Powder sprinted out of the bar, desperately trying to escape the crushing responsibility of causing her friends to fail yet another job.
Bloomer should have worked. Her other smoke grenade had worked perfectly fine when she tested it at home.
What could have possibly changed since then?
It wasn't fair.
Powder ran forward, jostling many a passerby who yelled after her in irritation. Their angered shouts drove the girl even further through the milling crowd, her mood worsening by the second.
She darted to the right—then to the left—travelling from the town square to an empty street, and then flitting into an abandoned back alley.
The alleyway was pitch black, lacking the usual illumination of the Undercity's greenish streetlamps.
It was difficult to navigate, and definitely shouldn't have been taken at a sprint—but it was the fastest route between The Last Drop and Benzo's workshop.
She could hide there—away from prying eyes.
Away from the weight of her sister's disappointment.
The blue-haired girl wiped away her streaming tears, an unstable, uncharacteristic anger suddenly blooming within the recesses of her mind.
She was going to get to the workshop and fix it.
It would work next time.
It would work, perfectly.
Powder's uncanny resolve was cut short, however, as she slammed headfirst into a large, heavy object blocking her path forward.
The girl fell to the ground, dazed.
"Oww."
Teary-eyed, Powder squinted upward, trying in vain to see what she had accidentally run into.
The shadows before her twisted, turning to face her.
Piercing violet eyes flashed a dangerous pink, their source shrouded within the darkness of the alley.
"A-ah… I'm—I'm sorry," Powder stammered, her head still spinning from the collision.
She crawled backwards, away from the monstrous man blocking her path, utterly terrified.
The figure walked towards her, shimmering pink eyes staring down at her through the blackness with a cold finality.
The girl reached out a hand, raising it in a pathetic attempt to shield herself from the man's advance.
Powder closed her eyes in misery; holding her breath and waiting for her punishment to come.
Powder shut her eyes tightly, sucking in a breath and awaiting her sentence to come.
But it didn't.
Instead, a rough, gloved hand grasped her outstretched own, gently pulling her to her feet.
"Walk with me, child."
The man's voice was low—tender, even.
Powder blinked in a scared surprise, autopiloting forward, allowing herself to be pulled along by the strange, cloaked man.
She nodded, reaching up to massage her throbbing forehead, conscious of the damage she had taken.
"Why the tears?" the man asked—almost kindly.
He glanced down at her, momentarily slowing his pace as he realised that she was struggling to walk.
Powder hesitated, biting her lip, unsure whether to share her shame.
She decided to do so—the choice driven by a strange, unnatural feeling of trust.
A chill passed over the back of Powder's neck.
She shivered.
Powder brushed the sensation off, hesitantly opening her mouth to begin her reply.
"Me and my friends—we… we took a job." She paused, sorting out the details of her story. "We were supposed to steal a batch of wares from the traders docked at the bay. We had it all worked out—Vi made a whole plan. Nobody would've known it was us."
"But?" the man prompted, probing her abrupt silence.
"I—I blew it," Powder admitted, eyes downcast. "My smoke bomb didn't go off when the timer was up, so we had no cover to escape under."
She tightened her hold of the man's gloved hand, as she remembered the dread of being caught.
"The ship's patrol caught us in the open. And then they beat up Vi and Claggor with clubs." Powder's vision blurred as she thought back to her friends' pained grunts.
The way their blood had dripped down onto the ship's filthy deck.
"We would have gotten off way worse if it weren't for Vander. Nobody hurts us too badly because they know we're his."
"I see," Callian replied, picking up on the detail hidden within her final statement.
This wasn't the first time this had happened to her—to them.
Callian glanced down at the girl, giving her a subtle, evaluative look.
It wouldn't hurt to give her a nudge in the right direction. This much, he could do for her.
If she was already making smoke grenades—working or not—then perhaps his earlier reveal at the bridge hadn't been a risk at all.
Then again, that entirely depended on whether the two guarding the bridge deemed it necessary to report—given that it had led, ultimately, to absolutely nothing.
"Your hand, child," the man requested, retrieving an oddly shaped, palm-sized object from one of his coat's many inner pockets.
Powder couldn't make out what the item was—the alley was still too dark to truly see in. But, she held out her free hand anyway, deciding to comply with the man's unusual request.
The man dropped the object into her palm, and it sank under the unexpectedly heavy weight.
"Try not to accidentally pull the pin—or you will be in for a very colourful surprise."
The… pin?
"One of my own," Callian continued, unfazed by her confusion. "Perhaps you will glean something from it—or perhaps not. Either way, you will get no guidance from me on the matter."
If the girl could disassemble the device without setting it off, she could learn its workings—advancing her already budding ingenuity to an even further height.
The corner of Callian's lip curled upward in a rare, genuine amusement.
Once upon a time, it had been him in her position—learning from scraps left behind by his ever-errant teacher.
How the tables had turned.
"Is this a… smoke bomb?" Powder asked, squinting at the angular-feeling item she now held within her grasp.
"Correct," the man replied, glancing upward.
The alley's end was ahead—the dimly lit cobbles of an actual street now in sight.
"It doesn't feel like a smoke bomb," Powder said, dubious.
She turned it in her hand, wincing slightly as her probing digits passed over its sharp edges.
"It's… kinda like a head. I can feel its teeth."
"It was designed as such by its inventor," Callian murmured, clarifying her words. "Like a signature—so that you knew the device was one of hers."
"Hers?" Powder asked, curious. "You mean you're not the one who made it?"
The man's glowing eyes had dimmed to a barely visible violet, nearly indistinguishable amongst the darkness of the alley.
"I did make it," Callian corrected. "But the design was created by another—By the woman that I serve. That is why it is such a stylised piece. She poured her heart into every one of the gadgets that she crafted."
Powder looked down at the grenade, feeling a strange kinship with this mysterious, unseen woman.
"She's just like me then," she murmured, carefully slotting the device into one of her belt's empty pouches.
A wry smile tugged at the corner of Callian's lips.
Oh, the irony.
"Where are you going?" Powder asked, now feeling a little shy.
Then she remembered—she didn't even know his name.
So, in a poor attempt not to sound rude, she blurted that out too.
"I'm Powder—What's your name?"
"Callian Bright," The man replied, patient in his answer. "First vassal of the Painted Lady."
Powder's relief at not being rebuked was obvious; her face heating up in shame at being so thoughtless.
Then came excitement, aimed at the prospect of a new friend who understood the intricacies of gadgetry.
"A vassal?" she asked, confused, but eager to learn more about the man beside her. "What's that?"
Callian studied the curious girl for a moment before replying.
"It means I am sworn into servitude to my liege—And in exchange, she protects both me and my interests."
"Oh." Powder muttered, frowning. "That doesn't seem very fair."
"When I was your age, I would have been inclined to agree," Callian said. "But now? I do not. I serve someone far greater, and far more important than myself."
The man paused for a moment, taking the time to rehash a vague, uncompromising version of events that wouldn't jeopardise his identity.
"I, like many others that followed—enemies and allies alike—chose to stand underneath her banner." Callian paused again, feeling reminiscent. "Because, in the end, we were all fighting for the same thing."
"And what was that?" Powder asked, as if sensing his hesitation.
"Freedom," he said.
Powder went quiet, casting her eyes toward the street ahead.
Freedom.
She knew that fight all too well.
"Did you—did you win?" the girl asked, catching Callian off guard.
The man's surprise simmered down as he recalled Zaun's ruined streets—the utter devastation which was left behind in the mines.
Bodies had been strewn across those streets—too many to even know where you should start counting.
"Objectively?" he said aloud, his tone flattening. "No. Nobody won that war."
Powder fell silent for a long moment, then gently squeezed his hand.
"We… we didn't win either," The girl said, mumbling. "My parents died trying to fight for our freedom. I-I'll never forget seeing them there—lying on the ground. Stuck under the rubble. Dead."
Callian let go of her hand, raising it slowly.
He hesitated—then placed his gloved palm onto the top of her head.
He stroked her hair softly, murmuring a quiet apology.
He sympathised with the girl's pain. He understood that feeling all too well.
"I'm… sorry to hear that."
"I'm sorry too," Powder said, looking up at him sadly.
Maturity such as this—especially in someone so young—was… unusual.
But then again, loss changed people in unimaginable ways.
Some people could never fully move on from their pain.
The two walked on in silence, finally stepping out onto the lit street.
Dim green luminescence radiated from the twisted iron streetlamps lining the road's cobbled edge.
Powder glanced up at Callian, now able to get a good look at the man.
Her sharp blue eyes caught a glimpse of what lay beneath the tips of his long, dark coat.
Her gaze drifted toward the man's strange metal boots, barely visible beneath his unnaturally murky shadow.
"Is that meant to be an owl?" she asked, pointing toward his masked face.
The girl's question, coupled with her pointed finger, provoked an imperceptible frown from Callian.
Powder shouldn't have been able to see through the shadows cast by his hood.
His coat and jacket were rune-lined—modified to maximise the depths of the shadows they cast.
These sewn enchantments served to hide the man's more identifying features.
So, how could Powder see through it?
Callian's brooding deepened, his grimace now barely visible.
Perhaps the warp—no—perhaps his less-than-controlled impact onto the Outskirt earth had damaged the runes.
Regardless, it seemed that the enchantments on his clothing were now redundant—or weakened, at the very least.
There was no point in hiding himself to this extent any further—at least not in his present company.
He let go of her hand and pulled back his hood, letting loose his short, floppy hair.
His other hand reached up to gently tousle the collection of braids that lay at the base of his shoulder-length hair.
His lack of a hood felt freeing.
Callian then dropped his hand back to his side—surprised to feel Powder's small fingers curl back around it.
"It is," Callian replied, gesturing to his white, wooden half-mask. "It is a custom of my people—to signify our fight for liberation."
He then paused briefly, enhanced hearing beginning to pick up the faint patter of footsteps from behind.
They were light. Frequent.
Too tightly paced to be an adult—a child or early adolescent at most.
He considered re-hooding but ultimately didn't bother with doing so.
If its cloaking functionality was compromised, then there was no real point in putting himself through the unnecessary discomfort.
His mask alone would have to suffice.
"I believe," Callian started, glancing over his shoulder meaningfully, "that one of your friends is approaching."
Powder blinked.
"Huh?"
Callian said nothing in reply, his mind beginning to wander.
He had doped on such a large concentration of shimmer that the shining liquid was literally in his blood.
One of Callian's companions had theorised that his bone marrow had been polluted by the mutation-inducing drug—corrupting the very essence of his blood's creation.
This resulted in a constant stream of shimmer that circulated throughout his body in a continuous, stimulating loop.
It had brought in many, many boons, most of which were related to his physicality in one way or another.
His enhanced senses were simply one example of this.
"Powder?!"
A faint yell echoed down the alley, the sound now reaching the winding street that the two stood on.
The girl glanced at Callian, baffled, her gaze darting toward the top of his head.
Powder wasn't a stranger to enhanced hearing—the local Zonai had that in spades.
But Callian wasn't one of them, right? He didn't have any of their fur—or ears.
The girl smiled nervously, before letting go of Callian's hand.
"That's my sister—Vi." She said, putting a pin in her mild curiosity. "I should go—let her know I'm alright."
At that moment, Vi burst out of the alley, skidding to a halt beside the hesitant Powder.
"Get away from my sister." The girl snarled, taking Powder by the hand and dragging her away from the odd, masked stranger.
Vi glanced back at the Powder, surprised by the affronted look her sister wore.
"What?" She questioned, sounding defensive.
Then she dropped her voice to a whisper, voice hissing as she eyed the stranger apprehensively.
"Vander said he was dangerous, so what the hell were you doing with him—alone?"
The stranger's eyes flashed briefly—burning an uncanny pink.
"Talking," Powder replied, looking thoroughly put out. "Just talking."
The stranger glanced toward the younger of the two, before giving her a quiet nod.
Then he turned, pulling his hood back up and beginning to walk down the dimly lit street.
Callian twisted his head back to the two, murmuring a low reply that was far too soft for either of them to hear.
"Goodbye… Powder."
The name felt foreign on his tongue. Unused.
She had never once called herself by that name before.
"Goodbye!" Powder suddenly shouted, startling the unprepared Vi. "And thank you for the you-know-what!"
"Wha—The you-know-what?" Vi repeated, narrowing her blue eyes in distrust. "Powder? Did he give something to you?"
Her tone made Powder's expression darken, falling into a light scowl.
"It's none of your business," the younger girl snapped, wrenching her trapped hand free.
Vi recoiled in shock, hurt by the sudden venom lacing her sister's voice.
The masked man turned; giving the unhappy duo one final glance before turning the street's corner and disappearing from their view.
The masked man turned once more, giving the unhappy duo one final glance before disappearing around the winding street's corner.
✦ ✦ ✦
〘 A/N: Zonai, for those of you who don't know, are the animal hybrids which are native to Zaun's underground. 〙