere warmth of her skin. Maybe that's why the vendor at the last shop was giving them away.
"Free samples, my ass. This jelly looks… anaemic," she murmured, tilting her hand.
The cube slumped to one side, catching the bright light of the halo orbs overhead. "And the texture is remarkably adhesive. Is it supposed to cling to my skin like an overeager parasite?"
Timoth spoke, not looking up from the time reading 7:18 pm on his HoloSmart. "Well, what did you expect? It's sugar, water, and enough synthetic ingredients to keep it solid-ish."
Ratelsi curiously brought the trembling cube to her lips and licked it, noting its artificial taste, and feeling the sensitive ridges of the Arcane Eye branded into her tongue.
"I don't get it," she stared at the morsel with genuine offense. "Isn't jelly supposed to be… fruity? Sweet? This tastes like a lab experiment gone wrong. It reeks of… regret."
Timoth didn't offer a witty comeback or a defense of the dessert.
He simply locked his fingers around her wrist and guided her hand toward his face.
She watched as her fingertip came to rest against the seam of his dry lips. The heat of it was a sharp contrast to the cold, synthetic gel on her skin.
Then, his tongue swiped across her pad. Slowly. Once. Twice. With strokes entirely too deliberate to be accidental.
Timoth lingered there, tasting the pathetic strawberry residue, oblivious to the tingles surging up her arm and settling firmly in her chest.
He finally pulled back, though he didn't let go of her wrist. "Mhm. Regret is the primary ingredient," he said, smacking his lips.
"But if you hold your breath and swallow it fast enough, you might just manage to trick yourself into thinking it's not so bad."
Ratelsi tilted her head, expectant. "So...what does it actually taste like?"
"Stale colouring and disappointment," Timoth replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "But hey, it's better than nothing."
He nodded toward the last bit of jelly in the cup.
"Your turn."
"As if!" Ratelsi scoffed, chucking the plastic cup into a nearby garbage bin. "What a rip-off. Why do I have to eat shit like this, huh?"
Timoth only chuckled in response.
Meanwhile, the sky was a bruised velvet, torn open by the spectral ribbons of aurora. They didn't just glow; they coiled and pulsed like the respirations of a living god, painting the void in neon violets and radioactive greens.
Even the lattice of blue geometry that was Argona's city force field couldn't dampen the twinkling stars. They burned through the energy shield in shades of teal like ancient light refusing to be filtered by modern desperation.
Halo orbs drifted above the thoroughfare, casting long, inky figures on the ground.
Everywhere, the noise was a living thing.
The subterranean thrum of atmospheric generators provided a bassline that you felt in your teeth, but even that was swallowed by the roar of the bazaar. Under a sprawling patchwork of rusted corrugated tin and salvaged tarp, the crowd moved as a single organism.
The Arcane Eye flashed on exposed body parts passing by. Traded pings chirped from HoloSmarts, competing with the throated yells of vendors.
Now, Ratelsi deigned to look at them.
Deep in the throng, a man leaned over a scarred metal counter. He possessed three pairs of eyes, stacked vertically. Each pair was a different hue—amber, amethyst, and a milky, blind white. He gripped a frosted canister of bioluminescent goo, his knuckles white.
"Three hundred Tallys," the Monger hissed, his skin the texture of wet shale. "And that's a mercy price. It's pure. Non-synthetic."
The six-eyed man didn't blink. A low, vibrating growl started in his chest as he slammed a heavy pouch, filled to the brim with brassed bars, onto the table.
Greed instantly widened the Monger's eyes.
Across the walkway, a vendor sat on a crate. Her chitinous wings fluttered with a dry, insectile rasp. She held vials of Blyss up to her customer, shaking the violet liquid inside.
The buyer, a hulking brute with hands the size of dinner plates, trembled with an urgent anticipation that didn't match his size. His large fingers twitched the same way Blyss addicts did when they couldn't wait to drown out their reality in the hallucinogenic effects of the drug.
Ratelsi would've continued looking if the incessant drills coming from the smithy up ahead didn't make her wince every now and then.
A street-doc was servicing a patron. The loud, rapid rat-a-tat-tat of a pneumatic hammer echoed off the shop walls as a refurbished cybernetic arm was forced into a socket.
Each drill sent a shower of sparks dancing across the pavement.
A few paces away, a telekinetic—face pale and veins bulging against his temples—was locked in a silent battle with gravity. A heavy steel crate hovered inches off the ground, vibrating with the intensity of his mental effort before finally thudding onto a courier hovercycle.
Ratelsi's gaze darted upwards, noticing silhouettes against the rusted corrugated metal. High above, on rickety platforms held together by scavenged wires, the city's forgotten souls shifted in their sleep.
But then, her stomach nagged at her, getting angrier by the second since she hadn't eaten yet.
Ratelsi checked her HoloSmart; the glowing red digits confirmed what she already knew. Her credit balance was a joke, a dwindling string of zeros that wouldn't even buy an expired protein wafer.
But hunger has a way of sharpening the mind.
So, Ratelsi's thoughts, impregnated with ideas, birthed a sneaky plan to swipe something.
Malachite-green eyes began to dissect the bazzar.
A Monger, distracted by a malfunctioning cooling unit, had his back turned to a crate of dragonfruits. Beside his kiosk, a narrow gap between two tents led toward a rusted ventilation shaft. There was even a loose floorboard she could kick out to stall anyone chasing her.
Ratelsi memorized the methods of her escape, calculating the impact of her boots against the ground before takeoff. She needed to be a ghost. Swipe, run, fly, that's it.
Timoth would find her anyway; he always did.
Satisfied with her plan, Ratelsi eased off her current walking pace.
But as soon as she did, static hissed like steam from a broken pipe as a swarm of neon-bright pixels coalesced directly in her path. Out of them stepped a holographic avatar that looked like a candy-coated fever dream.
It was a riot of hyper-saturated colors: pigtails the colour of bubblegum, eyes wide and bulbous like polished marbles, and a grin so plastic and perfect it belonged on a vintage toy.
"Hey, you! What a gorgeous night to be out, right?" the avatar chirped.
The voice wasn't the usual tinny, synthesized drone of a LuBot. It was startlingly fluid—warm, melodic, and layered with the subtle imperfections of a real throat.
Probably some high-end AI gimmick, Ratelsi thought, squinting through the glare.
In this part of the city, holograms like these were usually just a marketing trick designed to lower your guard before the sales pitch started.
"You look like you're on a mission," the hologram continued, tilting its head with a simulated curiosity that was almost too convincing. "But even the busiest bees need a moment to breathe a little, don't they?"
Ratelsi didn't stop. "I'm not buying whatever you're selling, Sparkles. Find another victim."
The avatar didn't flicker—a high-end render, then. Wearing a bomber jacket, perhaps to blend in with its target audience, it skipped alongside her, making no sound on the path with its digital feet.
"Oh, I'm not selling a thing! I'm Joji," it said, leaning into Ratelsi's personal space with a playful, conspiratorial wink. "My sensors tell me you're one hell of a tough cookie. Ever think about a career upgrade? Higher pay, lower mortality rate—mostly?"
Ratelsi didn't break her stride. She didn't even give the hologram the satisfaction of a side-eye. Instead, she let out a long, exaggerated yawn, covering her mouth with a hand while keeping her eyes on the path ahead. Without slowing down, she walked straight through Joji's midsection.
The avatar's chest dissolved into a cloud of blue light before stitching itself back together on the other side.
"Ugh, wow, that is unbelievably rude!" Joji exclaimed, spinning around with an expression of wounded shock.
A single digital tear formed in the corner of her eye. She dabbed at it with a gloved finger, but the "sadness" lasted only a microsecond before she reset to a beaming smile.
"Okay, okay, I totally get it. Ice-cold professional. Hard to get. I dig the vibe! But seriously, this is important!"
Joji flickered, teleporting two paces ahead to walk backwards in front of Ratelsi, blocking her line of sight.
A weary sigh.
Ratelsi shifted her weight, rolling her shoulder just in time to avoid a collision with a sweating Normie. The man was white-knuckling a heavy crate piled high with scorched LuBot drones, likely "confiscated" from a Dogma breach.
He shot her a nervous glare, unfazed by the hologram he just passed through.
"Look, I already got a job, and you're in my way," Ratelsi said to Joji.
"Aw, come on. Just take a look! It's a very high-yield commission calling," Joji chirped, skipping to keep pace. She thrust a glossy flyer into Ratelsi's face. It was embossed with the Arcane Eye, the gold foil catching the harsh artificial lights of the halo orbs.
Bold, aggressive lettering screamed: MERCENARY SCOUTING. JOIN THE CURA TODAY!
Ratelsi let out a dry, hacking laugh that turned into a smirk, arching an eyebrow so high it nearly vanished into her hairline.
"You're not fucking serious," Ratelsi said, flicking the corner of the flyer with a taloned finger. "The Cura? That's like asking a junkyard dog to prance around in a poodle show. I don't do 'noble causes' and I sure as fuck don't do uniforms."
Joji's laughter was so loud that a few nearby street vendors shot her annoyed glares, but she didn't seem to notice.
"A poodle show!" Joji wheezed, wiping a stray tear from her eye. "That's rich. I'm definitely tucking that one away for later."
The joke wasn't even that funny.
It was a dry, throwaway comment born of irritation, yet Joji clung to it with the desperate energy of a recruiter who refused to take 'no' for an answer.
She stepped into Ratelsi's personal space again, grinning wide to reveal immaculate dental plating. "But seriously, don't sell yourself short. Talent like yours is wasted on the sidelines. You could be stacking Aures so high you'd forget what rock bottom looks like."
Ratelsi stopped dead in her tracks. The suddenness of it caused a courier drone to chirp a warning as it swerved to avoid her. She turned slowly, her boots crunching on the grit of the road, and faced Joji.
The humour vanished from her expression, replaced by a gaze so cold it threatened to drop the local temperature. When she spoke, her voice was a low, dangerous drawl that stayed strictly between the two of them.
"Is that what this is? You're just pulling names out of a hat and hoping one sticks?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.
"Let's clear something up, Joji. I'm a runner. A delivery girl. My life isn't a cinematic op; it's a grind. The toughest mission on my docket is moving goods from Point A to Point B without getting my throat slit or my cargo hijacked by some bottom-feeder looking for a quick score. I don't need 'top-tier gear.' I need people to stay the hell out of my way."
She stepped closer, the neon of the overhead signs reflecting in her slitted pupils. "So take your 'cool missions' and your 'serious Aures' back to whatever glass tower you crawled out of."
Joji tilted her head, still sporting an annoyingly cheerful smile despite Ratelsi's obvious irritation.
"Think about it, Ratelsi," she chirped, tracking the other woman's movement with the precision of a targeting computer. "A runner is just a human courier drone dealing with complicated packages. Clearly, you've got the skills. You know how to navigate the 'grime' without getting stuck in the gears. Do you really want to spend your life delivering boring goods to boring Mongers? Or do you want to be a legend?"
"I just wanna stay alive," Ratelsi replied, her voice as flat as a dial tone.
She stepped forward, forcing Joji to pull her boots back or get stepped on. "Besides, legends have a nasty habit of ending up in pieces after encountering a couple of Dogmas. So, if you don't mind, move. I won't say it again."
Joji huffed, pouting.
"Fine! Be stubborn," she called out to Ratelsi's retreating back.
"But just so you know, the Cura offers perks that your little freelance gig can't touch. We're talking full-spectrum coverage. Free Medipod services! High-tier stuff! You could lose an arm on a Friday and be back to full haptics by Saturday morning. Seriously, think about it!"
Ratelsi raised a middle finger without looking back, disappearing into the sea of bodies.
The bribe almost worked. Almost. Ratelsi began mumbling about her sore feet and how she'd kinda lost interest in the idea of snagging something to eat. Still, she kept her pace, leaving the annoying hologram to bother someone else.
Amidst the crowd, Ratelsi caught sight of a flash of honey-coloured curls weaving through the tightly packed bodies. It was like a lighthouse in a stormy sea, beckoning her closer.
She dove into the throng, pushing through the mass of people, keeping her eyes on the familiar bounce of Timoth's hair. He paced anxiously in front of an AV machine, looking utterly frazzled as if he was about to combust.
When he finally saw Ratelsi, his face crumpled to pure relief. "Ratel! I swear, you're tryna drive me insane! Do you even know how many terrible things I thought might've happened to you? Don't disappear like that again, please. Don't disappear like that again, please."
There was a desperate edge in his voice that just made Ratelsi grin wider. "Sorry. The crowd sorta carried me out. Also, you look like a lost puppy. I'm actually considering getting you a leash."
"Not cool."
"C'mon, it is a little funny…"
"Yeah, you're not getting out of my sight again," Timoth said, taking her hand to guide her away from the thinning crowd.
"Tch, I'm not a kid. I won't get lost," Ratelsi snapped, though the heat rising in her cheeks betrayed her.
But Timoth wasn't letting go; he interlaced their fingers, holding a bit tightly like he was afraid that the moment he let go, she'd vanish into the crowd again.
"I know you can take care of yourself," he said softly.
"But we both remember what happens when you get distracted. Last time, who was it that had to bail you out with their last Aures? Oh, right. That was me."
Ratelsi gave a half-hearted tug to free her hand, but her resistance faded into a cheeky grin. "That was one time! And fyi, I was one hand away from a clean sweep. That guy was practically begging to be robbed."
Timoth shook his head, a small laugh finally escaping to cut through the lingering tension.
"Let's just get moving," he said, checking over his shoulder. "Before our wallets get snatched—or worse, before Joji tries to press-gang us into a gig for the Cura."
Timoth didn't notice—he was too busy navigating the thinning crowds—but Ratelsi's posture stiffened.
As they walked, the chaotic, brassy roar of the central market began to fade, replaced by the muffled noise of the residential district. The transition usually brought her peace, but today felt heavy, magnifying the sound of her own heartbeat.
"I really thought this was going to be a quick run," Ratelsi finally said. Her voice was taut as she consciously forced her shoulders to drop. She tried to roll her neck, desperate to shake off the cold that had settled in her joints.
"You know the drill? In, out, grab our pay, and bounce. I didn't sign up to stumble into a literal circus of… weirdos."
Timoth didn't look back, but his pace slowed just enough for her to catch up. He offered a lopsided grin.
"We're weirdos too, Rat," he countered. "Don't go acting like we'd fit in anywhere else."
******
[Club Hexoset]
"Alright, ladies, badges up. One at a time," the bouncer announced in a gravelly baritone.
The nightclub was a converted four-storied industrial monolith dominating the block. The ground floor had a matte exterior broken only by vertical strips of neon violet. Above, the second and third floors featured reinforced glass bricks glowing with an amber light, hinting at the VIP or VVIP lounges within.
The crowning fourth floor was a glass-walled penthouse where the owner of the establishment attended to important guests.
Standing imposingly at the entrance, like a sentinel, was the bouncer—a mountain of a man. His tanned skin contrasted sharply with the multicoloured mohawk on his head, rising like a fin. A black tank top strained dangerously against shoulders as broad as those of a grizzly bear.
At the front of the growing queue stood a triptych of young women in identical, low-cut glitter-sequin dresses.
Despite their matching outfits, they were beautiful, but in different ways: one had a pixie-cut platinum blonde look, another was statuesque with an athletic grace and a deep complexion, while the brunette had a softer, more ethereal air.
They exchanged light-hearted giggles, their sequin dresses catching the neon strobes and scattering light like disco balls. With a collective mischievous grin, they playfully nudged pixie-cut forward.
"He's all yours, Chloe," the athletic one called out in a conspiratorial tone.
Somewhat flustered by the sudden spotlight—and the size of the man in front of her—Chloe stepped forward. She extended her hand, fingers trembling slightly.
"Hi there," she greeted him in a squeaky voice, betraying her nerves. "I think we're on the list?"
Under the bright signage announcing "CLUB HEXOSET," the hexagon tattoo on Chole's wrist shifted from a dull charcoal to a bioluminescent violet, mirroring the pink and blue calligraphy above the entrance.
The bouncer's presence softened, only by the dimples that appeared when he grinned. His holographic name tag read Snigel. He leaned off the velvet rope, his eyes crinkling as they landed on her.
"Hello yourself, darlin'," he rumbled in a low bass. "Let's see that ticket to paradise, shall we?"
Reaching into his pocket, Snigel pulled out a sleek, matte scanner.
As he swept the device over her inner wrist, a ping cut through the queue's chatter.
A holographic pane rose above Snigel's HoloSmart. It bathed his face in a blue light, displaying her portrait and a rotating 3D model of her identity marker. A green checkmark sat next to the letters V.I.P.
The display was clean. The absence of further details indicated her status as a Normie.
"Ch-lo-e," Snigel sang, stretching the vowels into a melody. He looked up from the display. "Pretty name. You look like you're fixin' to stir up some trouble in there."
Chloe felt her flushed cheeks burn but offered a small, crooked smile. "Only the harmless kind, I assure you."
Snigel chuckled, stepped aside, and the heavy metal door behind him hissed open to reveal a glimpse of the strobe-lit chaos within.
"The harmless kind is indeed my preferred variety," he said, giving her a courtly nod of his massive head. "Welcome to Hexoset, Chloe. Try not to let the night swallow you whole."
Taking a step forward, the second woman seemed to operate in her own atmosphere, well aware of the space she occupied.
"It's my turn, big fella," she said in a honeyed rasp, punctuating the statement with a playful wink and offering a hand that looked as strong as it was elegant.
Snigel let his gaze linger appreciatively, taking in the way her evening dress clung to a frame built for speed.
"Be gentle on the wrist there," she continued. "I've got a hot date waiting for me on the dance floor, and I'd prefer to keep all my joints in working order."
"Is that so?"
Her lips, painted deep crimson, curved into a predatory smile. Up close, her eyes were a glacial cerulean.
"I was just starting to get used to the view," Snigel smoothly remarked as their skin finally met.
A soft beep from the scanner between them broke the tension, flashing a notification on the interface.
"Scarlett," he read aloud. "A name like that... I would presume you possess a fiery temperament to match. Planning to break a few hearts tonight?"
Scarlett threw her head back, letting out a clear laugh. "Is that an invitation, Snigel?"
"Perhaps," he replied, a spark of mischief glimmering in his eyes as he tightened his grip on her hand, just enough to show he wasn't intimidated by the fire. "I've always found the most dangerous views are the ones worth the climb."
Then he let her go to her waiting friend.
The brunette had an effervescent energy that bubbled over into melodic giggles every time her friends cracked a joke.
When she finally stepped up to Snigel, his hardened demeanour softened at the sight of her petite frame.
"You're a fresh face, aren't you?" he asked, leaning down. His massive silhouette momentarily swallowed her in his shadow as he scanned her hand.
Lily didn't shrink away. Instead, she leaned into the space, tilting her head back to meet his eyes. She coquettishly fluttered her eyelashes.
"Ah, sweet Lily," Snigel murmured, looking at the scan results. "A word of advice: Hexoset is a den of beautiful distractions. Be cautious, and don't let these two troublemakers lead you too far astray."
Scarlet and Chloe giggled, whispering to each other.
Lily smiled, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. "I'll try my absolute best to stay out of trouble, Snigel," she purred, "but I've never been very good at keeping promises."
A boisterous laugh erupted from Snigel, turning the heads of those still waiting in the queue.
"That's the spirit. Now, get on inside, all of you," he said, flashing a surprisingly charming grin as he unhooked the velvet rope, sweeping his arm wide to grant them passage.
The heavy bass from within hit them like a physical wave as they crossed the threshold. Led by Scarlett's confident stride, the trio began a synchronized catwalk into the club.
Snigel watched them disappear into the throng before the mask of the doorman slid back into place. Turning his attention back to the queue, his voice boomed again.
"Next!"
Ratelsi winced, sucking her teeth sharply. The sound of the man's voice grated on her nerves like flint on stone.
"Is there any actual need to shout?" she asked, annoyed. "We are standing right in front of you. Unless your eyes are as useless as your manners, you can see us perfectly well."
Snigel's smirk curdled. For a moment, his composure slipped, revealing a fleeting irritated look. He took her in properly then, recognizing the brown skin and those venomous, slitted green eyes.
It was her—the one who humiliated and disfigured Mhode's face.
This realization sparked a petty stubbornness in his chest. Consequently, he felt a sudden reluctance to allow her passage. Snigel regarded Timoth with a sidelong glance, sizing him up with noticeable disdain.
Ratelsi didn't wait for him to find his tongue. She tilted her head toward her companion.
"Say, Timoth," she said, not taking her eyes off the bouncer. "How much satisfaction do you imagine I'll derive from punching him the next time he glares at me?"
Timoth smiled a mocking grin. He seemed to enjoy where this was going.
"Oh, I'd say it would bring you immense pleasure. Transcendent, even," he replied, looking Snigel up and down, lingering on the man's tightened jaw. "Some people are born with faces that just... provoke a desire to rough them up a little."
Snigel's hand drifted toward his holster, but the unsettling intent behind Ratelsi's predatory stare made him hesitate. She was watching him. Carefully. Following his body movements, down to the faintest shudder.
He then realized, perhaps too late, that he no longer held the upper hand in this exchange.
Still, Snigel's sneer deepened at their exchange, and he muttered with contempt, "Verdammt widerliche schweine."
Ratelsi bared her teeth in a snarl, then, fueled by a sudden audacity, closed the distance between her and Snigel.
Her eyes moved over him with the cold, clinical detachment of a butcher weighing up a carcass. She studied Snigel not as a man, but as a collection of parts, mentally marking the joints where her blade would slice in easiest.
What was meant to be a simple power play suddenly felt high-stakes, charged, almost electric.
Snigel felt it in his marrow. An instinctual awareness triggered the fine hairs on the bouncer's arms to rise; his entire being felt threatened by her proximity, recognizing a threat his mind couldn't quite name.
It was like being trapped in a cage with something wild and nameless, something that lived for the hunt. Behind those eyes, he was certain the fucking creature was cackling with glee.
And she was..
Ratelsi's lips parted in a wicked grin. She could tell from the Normie's increasingly scornful expression that he sensed her intent to provoke, and this realization evidently displeased him.
But at that moment, the club door swung open and out came a tall blond man with his face smeared in red lipstick. His shirt was unbuttoned with his zipper undone, but he didn't seem to care.
The initial whiff of booze reached the queue first, followed by a mix of sweat and sex as the tipsy dude clumsily staggered past them.
Timoth said to Snigel, seemingly unfazed by the latter's malevolent glare. "Listen, man, we obviously don't like you any more than you seem to like us. So how 'bout you just tell us where Broco is, and we'll take our leave, yes?" He discreetly gestured toward the bags they were carrying.
Snigel's gaze flickered between Timoth's face and the bags in question. The mention of Broco, coupled with the implication that they possessed something of significance for him, momentarily disarmed Snigel.
His aggressive stance softened a bit. Although he still looked like he'd rather knock them out than speak to them, the threat in his posture eased.
"How do I know you're not here to cause trouble afterwards? Broco's already occupied with important guests and is not anticipating any other visitors. Especially not…." He shot a venomous glare in Ratelsi's direction, who met his look with an assertive tilt of her head that silently dared him to take a swing.
Timoth exhaled a long, exasperated sigh. "Clearly, you don't know we're his runners. Call him or whatever, but you gotta let us through, alright? At least let us wait in a different area."
Snigel looked indecisive.
Evidently, he struggled to trust them, having never encountered them before. But the boss would never send for these...Peculiars unless he required their specific services. Still, Snigel felt the need to be thorough. After all, it wouldn't be the first time someone used Broco's name to gain unauthorised access to Hexoset.
"Hand over the bags," Snigel said, extending his upturned palm.
Naturally, he expected compliance. But before Timoth could even raise his foot, Ratelsi's forearm shot out, thudding against his chest. The impact rooted him to the spot.
"Like shit he will," she bit out.
She looked at Snigel's outstretched hand, a slow, predatory smirk lifting the corners of her mouth. It promised nothing but chaos.
"In fact," she purred dangerously, "I'd love to see you try and take them. Please. Give me an excuse to beat the fuck outta you."
The invitation dangled in the air, catching the attention of some of the patrons waiting their turn. They murmured to each other, wondering what was going on.
The bravado that usually fueled Snigel died out, making him nervous to the point of nausea. There was something fundamentally wrong about the woman standing before him.
Every time those dizzying, hypnotic eyes of hers met his, his skin crawled like worms writhing beneath his flesh.
His pride screamed at him to lung forward, but his instincts were screaming louder, begging him not to dare.
A static crackled from the earbud positioned within his ear brought him to his senses. Snigel blinked, instinctively reaching for the small device. Broco's impatient tones followed.
"Let 'em in, you idiot," He hissed through the speaker. "They got my gifts, so I'll deal with them. Don't fucking make a scene."
With his jaw tightly clenched, Snigel directed his gaze to the hidden camera within the signage, his sense of pride clashing with the direct order. He was clearly pissed; he had a job to do, more people had joined the queue, and his guts screamed that these Peculiars were trouble.
Nevertheless, an order must be followed, despite his strong desire to prevent Ratelsi's entry and to wipe that arrogant smirk off her stupid face.
And so, the Normie and Peculiar remained engaged in their silent stare down, a battle of wills tested to measure the other's resolve.
Timoth scoffed, crossing his arms under his chest. "Understand this bro, there's absolutely no way you stand a chance against those eyes. Trust me, I speak from experience."
Snigel's lips drew back in a thin, visible line of revulsion. His eyes, wide and slightly narrowed, seemed to be fighting the urge to look away from the object of his distaste.
And he succumbed to it, finally wrenching his gaze away from Ratelsi. Snigel dismissively jerked his chin toward the entrance.
"Penthouse," he spoke impatiently. "Through the main hall, past the bar, then left to the elevators. Vesir will escort you."
It was clear the Normie couldn't rid himself of them fast enough.
Even as the directions left his mouth, he was already gesturing vaguely toward the mezzanine.
"Such a pity," Ratelsi murmured, her voice like silk over a blade as she swept past. She didn't bother to look back. "I was truly hoping to savour your pathetic howls. It's been a remarkably dull afternoon."
Timoth followed a step behind, dipping his head toward the man as he passed, his eyes bright with malice.
"Believe me now?" he whispered.