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Red Nail · #8 (**permalink**) 09-18-2008

“God’s shit…” Jordan hissed as he scooped the box back up and away from the elf.

He’d seen the look on the elf’s face and knew that it knew exactly what he was carrying. Tacks carried official packages all the time, but they never carried ones that were signed in the names of Committee members. He was sure the elf had to think he was some sort of thief; or worse a member of the Five Reaves, the Knives Under the Table, or one of the other groups that discretely or openly opposed the Committee.

Jordan whipped off his bag and shoved the box inside, backing into the surrounding crowd slowly. When he was a good few paces away Jordan turned and made a run for it. He slipped through the crowds and ran like the militia was on his tail. If he was lucky most people would think he was a tack that was running late.

He chanced a look back and was unable to see whether or not the elf was following him. He was sorry that he did. He didn’t see the enormous orange vench in his path until he plowed right into the rotund thing. He was bounced back a few feet, scraping his already bruised arm and leg. He got up as fast as he could and limped on towards a waiting tram.

It was headed to Section 4, but right now he didn’t care much about where it was headed so long as he was on it. He slipped in through the doors and tried to lose himself in the crowd until the large thing started moving.

--

There was a knock at the main door of Weesog’s Runners. The usual business of delivery continued around the office as the children and few adults that were in the office ignored the knock. There were a few moments of quiet by the door before the knocking came again, much more insistently. It was still ignored by those inside, even by Weesog himself.

They didn’t meet clients face to face when setting up deliveries or drop offs. It was policy and it should have been plain enough on the sign outside the door. It gave them a sense of security. If they were investigated, it meant that unless they met the recipient of a parcel they were not legally liable for what was done with it. They’d help with investigations if requested, but they weren’t required to do anything.

Unfortunately for the people and vench inside, the armed men on the outside weren’t interested in any delivery services. With their knocking summons ignored they slammed aside the flimsy door and entered without a sound among the cries and bellows of Weesog and his workers.

Without wasting a second Weesog snatched a gun from the wall with his mind. Before the gun could reach it, the appendage erupted in flesh, blood, and chitin. The screaming intensified as Weesog’s mind grip on the weapon slacked and the vench staggered back. The man who’d shot Weesog, expelled the cartridge from his shot gun and gave a predatory, wolfish grin made up of sharp and obviously modified teeth. The vench hadn’t dropped the gun yet.

He fired again and Weesog’s left side exploded, mirroring what happened with the now missing arm. The man’s black coat and shoes were further stained with the nearly clear jell that served as vench blood. Weesog crumpled and twisted in on himself in his death throes. Underneath the wounded flesh and skin the beginnings of azure wings and a vaguely humanoid form could be seen. Weesog was closer to his metamorphosis than he’d been letting on.

Shocked by the death of the vench that most of them considered their father, the rest of the workers offer little resistance in being rounded up by the guards that followed the fang-mouthed man inside. He looked them over and they did the same to him. It was, at this point, a predator and prey situation. The children huddled behind adults and teens in a vain attempt to hide themselves. The adults and teens, for their part, held a kind of resolution about them that was rare these days. This all told the man with the black coat and shoes that they’d be less than helpful.

“I’m at the start point of the carrier,” he said aloud, “There’s no sign of the package or anyone trying to escape with it. We’re probably looking for a tack that stuck his nose where it doesn’t belong. The scent from the alley definitely originated here, I haven’t picked up any casual threads since I left Section 2. Tell your men to keep an eye out for a tack with a Weesog’s Runners badge vest in your area.”

“You what?!” he yelled, after a pause, to the hidden voice he could hear, “Is the professor dead? Did he have any information? Stick a knife in him. Make it look like a gang did the deed. I’ll be in touch.”

He signaled to the guards and watched the people herded outside into a transport that had arrived a few minutes after the shots began. It was a clean operation and soon the fanged man was left alone in the empty offices. He set his synchronicity field up quickly and looked out over the office. Papers rustled in the fake wind of the fans and only one piece of paper blew out and away from the stacks. There wasn’t a name or anything, just and order. He seamlessly swapped his field to the paper and waited for the next clue to come his way. While he waited, he noted with interest that the order smelled like another vench.

“Looks like I’ll be squishing more than one bug today…”