With a scratch of clockwork spat ink another name was struck from the leather bound ledger . “Another worker stitched up and ready for service, Señor Hernández. Please try to not come visit me too soon once he returns to work,” the doctor pleaded with quiet words. The dim light of the Ailor’s garret illuminated the flickering light of the Qadir’s immaculate surgery. A toughened but jovial laugh rang out as a puff of smoke drifted toward the doctor. “We try but Rodrigo just loves making new friends in the taverns,” Herńandez laughed. The doctor gave a dry cough, his eyes glancing over his current patient: Rodrigo heavily bruised, several knife cuts to his arms, but now patched and recovering. After the once over the man’s eyes lingered watching close the Ailor painless, resting sleep. Good, his eyes turned toward the patient’s opponents both with thin palm knife incisions to their lungs: Fatal. The doctor had tried all he could but the men were beyond mortal mending. It was all so useless if Herńandez’s deliberation hadn’t taken so long, if Rodrigo’s strikes hadn’t been to kill, and if these men weren’t enemies his still would’ve won out. Now his only hope was their dissections might yield new methods of preventing such deaths in the future, yet even this even tempered hope began to sink within the doctor’s mind. “What will their gang do when they find out?”, taunted his mind black tentacles of fear tightening around the spark of hope. The doctor’s grip tightened around his clockwork pen, the two men had known Roderigo’s face from the start and in Hallonq that meant a targeted job. This would be a war...a attack was a first shot, patchable, but two deaths is a battle there is no backing away from that. Could they already be following Roderigo and Herńandez? Then they be in wait outside his clinic? What would they do to him, to the doctor who made the bodies disappear, who patched their workers, and whose every step carried rumors of heretical arts performed upon the dead. Few of the city’s inhabitants would believe the slum doctor dissecting bodies was trying to save lives. His mind filled with endless visions of what the other gang would do. His limbs would be stretched until they broke, shatter, tore from his socket and his body would be beaten, cut, lashed, and tortured in a million ways. He would be lucky if they gave him the mercy of death. Herńandez waltzed over, “Lost in thought Tomás…or are you worrying again?” he prods flashing his teeth in wolfish amusement, “Come now Ratón stop that mouse like fear while you have big, strong Workers to protect you.” His sharp, confident eyes of one who knew just how to leverage his prey. “Of course, since your just a contact you have to pay personally for protection,” he said extending his hand. The doctor trembled a bit, his expression tightening as his eyes traced the Ailor’s violently sharp form, “Yyy...yees Señor Herńandez,” he conceded placing fifty regals into the Ailor’s palm. The money was business revenue for a month and what some of the poorer residents, those he even allowed to pay him, would made in a year. Yet the Qadir didn’t dare make any sign of hesitation. “Shall we head to the Tavern? I’m sure el Jefe will wish to hear of how about Roderigo’s little adventure and my new subjects,” he squeaked out through a tense smile. “Wonderful idea, wonder how much two dead competitors are going for,” pondered Herńandez tapping Roderigo. The man stirred and together they rose the three heading into the street. Tomás breathed once the key turned sealing off his shop as he turned and scanned the empty streets. The men walked eyes scanning the filth soaked decay of the slum city’s maze. After some time walking empty street the two workers began to pass slang filled banter between each other. All the while, Tomás was silent ever fraying nerves keeping his eyes vigilant against the shadowed alleys and sharp turns. Suddenly the sound of a whip shattered the silence, as a black cord lined with glass shot out from an alley. Hundreds of tiny shards carved across Roderigo’s chest. The worker stumbled back hands darting to his chest to stem the blood. Only for a sudden backlash to bring the whip cracking back across his hands lacerating deep into their exposed flesh. Herńandez charged forward his sword drawn forth into a diagonal slash into the alley. Herńandez turned back, “Fight!”, he ordered Tomás as he went to turn and slash into the alley. Only to pay the price for his distraction (crack) sounded the whip as it cut a deep swath across the worker’s left cheek. Herńandez cried out in rage as a hawk swooped down from the roof above talons extended as if dive bombed the whip-man. For a moment, Tomás hesitated paralyzed as he watched the blood drip from Herńandez’s cheek but with one shiver of his body the ruby eyes of his Saryid opened. Lunging forward the bronze, gem studded disk wrapped itself around the Qadir’s arm beginning to attempt an activation. Until a heavy boot crashed into the Qadir’s spine, Tomás let out a harsh breath as his thin, fragile form was smashed into the stone street. Blows began to rain down upon the doctor as bronze knuckles struck bone and steel toed boot beat in organs. Tomás whimpered in agony as tear flowed from his eyes like a frightened child as his body curled into a ball rocking as it was pummeled. His fear was meet by cruelty eliciting laughs from the assaulter. Tomás retreated within the ocean of his fear letting himself slip from the world...as he began to prepare for his last moments. His ever watchful mind went silent for some time until a single question rang out. Why? Why did all paths lead him to this, to having his body broken and bis coward’s soul drowned in fear. From his youngest days all the reward he received was violence for what he was for being the son of non-daendroque Qadirs who refused to integrate. Who refused to get involved in Hallonq’s underworld and refused to pay off the gangs even as their son was beaten in the street. His parents had always told him clockwork would protect them...that all the safety in the world was found within those machines, but all they brought was pain. The gold of their make and value of their craft only intensified the scorn of the Daendroque. Despite all the clockwork crafted to defend him, he was still mugged, beaten, spat on, and called a “desert worm” and “machine fucker” by everyone whether in the back rooms of homes or the squalor of the streets. Clockwork was not some ultimate deliverance but a blinding addiction. A drug that had weakened their strength so much that when it fails it cripples them. So he resolved to be stronger, to cast aside the emotions that weakened him (the pain, the compassion, the fear) and force it within the Saryid. He would force that clockwork to hold all his failures and he wouldn’t trust as he once did. Trusting his parents had been the source of all his suffering, so only in isolation and mistrust could he be safe. “Will you simply roll over and die tomás?”, asked the ink of fear. ““No...no NO! We must not submit to becoming a corpse, to becoming nothing more then a medical subject,” He screamed within the ocean. “Why don’t you fear fighting back more?” “No!”, he cried, “I must survive...but how...I am so scared. I should...make them scared. Make them fear me.” The Qadir gasped, his eyes shooting open as another crashed into his ribs. The burly worker put bronze knuckles on his hands aiming his final blows. He punched and before his hit connected tomás’s knee slammed into his nose. Causing the man to stumble back, hand clenching a freshly broken nose as Tomás reached toward his disc and a sound of struck steel rang out. The Qadir’s darkened skin smacked cold bronze as in a flash of white his Saryid absorbed all thought of mercy and he drew forth a whip of pure soul essence. Seeing the weapon, the worker charged in hoping to kill the man quick only to be meet by the harsh cut of a whip. The man’s neck bleed fresh as he reeled back and began to scream as the Qadir mercilessly lashed his exposed legs. The attacker feel screaming to his knees as lash after lash cut tore into him as the street air filled with cracks of a whip, blood curdling screams, and thick red blood. The Surgeon had knew just where to strike to inflict the most pain striking muscles, nerves, and finally arteries. The Qadir was almost experimenting as he took careful note of each sadistic blow and each new jerk of agony and scream of torture. The Ailor was soon reduced to a blood red heap before the Qadir who smiled with a primal sort of joy at his kill. He turned and wince upon sight of the mangled forms of Roderigo and Herńandez. Both extremely worse for wear but alive yet they had unusual looks upon their faces, ones of surprise. Herńandez, face cut like glass shards, tackled Tomás into a hug, “Simply beautiful, you finally grew some balls Tomás!!” Tomás gave a confused smile at this uncharacteristic praise. “Doctor Tomás, you have slain an enemy of the Organization alongside fellow workers. With this act we blood you and make you blood brother by right of combat,” congratulates Herńandez. “You killed someone, you took an Oath and you broke it,” his honor chastised. But a voice silenced this wavering, “The world is a cruel and ugly place, that Oath would’ve gotten you killed and for what bastards who call you a monster? Ailors who deem you a heretical beast for saving lives through dissection! Fuck them and fuck their Oaths!! We owe them nothing!!” “We are right, this is the right path the only way to safety is fear. Make them afraid and they won’t hurt you”
