Oct 9, 2007. edited a few errors here and there. fp seems buggy right now, but anyhoo, just a few grammar errors, no change in story.

a/n: if you’ve read past that bad summary, welcome to my first story after four months!

-WitchHunt-

Chapter 1

-deeper than blood-

“Motherfucker,”

Aryan stared at the ever-growing crowd, observing things with stoic un-interest. The tall, nineteen-year old male sat quietly in his seat on the outdoor café, ash-black sunglasses covering his eyes from the bright afternoon light. Thirty—no, fifteen minutes more and that crowd would be pissed from the blazing heat, the young man had thought to himself, ignoring the cup of coffee set on his table. He continued to watch the crowd, half-bored, half-irate.

Even from a distance, he could hear the voices of the crowd, growing louder into the bloodthirsty scream of a mob:

“Monster!”

“Die already!”

“We don’t need your kind! Devil!”

Almost obscured by the mob, an old man lay unconscious in the center of it all, bloody and immobile. His robes were torn from the back, revealing a mass of white feathers: a pair of wings, worn down by age and physical damage.

Right beside the winged man, a man in dark robes, serving the crowd as its voice and mind. He was old, though unlike the winged figure he stood tall with an air of authority. A large, healthy body lay underneath those robes, and the old man’s eyes shone like blue opals. His hair and beard were like polished silver, while his face relatively serene and untroubled.

A smiling, friendly figure; one foot firmly planted on one hand of the winged figure.

He spoke to the mob, and those others who stood by to watch, not once looking at the helpless figure on which he stepped on. Eloquent, smooth, calm yet unusually fierce; his words moved the mob in the skill of a master puppeteer. A person like that was the true force of a mob; as they stir the masses into frenzy, creating no fear, no hesitation. No shame.

The crowd moved closer to the center, with those at the very front had their weapons held ready. Stopping one step from the unmoving body, they held their weapons up high. And then it all went down. There was no response from the winged man, an the only voice heard for seconds after was the defiant roar of the crowd, proud and glorious.

Glorious, in the right ears, of course.

In a few minutes the crowd dispersed, walking away in separate directions. They were citizens, workers, craftsmen, merchants; different people united in hatred. The sun shining during the afternoon in a desert city made little spectators, and once again the city spun around it’s daily schedule. Gasoline had been soaked over the winged man’s body, and soon the bonfire was burning.

“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” A voice came from behind Aryan. There was a man, fat and dark-skinned, who stood a few steps from Aryan’s seat, observing the young man with careful eyes. “Almost twice a week they pick an innocent gear to sacrifice for their own satisfaction.”

“I’m Merk Khan, the translator between you and the guild of machinists for your job. Though I think they said that there were three of you…?”

“My servants have no need to join this meeting,” Aryan said as he stood up, “I am in total command regarding jobs.”

A thin, cat-like smile went across Merk’s face. “So it seems, so it seems… Though I had expected someone much more, let me say, experienced-looking.”

Aryan was tall, but with a lean body that gave most people the impression of a wandering musician than an experienced mercenary. His hair was dark blonde while the glasses hid a pair of blue eyes; not sad, but more like frozen in indifference.

Most of his body was hidden underneath an all-purpose cloak, while his face revealed that: 1.)he had fair skin, 2.)he had a usual half-frown, and 3.)even without number two, he had the kind of face that did not fit with a smile. He had that kind of beauty that was the polar opposite of cheerful, vibrant male leads.

“What’s your point?”

“Nothing; it was just a simple observation.” Merk said, walking toward the streets, “The guild building is just nearby, right across today’s little witch-hunt spot.”

The building in mention was a simple one-floor establishment, but from what he heard the guild building was located deep underground.

The body of the winged man, which was a few minutes ago a burning ball of mass, had settled down to a pile of black ash and scorched bone, unfit for a buzzard to eat.

Aryan did not respond in any way, as they walked over the ground that held the execution. “Ever since the young emperor Franz seized the throne three years ago, the church of Nox had set their sights on this gear purge.

“Unlike humans, the gears don’t age properly. Though they can’t use magic, they are able to restore a small fraction of their youth by simply touching the skin of non-gears, draining the victim of their life force. If that wasn’t enough, they’re able to fuse with inanimate materials such as metal and stone, making them into a formidable weapon. I guess those are reasons to fear them, but I don’t see why those who do nothing but live like normal people have to be included in this mess…”

“People need only fear, and they are able to destroy anything unlike what they are.” Aryan replied, in a calm tone that would have rejected anger or bitterness. “They’re just sick excuses of living beings that cling to a dream.”

“Indeed. Yet you say that but do nothing about it.”

“So? You do it yourself, after all.” Ayran said, walking ahead to the guild building.

..--..

Outlaw stretched across the small bed, though uncomfortable for his height, which was much better walking outside in the heat. He stared at the ceiling, which was a large wet spot—probably broken pipes—and counted the seconds.

“Five-hundred and fifty-three, five-hundred and fifty-four, five-hundred and fifty-five…”

There was a pause, as a small droplet of water fell from the ceiling and crashed on Outlaw’s face.

“Five-fifty-six…” he sat up, wiping the water away, “Christ… got me in the fucking eye…

“I’m through with this, I need to get out of here…”

Outlaw left the bed, and if standing staright, would measure roughly six foot one inch, but with a regular slouch a tiny bit smaller. Wearing only the black trousers he wore for three straight days, he took his remaining articles of clothing (white undershirt, black jacket; both three days worn as well) from the floor and wore them.

Underneath the bed were his weapons, a .45 pistol and a dao saber, a broadsword of Chinese origin. Both weapons were left alone.

He was twenty-one, a native of the desert lands that took of to be a soldier of the empire in his teens. His skin was a very light tan, but a few more days around the humidity would darken his skin more to resemble the skin tone of his youth. His eyes were emerald green, dull in tone like the unpolished jewel. The hair on his head was black, but the majority of his hair was dyed a silver-gray.

One other feature was the plaster cast on his right hand, and above it, reaching to the shoulder and back, was a black tattoo, a pattern of black lines which crossed each other many times.

His left hand buried under his pocket, the cast-arm simply hanging down, Outlaw left the room in a few steps, and into the outside. The inn was quiet during that time of day, while the tavern on the first floor was empty with the exception of the hardcore regulars.

Outside, the desert city was busy in its afternoon course. People walked by without stopping to their own destinations, while a few vendors lingered around in search of customers.

There was a young woman standing beside the entrance, leaning on the wall smoking a cigarette, half consumed. She noticed Outlaw immediately, staring at him with a frown on her face.

You had to notice them, as it was impossible to look at her without noticing the dark-orange cat-ears. Aside from that, and her general physical body, nothing around her could be considered feminine. She wore a black shirt, with two pistols holstered in a shoulder harness. The black trousers led the way down to a pair of combat boots, and the belt she wore carried two knives; the kind that had brass knuckles for the handle. Her red hair, however, was at elbow-length; tied in a neat, single braid.

Besides that, she was frowning, which was directed at Outlaw’s direction.

“You just woke up?” It wasn’t much of a question, and more like a disgusted from taking form in audio.

“How should I say this…? There’s this guy once said that he had a fridge full of condiments but had no food, and you could say that this city is a huge fridge full of food without any condiments. Boiled egg without salt. It’s fucking boring; all that’s here is the religion mania and sand. Fucking red hot sand.”

“It’s the same thing everywhere we go lately, don’t you ever stop complaining?”

Outlaw grinned, though without looking at her he said “Until I get you in bed with me? No way.”

Her eyes narrowed down into a fierce glare, the frown was still there when she tried to speak, but came short into an inaudible murmur, followed by silence. For a few minutes they stayed that way; in silence, leaning against the wall of the apartment house as they watched the people go by. They were an arm’s reach from each other, and they stayed that way.

Again, Outlaw spoke, “Hey, Alice?”

Silence, for a few seconds, then: “What?”

“I need a smoke.”

Slowly, she reached in her pocket, taking out a pack of cigarettes—circa pre-war era—and passed them to Outlaw. It then took her a second to notice that the pack was replaced by a handkerchief, plain, white, and relatively clean. “What’s this?” Alice asked, staring at the piece of cloth.

“Handkerchief.” Outlaw replied in a blunt snort as he lit one cigarette, “You’ve got a bit of dirt on your cheek.”

In front of them, a group of children were busy playing, with wooden swords and slingshots, play-fighting under the shadow cast by the apartment. Outlaw and Alice watched them play in silence, waiting as the time passed by.

“It’s so fucking boring, Aryan had better get himself back here, this city’s giving me a damn migraine…”

..--..

Unlike the scenery outside, the guild of machinists was built deep below the city surface, as it was connected through one of the pre-war ruins. Their main purpose as a guild was to excavate and repair any machinery found in the ruins, contributing those findings to the empire.

Natural sunlight did not exist among the guild walls; each tunnel barely was lit by the glow of artificial, fluorescent lights. The excavators, the guild miners, all of them wore full body armor to protect them from the unknown hazards underground. Like the walls, they too did not look like they existed anywhere underneath the light of the sun.

Aryan was inside one of the guild offices, which was a small, wooden room located in one of the floors closer to the surface. The floorboards were damp and noisy, while the walls reeked of oil and sweat; like a permanent musk attached to the wood. A steel folding chair was set in the middle for Aryan to sit, while in a large desk across Aryan, sat three guild officials, Merk standing beside them.

“They say that they have heard stories about your skills,” Merk Khan said as he slowly translated for the machinists. “But like me, they are quite surprised to see one so young with a reputation so… infamous.”

Aryan said nothing but stared, taking into careful observation the physical features of the three machinists. Unlike the excavators, who wore sand-brown coveralls with steel plates protecting the vulnerable areas, the machinist officials wore grey full body-suits, with a flak jacket for extra protection. Their masks were simple, connected to what Merk described as a tank made to filter the underground air.

“As you may have noticed,” Merk continued. “The church of Nox has had their sights set on religious expansion here in the southern desert over the past couple of years. Their ironclad policy regarding the gears has been quite popular in this turmoil, seeing as the gears are less than ten percent in the population pool. Not to mention that the remaining ninety percent worship Nox as the absolute God.

“The young emperor Franz Vi Valentine is quite busy waging his war in the north, and as a result he gave the church power to maintain the affairs of the state. To summarize it, the Nox has been upholding the peace through mob rule, with the weekly witch-trial to keep the people satisfied.”

“What’s your point?”

Pause, then Merk again translating for the machinists: “Guilds such as the machinist has been held in low favor for certain contradictions in Nox teachings, and it is generally predicted that if the war won’t end soon, the gears would die out, and later the people would want to find more sinners.

“If only one could strike down the church leaders…”

“You want me to assassinate the church leaders?”

The thin, cat-smile had returned to Merk’s face: “No, I did not mean anything by that statement; as doing so would plunge the people into deep chaos. What we want is, a favor from the emperor.”

Nothing in Aryan betrayed his stoic demeanor, but it was something that caught his curiosity. “A favor?”

Merk, smiling, said: “The guild of machinists seek power, and despite the fact that they send out massive shipment for weapons and combat drugs, they are quite low in the empire’s circle of influence. Now, the war with the north is in a brutal stalemate, but the guild has one piece of item that could change the war.”

“Would you like to see it?” Merk said, looking at the door from where they entered, as if waiting for something.

Aryan said nothing, but with a slight nod of agreement Merk gave a low whistle to signal who-knows-what and in a loud voice, he said:

“Send her in.”

Aryan did not turn to see who it was. He waited, listening to the light, weak footsteps that came behind him that went closer from each step. In a moment, he met the quiet, though badly bruised figure of a young woman.

The girl was young, beautiful and seemed a few years younger than Aryan. With fair skin accompanied by hair darker than the starless sky, she had dark red eyes that seemed blank. For a moment their eyes met, and only at that moment did Aryan notice the most important thing:

Wings, and unlike the white feathers of a gear, was like two red spines protruding from the back. It wasn’t a fierce red, but the color was much more mysterious, much deeper than blood.

Merk stood beside her and said to Aryan, “This is the weapon, Lucifer, the ultimate destruction.”

chapter1:end

next chapter

desert & eagle:bullets and blood

a/n: wow, i’m finally back. finally-fucking-back! i’m still in doubt about my current skills (it’s been months since i sat down to write a story, but I’m feeling good on this one. did this on one sitting, and I’m still in the zone of writing. chapter two is fast on its way, hope you guys review and comment. Much appreciated.

anyhoo, same stuff: review me and I review you. do note that sometimes it may take a few days for a reply, I’m busy with writing for fp, writing, and writing for my blog. (i’m that obsessed with writing right now)

see ya!

(note: if you notice that there is a word with the letter y missing, blame it on my keyboard)