As Ian wiped the blood from his dagger with the leg of his pants, he thought of how he always hated the smell of it. Blood stuck strongly of iron, almost more than iron itself. No matter how much he smelled it, he couldn't help but cringe at every whiff of it. "Come off, won't you?" he muttered to himself, wiping the blade more vigorously. After a minute or two of single-minded scrubbing, the thought occurred to him that now his clothes would smell more like blood. New clothes were hard to come by.
"Shit," he continued to mutter.
Suddenly, a strange voice called out to him: "Kid. Ian, was it? Let's get going!" The voice wasn't all that strange after Ian thought about it: He had met the man who was calling to him two days ago. His name was Ryan Somethingoranother, or at least that's what Ian called him. The last name was irrelevant, since he probably wouldn't be working with the guy much longer. He only needed to know the name Ryan for another few days, and then it would just be another name to forget.
The Voyagers really liked to move Ian around for some reason, never keeping him with the same group for much longer than a week. One of his last captains--John was his name--insisted Ian be transferred after only two days. The guy said something along the lines of "This kid is fucking psycho." Come to think of it, most of Ian's captains implied similar feelings.
"Boy!" the voice called again, trying to get his attention.
Ian rose his gaze to the man, shaking his head as if to break from a trance. "Sorry sir," he apologized, blinking a few times. He had been spacing out again. Azra always said it was a bad habit and people would think he was weird if it did it too much.
"God dammit, fucking Azra!" He yelled suddenly, looking back down at his dagger. I can think for myself dammit. Quit fucking popping up! Again, he began to space, yelling mentally at someone who was surely dead.
"Ian!" Ryan Whatever yelled louder, and angrier. "The marks are dead. Let's get out of here before their buddies show up."
Ian looked around to confirm the captain's statement as if he had not just participated in killing the "marks". There were about twelve bodies lying motionless in the grass and weeds, just a few meters from the main road heading north into Asylum and south into a settlement called Estal. Although the marks wore no sigil like most do, they were Avant Garde agents coming from Asylum. Ryan Whatsit's team and Ian had been hired to follow the group--probably by some DERB middleman--and see if they were up to anything fishy in the seedy town. As luck would have it, the group went to have a talk with Asylum's mayor, then came to this place to rendezvous with more Vanguards. As luck would also have it, the marks saw through the Voyagers' cover as traveling traders. One of their men shot the horse carrying the team's supplies, so Ian and Ryan's men had no choice but to fight back. So Ian killed them.
Ian snapped himself back into reality again. Right, he thought. "Sorry, let's go sir," he finished finally jogging in the captain's direction. Behind him were four other men and women, all cleaning their weapons as Ian had been, standing over bodies of their own. They all had fancy swords and pistols that the Voyagers handed out to identify their mercenaries, and Ryan wore an ornate set of armor fashioned with an emblem of a manned horse galloping under the sun--the Voyagers' sigil. Ian hadn't bothered to remember any of their names, so remembering them by numbers and characteristics was much easier.
"Is the kid done gawking yet?" Woman Number Two asked, sheathing her cutlass.
"Hey," The Dude With Freckles replied, "He's a little slow, but he's a goddamn whirlwind on the field. I wouldn't talk shit Cassy."
Cassy was her name. Ian would probably forget by tomorrow.
"Let's get back to Asylum already." Guy With No Hair was stretching as he spoke. "After we report back, it's time for some R&R! I haven't got laid in weeks."
Ian made a mental note to change his name to Horny Guy With No Hair.
Ryan Whocareswhathisnameis walked over to the horse that had been shot and kneeled beside it. "It'll be too much of a pain to field dress the thing, but I bet someone'll pay a couple blues for a tip on some horse meat." Then he sighed before grabbing a knife from his belt and cutting off a satchel from the beast's saddle. "We'll have to carry all of our shit though."
