We in business, boys.
Chopstick Eyes stood at the edge of the sea, the Lustrous Garden shimmering over rippled waves. She checked a watch she was not wearing, and, realising this, tapped her feet impatiently. The tapping turned into a bored, humming little jig, over the course of which she nearly missed her rendezvous.
She spotted Veradax casting its shadow over the smog of the Pyres just in time, and startled, scrambling back to the spot she was meant to watch. There, as the celestial spheres aligned- not in any noteworthy arrangement, but not random, never random- she spotted it: a mess of foam along the tide-line, a squiggle of sand in a shape that could have been, but was not quite, writing. In another moment it was gone, wiped clean by the waves.
Gotcha.
"C'mere."
The frog refused, flexing its throat as frogs do in a thoroughly nonplussed kind of fashion. Chopstick sighed with her hands on her hips, and looked around, as if for help. There was none, none but the fogbank of Li'Kalla's gate in the distance. And she was fortunate for that, too. She couldn't afford witnesses.
"C'mon, lemme just..." She stretched (some of) her arms into the muddy hole again, and when they weren't long enough, she tried her hair; the strands returned, carrying a fat green amphibian, resigned but by no means beaten. Chopstick looked over her shoulder again, quickly this time, and put the frog to her ear.
"..."
Nod.
"... ..."
Nod nod. Chopstick put the frog back from whence it came. Later that day, she found a marshy puddle, and, splashing her feet into it, disappeared completely.
A dark space, but not lightless.
A fragment of a walkway with no rails.
A door.
Chopstick Eyes stepped out into the hustle and bustle of the Grand Bazaar, wiping the dust of things indescribable off her skin. Lanterns greeted her warmly; street hawkers greeted her too warmly. But it was all grass around her feet and branches brushing the elephant's back. She was God, here. She was in command.
With a hop and a skip and a jump and about eight full-size meals from the intermediary food courts, Chopstick Eyes had returned to her workshop, the one with the monster doodles scattered all over the floor. She picked one up and smiled, half-shrugged. It was funnier now, but she did need something to keep her pad safe, and even with two Chopsticks, she wouldn't be here all the time. Especially now that she had a promise to Li'Kalla.
Her well of ideas had not since become any less dry, but there were other ways around her many weaknesses than trying to muscle through them alone. Donning a trench coat and a black hat, Chopstick Eyes set out for yet another trip to the places few would ever see. This time, it was quick.
The black market was a place of bright lights and dark faces, if faces there were. The floating gloves had lead in their knuckles. The voices were quick and were muted.
The wagon Chopstick ordered were already carrying a heavy load of goods, crude, hefty iron pieces, choppers and maulers and, to her own astonishment, enormous boomerangs. They didn't come back when she threw them, unfortunately, they weren't weighted that way; but good lord were they heavy and sharp. And they were remarkably cheap. All of these things were. Chopstick made a note to take a good look at this 'Pit of Trials' sometime.
As for the rest, well, she waited until she was back in the workshop. It wasn't much, really: a fancy gold-trimmed black box, a stapled document, and some old blueprints rolled up with rubber bands. She started with the documents.
On Stem-Line Nanyte Replication in Second-Generation Autonomous Cluster-Based Perimeter Monitors
M. Salma Lei
Abstract
Since their introduction as post-urban infiltration and insurgency countermeasures, nanyte cluster perimeter monitors, colloquially Haze Men, have been field-tested for real-time environmental awareness and perception as well as combat efficiency, measured in terms of algorithmic response coverage, response rate, burst stamina, maximum force output, impact, compressive, tensile and fatigue strength. The lifespan of each unit measured across 800 cycles at periodic maximum and near-maximum performance has
Chopstick stared at the document blankly. It was at least forty pages long.
"Iiiiiiieeeeeee can't fucking read this," she announced, and threw it in the incinerator. "Black market know-how it is."
She opened the box, then closed it again. When she opened it a second time, everything was just the way she'd left it: a box lined with velvet, and eight bags full of dust. Eight incredibly expensive plastic sachets of black, black dust. She ripped one open and poured it out on the floor.
The cloud that rose wasn't choking, nor did it cover the skin and sink into the floorboards. It coiled, flexed and expanded, then shrank, the dust pouring from the sachet in a continual, impossible waterfall, sucking itself into itself until it formed a solid mass. The mass began to glow.
Up stood a creature like a steel spring, coiled and sharpened for violence. Heads and shoulders it towered above Chopstick, watching her with eyes bored into its face with a harsh, mechanical light.
A Haze Man, once again. Chopstick grinned, and booped its nose. She got almost to its face before its hand seized her wrist, its body and gaze unmoving over a vicious grip.
Very nice.
"Alright, point taken. Lemme go, mall cop," said Chopstick, and it did. "You think you can find your own way to the Palace?" The creature creaked, buzzing in a language that she did not understand. "Yeah? Well, close enough. Meet me there and I'll tell you who not to kill." The Haze Man made a noise like gravel being scratched.
Bit rough around the edges, for sure, thought Chopstick Eyes. But definitely a cutie.
The Palace was one of the largest hotel-restaurant-brothel combinations in the Grand Bazaar, and Chopstick Eyes owned one hundred percent of it. It was certainly the grandest: trimmed with brass and golden statues, it was styled true to its name, with vast, silken rooms, its own private square for dances and performance, and kitchens enough to feast nightly. Sometimes, when Chopstick was feeling particularly lavish, she would sleep in its basement.
It was also, unfortunately, quite empty. Advertised as a place 'where the gloves are leather and lace', they were really just silk for the most part. There were neither guests to enjoy the Palace's premium service nor any staff capable of supplying it. The gloves were great for spanking and such like, but man cannot live on handjobs alone.
Oh well.
Chopstick met the waiting Haze Men in front of the hotel, and promptly instructed them to arm themselves. The Palace was empty for now, sure, but one day it wouldn't be, and on that day she would tolerate no tomfoolery.
...
Well, that was a lie. She'd tolerate a lot.
Probably encourage it.
Probably be responsible for it.
But still. No tomfoolery.
Chopstick crawled out of the earth as she was wont to do, and changed out of her tunnelling overalls. It didn't help much. The rain was remarkably heavy today, and the mud splashing around her feet was awfully lively. Halfway through wrapping her kimono, Chopstick aborted the process and opted for a bright yellow raincoat with gumboots.
It certainly wasn't flying weather. She couldn't make it back to the Gateway if she tried, assuming Li'Kalla was even there in the first place. But that didn't matter much. She'd made another purchase in the deep markets.
From the deep pockets of the raincoat, Chopstick retrieved a wand of curious construction. Its haft was some fine-grained black material, matte and weighty, and a shiny, silvery metal orb formed its head. A thin steel band encircled the grid-like, rippling wirework of the orb, and visible within was some kind of dark foam. It had been sold to her as Michael's Wand of Loudspaken, and she had every intention of testing it out.
She activated the wand and tapped the orb. A fizzy thudding sound echoed for miles around. She inhaled.
"HEY, LI'KALLA!"
...okay, maybe that was a little too loud.
"Whoops! Sorry! Didn't mean to startle you, hey. Hey, I made a reservation for you at my hotel in the Bazaar, so you can pop in any time! Just let the staff know you're in and I'll be right there to meetcha, alright?"
No answer. She probably didn't have a Michael's Wand of Loudspaken. What a sucker.
"If anyone else can hear this, uh... Hey listeners, what's up! I have chopstick eyes, and I'm totally open for business right now. Need some goods? Want some services? Just call Choppy's Business Delivery Hotline for a totally free consultation! We do deliveries! We do pick-up! We do deliveries clocked at eight hundred miles per hour directly to your chosen recipients cranium! Want some emotional advice? Look no further! Want some sexual advice? I do too! Just call Choppy's Business Delivery Hotline! Call it with your throat! Call it with your tuba! Call it with a big sack of angry cats you're trying to pass off as bagpipes! That sounds hilarious! Terms and conditions may apply, but I'm deliberately ignoring them! Thank you!"
...
"Oh yeah, by the way, if anyone wants to bring my security staff, like, a cup of coffee or something, sometime, that'd be nice, they look kinda parched."
A nearby mud-clump stared at Chopstick Eyes incredulously.
She shrugged.