I was wiping the still-warm blood off the handle of my pistol as I rounded the alley's corner. The scent of yet more blood, piss, and alchemical smoke was thick in the warming desert air.

  Two men stood, another, beaten so damn bad he looked like a pile of pulp between them. The human guards snapped their eyes to me while their Raften victim spat a few of his sharp teeth into the bile and gore before him.

  "Hey," the older guard called, his hand on the butt of his pistol. He had a long face, a longer mustache, and a scar running down the left side of his face. His eyes were grey and sharp, and he kept the barrel of his weapon aimed at the ground, "This is a matter for the guard, citizen."

  The other was a younger man, clean shaven and with a short crop of black hair. While his partner's eyes were hard, the spark of innocence long since smothered by a life on the beat, the younger man almost looked alive still. I wondered how much longer he'd keep that soul in him, livin' in a city like this.

  "Was a matter, friend," I said, nodding to the Raften as he spat on the older man's boot, "looks like it's well been solved by now, unless you mean to kill the little fella."

  The mustached guard rolled his eyes, "Fuck off. This isn't your problem."

  "Funny thing about that, I made it my problem. I do that," I said, pulling out a slim cigar and striking a match off the wall beside.

  "It's my shop you fucking thieves! I know damn well who sent you, and now there's a witness too!" screeched the Raften as he rose from his knees. He was a small man, barely coming up to the young guard's shoulder. His silk suit was tattered, fine tailoring ripped, torn, and blood-stained. The hair on his head was patchy and matted, and his dark fur was mottled with white and grey.

  Probably in his forties or so, close enough to the end for his kind. That fed the bitter burnin' in my gut. I despise those who prey on the old and the weak. What sport was there in that?

  "Yeah," said the older guard with a sneer, "I guess there is a witness. One we can just remove from the equation."

  "Don't," I said, drawing my second piece and leveling it at the belly of each man, "or we have a situation here."

  "You'd draw on a man of the law, in the light of day?" the older guard laughed and the younger's hand crept closer to the hilt of his saber, "For some fucking rat? It's humans like you that make this city such a shithole. This little leech is taking coin from good folk and poisoning them for the pleasure. You know what he sells? Huh merc?"

  "Nope. Not a bit," I admitted, "but unless it's slaves or too-young flesh, I really don't give a fuck."

  The younger man's face paled and he looked from me, to the other, and then to the Raften.

  "Sergeant, this is not what we were asked to do," he said backing away from the beaten man.

  "Shut up, Rhett. Shut your damned mouth," hissed the older guard and the young man winced.

  "No," the younger man's hands went up, saber forgotten, "they won't cover us if this ends in real blood, you know they won't. We were to scare him, not-"

  "They won't have to. They don't even need to find out at all. In fact, all we did was gun down this stupid son-of-a-bitch for robbing this other stupid son-of-a-bitch," sneered the older man, pointing at me, then the Raften.

  For his part the little hairy man had been quiet. His eyes darted from the young guard to me and the other man. He looked like a caged rat, trapped and afraid.

  "Listen to the boy, Sarge," I said, keeping the barrels of my guns true, "I already got the draw on you both. This won't end pretty."

  The man's lips twitched under his thick mustache. He was a mean one, no doubt about it. His eyes had a look of rage in them, but not the kind of rage born of righteous anger. It was the kind you see in the faces of the lost and hurt. Of folk that just know this world took from them somethin' precious, so they must take from the world in turn.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  His hand twitched, and-

  "What is the meaning of this!" called a voice, high and haughty, and dripping with the accent of the old country.

  Four sets of eyes, fell on the woman standing at the alley's entrance.

  She was dressed in a crisp uniform, all shoulder boards and brass, her dark hair tied in a bun so tight it seemed to cut the blood off from her ghostly pale face. Her green eyes flicked between us, a little too large for her face, and a frown set on her red painted lips.

  "Can anyone explain why there is a member of my city guard bleeding in the street with a head wound, while two more of my city guard and having a standoff with some sort of dust country thug?" here eyes twitched and could almost taste the rage that wafted off her, "And why the fuck! Why the fuck is a Guilded merchant puking and bleeding in a back alley street?!"

  "This," snarled the Raften, "ma'am, is the result of your men," he said the word like a curse, like a bite, and his sharp teeth glittered, "taking action outside their purview. That thug is my bodyguard, come to save me from an unjust, extra-judicial, beating," he spat a glob of spit onto the boots of the older guard, "likely a murder attempt too."

  That rat lied so smooth I almost believed it. Guess he saw my interruption as reason enough to cover my ass.

  Good man.

  "That is not true, Lieutenant," the older man, his hands up in placation, "I'm the Sergeant here and-"

  "Oh," said the woman, her face going red, "are you? You're a non-commissioned officer then? I'm surprised, because I didn't think I had any in my ranks," her voice rose, high and shrill, and the man winced, "so fucking incompetent! Do you even know who is about to pass through your gates? Or did you fail to check the watch list? We are receiving an envoy from the Empire today, and you-" she walked right past me and jabbed a slender finger into the older man's gut, "you are too busy playing games with rats and ruffians to do the absolute least of your duties."

  Holy shit. That old girl had fire. She had some real fight in her.

  I liked it. I made sure to slid my pistols back into place before she rounded on me.

  "And you, you, fucking...," she squinted and looked me up and down, drew in a deep, calming breath, then-

  "Fuck off. Take your rat master, and fuck off," she whispered, her voice low, but the menace was there.

  Oh gods was it.

  I had been told once or twice I was wired wrong. I never did run much with girls who was nice to me. Never did look for a sweetheart or a bonny love. Instead, I always chased after what I couldn't get, what wouldn't have me no matter how much I tried.

  I smiled.

  "Yes ma'am," I tipped my hat, and gestured for the little man to follow. He scurried right behind, his face still a bloodied mess.

  I felt the woman's eyes on me, hot and burning, but she didn't stop our retreat.

  Once we were a safe distance away, the Raften grabbed me by the wrist and clapped his other hand on my back. For some reason he looked a lot less pitiful. Less beaten dog, more sly boxer playing at being spent.

  Interesting. Guess he was a little like Temperance then. Too good at acting to ever really trust.

  "Thanks kid. Fuck that was intense," he chuckled and spat a wad of bloody phlegm, "fucker's knocked my brains damn near down into my ball sack. I was going to get the rope if you hadn't come and stuck your nose in. Good work."

  "You're welcome," I said looking him up and down, as he took a respectful step back, "what exactly were they beating you for?"

  He shrugged, "Oh, I sell cosmetics and recreational concoctions out of that storefront in the alley. Been trying to get a spot down in Cellar, but the Merchants Guild and the Colonial Magistrate especially are very particular about what kind of folk can have shops down there. I don't pass the smell test for them," the Raften merchant dragged a clawed hand through the patch of fur beneath his chin, raking the blood and dried vomit off.

  I winced, "I don't think you'd pass any smell test Mister. Anyway, I got places to be. You gonna be alright?"

  He nodded and wiped a handkerchief over his face, cleaning away the worst of the mess.

  "Sure. But I insist you let me repay you," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small card, glossy black and embossed in silver. On the front was the name of a high-end tailor shop and a street address, "my sister runs a business making clothes and such. Get her to make you a respectable hat, fix that ragged hide vest, you look like a fucking mess. No offense."

  I smirked, "Pots and kettles Mister..."

  "John Scratch," he offered a bleeding hand, two of the long dark claws missing to reveal the softer, pinkish skin beneath.

  I took it. Man offers to shake, you shake his damn hand.

  "Roche," I said with a grin.

  "Nice to meet you Roche. Talk with my sister, and if you ever find yourself in need of alchemical aids or potions, don't be a stranger." John muttered as he broke from my path and took a sharp turn before the Uptown gates and the waiting pair of guards.

  I could see the barest traces of mana flow from him as the alley seemed to almost leap up and meet the old man.

  Then he was gone.

  And I was alone, just as I was meant to be.