“Clean water and a bucket of black paint,” Tora stated his offer, patting the small barrel beside him.

“Paint?” Harold sneered. “What would paint be good for?”

Tora’s nose twitched, having caught a whiff of the young Terran’s breath. Harold was not only dumb, but smelly too.

“You could paint the Middle Fingers’ sign on the walls,” ping, “and use it to mark your territory.”

Tora winced, knowing that his voice had sounded more hesitant than he wished it to be. Pinging his surroundings mid-sentence was bad practice, but the more nervous he was, the more often he did it. It was something many Thardos were guilty of, this need to sense their environment even while speaking. Koren had often chided him for it, but Koren was long gone, and Tora was slipping back into bad habits.

But Harold was thinking about what Tora had said, which was a good sign. Tora pinged his surroundings some more, keeping track of the scrawny man hiding in the back. He was there to back Harold up, probably. This section of the Scavengers’ Alley sounded otherwise quiet, but that didn’t reassure Tora in any way. The heaps of discarded junk and broken-down goletons could provide cover for any number of nasty surprises.

“Heh,” Harold started to chuckle. “The paint is fine. But I have half-a-mind to just beat ya up and take what you have, little rat. I don’t see why I should tell ya anything.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why was this Terran so stupid?

“I can get more water for you later,” ping, “but only if I can trust you.”

This reply had Harold thinking for a bit.

“Ya can trust me,” Harold said. “So, waddaya want to know?”

“Details about what happened in Springzone district,” Tora said. “And I’ll also need an empty barrel if you want more water. This one is my last.”

It had been really hard for Tora to roll even this small-sized barrel here, so this was very likely the last time he dealt with Harold—but the Terran didn’t need to know that.

“Springzone isn’t Middle Fingers territory,” Harold said, crossing his arms.

“But you deal with them often,” ping, “so you must know something.”

Harold scoffed. “Of course I know. Everyone ‘round here knows.”

“Knows what?” Tora asked the first question of many, and then the questioning began. It didn’t go as easily as he had been hoping, but he eventually got as much out of Harold as the Terran’s patience allowed. Making deals like these – trading for information instead of food – wasn’t something Tora was used to, but he believed that he was getting better at it. Harold was good for practice; easy to run away from if he attacked, and dumb enough to say things better left unsaid. He wasn’t anyone important, so he obviously wasn’t in on the big secrets, but he told Tora lots of interesting things anyway.

The Ravagers had assassinated the upper rank of the White Crows a few days ago, then took over Springzone district’s well—along with the entire district. Having control over the entire district’s water supply usually left no doubt as to who was ruling the area. Harold let it slip that the current arrangement affected the Middle Fingers badly, losing quite a bit of standing because of their earlier deals with the White Crows. They seemed to be getting desperate for water, which would be good for further deals—if only Tora could figure out a better way to transport water. He wasn’t going to bribe everyone by rolling barrels through narrow alleyways.

In the end Harold listed quite a few new names in Springzone; who to avoid dealing with, who to find if you needed drugs, smokes, or alcohol, and even a guy who were smuggling exotic pets in and out of the city. Tora did his best to commit the names to memory, shelving them with a dash of doubt. What he heard weren’t facts, just the things that Harold believed to be true.

After his deal with Harold concluded, Tora backed off the way he came and pinged the alleyway to make sure he wasn’t followed. He reached Rustfield’s infamous barber shop quickly, then climbed up on the side of the building by grabbing onto handholds well-worn from use. He pulled himself up to the flat rooftop then used a clothesline to climb over to the next building, where he jumped onto a pair of pipes that ran along the walls. From there on it was an easy progress, scuttling from rooftop to rooftop by following the pipes.

Tora stopped at one of his hidden spots, on a roof not far from Maa’s hideout. The twin pipes were leaking droplets of water there, slowly but surely, and Tora switched the almost full bucket underneath it to an empty one. The Factory poisoned its water to prevent people from stealing it, but if boiled properly, it was still good for cleaning Tora’s fur. Even if Tora had all the water he wanted at Randel’s place, old habits died hard and he didn’t want to be wasteful.

For the time being, he hid the bucket on the roof and climbed down to the alleyway. Not many people were around, just two homeless men smoking under the steps of the tattoo saloon. Tora could also hear the mechanical whirring of a cleaner goleton from around the corner, fading into the background noise that came from the main road. Good. He walked down the alleyway, sticking to the shadows until he reached Maa’s hideout.

Two of the youngsters – Gomori and Rimi – were playing with a ragball outside, but they stopped when they sensed Tora coming.

“Hi Tora!” Rimi said, waving at him. By Thardos traditions Tora was still considered underage, but he had been looking after the children for so long now that they called him Tora instead of Tori. He would never admit it to them, but it felt very good to be considered an adult. Tora just hoped that in a few years when they all grew up, they wouldn’t start calling him Toru instead!

“Hi champs,” Tora said, smiling at them. “Is Maa here?”

“Nope!” Gomori said. “She went to Randel’s!”

Even Maa spent less and less time around here, and Tora couldn’t blame her. Most of the children hung out at Randel’s place these days, because it had water and because it was so much at the edge of the lower ring that the lower ring’s gangs didn’t bother them there. The City Watch patrolled the perimeter of the wall often – to make sure that the surrounding area stayed clear – and so dozens of guards passed by Randel’s building every day. Randel told them that they could sleep in his basement anytime, and the children were only glad to take him up on this offer.

Tora was no exception. He desperately wanted to preserve this current arrangement, but he feared that Randel wouldn’t uphold their deal for long. What would he say when he saw his water bill? He asked for information in return, but what kind information was truly worth that much money? Most of the children were too young to contribute, so Tora had taken it upon himself to do his best and bring as much news to Randel as possible.

Truthfully, it wasn’t only the fear of getting thrown out that motivated Tora; he had been surprised to find out that he enjoyed this news-gathering task a lot. He liked that he had to use his head instead of relying on his swiftness. Making deals and spying on other people was dangerous, but not more dangerous than picking pockets and running away from the City Watch. And the more Tora learned about the city and its people, the better he would be able to avoid any danger!

“Tora! Tora!”

Tazuki slid down from a nearby roof, landing with a few running steps and flailing his arms to keep his balance. He looked frightened, ears perking up and whiskers twitching, and he was breathing as if he had just run a lot.

“What is it, Tazuki?”

“It’s good to. To find you here. I’ve followed Roach. Like you asked me to.”

“What happened?” Tora demanded. “Did he see you?”

Tazuki shook his head vehemently, his large ears flapping.

“No, he didn’t. But I heard him saying. Saying that today he is going to visit the … painter Player. I think he meant Randel.”

Tora stiffened. “Then what are you doing here, Tazuki? Why didn’t you go warn the kids at Randel?”

“T-That’s where Roach is going! He was already on his way. N-No way I’m going there now.”

Idiot, idiot, idiot! Tora shoved idiot Tazuki out of the way and climbed up on the side of the building, pulling himself up to the water pipes as quickly as he could. He sprinted across them, heedless of the danger of slipping and falling, pinging his environs rapidly. He made good progress, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, using the pipes wherever possible. His bare feet caused dull echoing sounds with each step he took, so he drew on his mana and silenced his footsteps, forming a sound-bubble around his feet to keep the noise inside.

Tora was only a corner away from Randel’s building when he noticed the unusual quiet. He spotted a thin Terran man down on the street, his long hair slicked back, cigar in his mouth. This Terran had two muscled Noruk behind him and so there was no no doubt of his identity; Roach and his two goons, collecting protection money. Tora stopped for a moment, silencing his heavy breathing with magic, listening to what was happening down below. Roach knocked on a closed door for the second time and then waited, taking a pull on his cigar. When no reply came from within, he took the cigar out of his mouth and pointed it at the door. Tora couldn’t sense what happened next, but a moment later the entire door broke off its hinges, falling inwards. It made Tora shiver. Players were terribly powerful, and the scariest part was that he could never ever be sure of what they could do. He had learned that lesson recently, when a certain Player popped out of thin air in Maa’s hideout as if it was nothing.

Roach stepped to the side and gestured for one of the Noruk to squeeze himself in. Tora moved on after hearing that, feeling relieved; he would be able to warn the others in time. He had to hurry, though. Even if there were a few more buildings ahead of Roach before he got to Randel’s, it wasn’t guaranteed that he would stop at every building.

Tora crossed a few more rooftops until he reached the one next to Randel’s home, separated only by a narrow alley that he could easily jump over. Children were chattering below on the street, but only until Tora let out a series of high-pitched sounds, amplified with his magic. It was their very own signal for impeding danger, a noise too high for Terran ears to hear, indicating medium-level danger. Tora had been considering to signal high-level danger, but he didn’t want to spook the kids too much; Roach was not yet here, and he wasn’t coming specifically for them.

Tora waited until the last of the children vanished from the alley below, then hopped onto the fire escape on Randel’s building. Rusted metal bars creaked beneath his feet. Tora climbed onto the outside of the railing and lowered himself floor by floor, until he reached the one where Randel lived. He then dug his claws onto the uneven wall and climbed around the corner, toward the windows that faced the middle ring’s wall. Naturally, he could have just knocked on Randel’s door … but he had to be cautious! This wasn’t spying, this was just precaution. Besides, he still had time before Roach got here and it wouldn’t hurt anyone if Tora gathered some more information about Randel’s home.

Making sure that no guards patrolled the street at the moment, Tora clung to the wall of the building, creeping to the leftmost window. Glass-windows were annoying because they prevented Tora from pinging inside, so he had to rely on his eyes to peek in. He pressed his snout against the corner of the glass and tried to make out what he was seeing. It wasn’t hard to find Randel; he was sitting on the couch right below Tora’s window. Randel was holding an open book in one hand, his other arm around his mate’s shoulders while she nestled against him. Devi watched the book with a look of intense concentration, trailing a finger across the lines as Randel read them out loud. Tora could hear his voice through the cracks of the window; it was a traditional Terran tale, one that was meant for children. Randel had a strange taste, that much was certain.

Baffled by what he had heard, Tora decided that this was enough spying for now. He let go of the wall and dropped down to the street into the riot of colors. Doodles, childish drawings, and splashes of paint covered not only the walls, but also the pavement and the alleyway. It was the ugliest thing Tora had ever seen, making him think as if someone had vomited colors all around the base of Randel’s building. But the youngest kids were really proud of their work and even Randel seemed to be satisfied with this work of art, so Tora kept his opinions very wisely to himself.

He walked back to the fire escape and knocked on Randel’s side door, hoping that it wouldn’t be Devi who opened it. She was a little bit scary.

“Yes?” Randel pulled the door back a crack, looking past Tora’s head first before noticing him below. “Oh, hello Tora! What’s the matter?”

Tora wracked his brain, piecing together the meaning of Randel’s words. Like most Players, Randel was speaking in a dialect; Koren had once told Tora that it was an archaic version of the Terran tongue, kept alive mostly because of the Players.

“We need to talk,” Tora said. “Trouble is coming.”

“Oh-kay,” Randel slowly said, then opened the door wider. “You sound serious. Come in!”

Tora ducked inside, pinging around shyly. He had been in this room only once before; it was usually Randel who came down to talk to them, not the other way around. Devi took a brief glance at Tora as he stepped inside, then turned her eerie orange eyes back to the book in her hand.

“Let me just grab something to sit on,” Randel said as he locked the door behind Tora. He walked across the room to his paintings, and Tora was about to follow him when Devi looked up, making Tora freeze with one foot hovering above the carpet. He stepped back carefully, and Devi returned to her book.

“There you go,” Randel said, bringing two stools over to the kitchen and sitting down on one. Tora didn’t really want to sit, but he did his best to be polite. At least the stool was the correct size for him, unlike the overly tall chairs that Terran people sat on.

“Roach is coming,” Tora said as soon as Randel was listening. “He’s going to be here in a few minutes to collect protection money.”

“Roach is … one of Borg’s men, if I remember correctly?”

“Yorg,” Tora corrected him. “He’s Yorg’s man, who is the leader of the Black Moon. The district where you live is Yorg’s. I have warned you about him already!”

“Alright, alright, no need to rub it in,” Randel said, scratching his chin. “I think I remember now. The Black Moon is one of the most powerful gangs here, right? And Yorg is a native Human, who even has Players in his pocket.”

“Pocket?” Tora asked. “No, he forces Players to work for him.”

“That’s what I said,” Randel said. “So, this Roach is coming here to tax us. Is he a Player too?”

“Yes,” Tora said, whiskers twitching. “He’ll be here any minute now, but he’ll leave you be if you pay him. You can pay him, right?”

Tora glanced nervously at Devi, who had put down her book and was in the middle of strapping on her armor. Tora was starting to worry that she and Randel planned to fight Roach. The kids were in their basement! And facing Yorg and his men was the stupidest thing anyone could do!

“We’ll pay this protection money, don’t worry,” Randel assured Tora, turning to watch Devi too. “Slave-master, goody two-shoes, or eldritch secrets ploy?”

“I did not think we play so soon,” Devi paused donning her armor to reply. “Which is the easiest?”

“Slave-master, probably,” Randel said. “You’ll have to repeat basically two words the entire time.”

“Yes, master.”

“I’d say that you’re already a natural, but I’m afraid of getting stabbed.”

Tora watched this exchange with a good amount of bewilderment. Before he could have asked for clarification, Randel stood up and brought some black and red paint to the kitchen, then began to mix them together on a large palette. He added some water to make the paint more liquid, then slapped both of his hands into the brownish, dark red paint.

“Blood is quite dark when it dries,” Randel told Tora when he caught him looking. “I cannot speak from experience, don’t worry! But I hope that this will convince Roach.”

“What are you doing?” Tora asked.

“Putting on my war paint,” Randel said, which didn’t answer anything, but at this point Tora was already getting used to not understanding everything. Randel finished rolling his hands in the blood-red paint, then started to wipe it off with the bottom of his shirt. He stained his clothing awfully, trying to rub his hands clean without much success; the paint had discolored his skin and got stuck underneath his nails. He even smudged a little bit of paint on his left cheek when he rubbed his face with his dirty fingers.

Next, Randel held out his hand and his black weapon appeared in it, shaped like a spoon. Tora watched in amazement as Randel pressed the tip of the spoon against his collar, shiny spiderwebs appearing on the material as it flowed around and encircled his neck. The handle with the orange gem shrunk down to become a small ball beneath Randel’s chin, oozing and twisting and reforming until it looked like a Terran skull, with the light of the gemstone shining through the eye sockets.

“Nice,” Randel said, feeling at his modified collar with his fingers. He then ran a hand through his hair, making it even messier. “How do I look?”

Startled, Tora coughed a little, unsure what to say.

“You look like you’re running out of clean shirts,” Devi came to his rescue.

“Is that a problem?” Randel asked. “We live in a world where it’s easier to buy new shirts than to wash old ones.”

“You’re full of waste, Randel.”

“Ouch. I hope you meant wasteful.”

“You’re wasteful. Yes.”

“Well then, let’s not waste our time, shall we?” Randel asked. “I want to be there when our guest arrives.”

Devi and Randel left the room in short order, leaving Tora alone—who, after hesitating briefly, hurried after them with silent footsteps. How else would he learn about what had happened? He followed the two Players out to the central hall – a large open space from which the building’s other rooms opened – then down the steps to the ground floor.

They arrived too late. By the time they got to the entrance hall, Roach had already destroyed the heavy door and his Noruk henchmen were standing inside on either side of the doorway. Tora reflexively cloaked himself in a bubble of silence and hid behind the corner, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Was there going to be a fight, after all? Randel wore only some dirty and disheveled clothing, but Devi was in her armor.

“Dammit, slave, I told you to install a doorbell,” Randel grumbled as he walked forward, his voice echoing in the unfurnished room. The entrance hall was empty and gloomy, with only the boarded windows and the demolished door allowing some light to filter in. Tora stayed behind the corner, trusting the darkness to cover him while he peeked at the intruders. Roach walked through the doorway in an unhurried manner, looking around lazily, his hands in the pockets of his heavy overcoat. He took a slow pull on his cigar, its lit end flaring in the darkness.

“So this is where the newcomers live,” Roach said, his voice dry and raspy. “Can’t say I’m impressed.”

“Apologies for the reception,” Devi spoke, her heavily-accented voice calm and measured. “My master and I didn’t have time—”

“Shut up, slave,” Randel barked. “Who told you to speak?”

“Apologies, ma—”

Her sentence ended in squeak and she fell to her knees, writhing in apparent pain—even though Randel hadn’t so much as lifted a finger. Tora pricked up his ears, listening in utter shock. They were just play-acting … weren’t they? Was Randel hurting Devi for real?

“No … please…” Devi whimpered, and Tora’s legs began to tremble.

“Now then,” Randel said, turning to Roach and ignoring Devi’s pleas. “Sorry for the reception, Roach. I’ll make sure the slave learns her lesson by the next time you visit.”

“You know who I am,” Roach said, half-question and half-statement. His cigar was hanging limply from his lips.

“Of course I know you, Roach, don’t be so surprised,” Randel said, pacing left and right as if he owned the place. “What I don’t know is how much tax you’d like to collect.”

“Protection money,” Roach said, reaching up to his cigar and flicking the ash off its end. “We call it protection money these days. You pay, and Yorg guarantees the safety of your home. But if you don’t pay…”

He left the threat hanging.

“Protection,” Randel mumbled, focusing on the wrong part of Roach’s statement. “Yes, protection sounds reaaally good. Right, slave?

“Y-Yes, master,” Devi said from the ground.

Randel began to chuckle, which lasted for an uncomfortably long time. Roach watched him warily, biding his time, but the Noruk henchmen behind him shifted uneasily as they waited for Randel to stop.

“How much?” Randel abruptly asked.

Roach blew a puff of smoke toward Randel.

“One hundred credits.”

One hundred credits?! Tora couldn’t believe his ears. One hundred credits – roughly a hundred gold – was a ridiculous amount! That much money would feed all of Maa’s children for—well, for a very long time! Did Roach demand so much money because Randel was a Player who would be able to pay? Or was it because other people lived in this building too? No one else in the neighborhood paid a hundred credits, that much was certain!

“One moment,” Randel said, gesturing with his hand vaguely. “Slave, my pouch?

“At once, master,” Devi said, getting to her feet.

“You speak too much, you wench,” Randel admonished her. “Just give me my pouch, instead of your empty words.”

Devi took a pouch off her belt and Randel tore it out of her hand, rooting around in it for a moment. He pulled out a credit card, tossed the pouch back to Devi, then turned on his heels and walked toward Roach fearlessly—or perhaps carelessly.

“Here, two hundred credits,” Randel said, making Tora’s jaw drop to the floor. “Extra money for the extra inconveniences.”

Randel held out the credit card, but when Roach reached out to take it he grabbed his hand and put it in his palm himself. Roach seemed to be about to punch him, but Randel flitted away quickly, turning his back to the intruders as he ambled back to Devi.

“What inconveniences?” Roach asked.

“Ah, you see, this and that,” Randel said, spinning around with his arms spread. “Some of my hobbies… The children in my basement… The constant screaming… I would really appreciate some protection in case the City Watch discovered what’s happening here, you know? Not that I cannot deal with the Watch! It’s just, well, you know how awfully difficult it is to hide the blood stains. I would need to buy a lot more paint to cover the evidence.”

His voice echoed in the empty room dully, but then that sound died too, leaving only silence. The Noruk henchmen, Roach, and even Tora stood frozen, their eyes on Randel.

“That’s not how protection money works,” Roach said when he found his voice. “It doesn’t protect you from the law.”

“Whaaat?” Randel asked. He spun around to face Roach, placing his hands on his hips. “You mean this Yorg—he wouldn’t protect me even though I paid him twice as much?”

“It’s a tax, you freak,” Roach spat. “It protects you from us, not the City Watch.”

“Ahh,” Randel said, then began to chuckle.

Roach frowned, losing his patience. “Listen—”

He couldn’t finish his sentence because Randel cut him off, speaking a foreign language on a cold and sinister tone, uttering harsh words that clashed together. Randel’s bearing had changed too; he stood straight instead of slouching, his gaze boring into Roach. The collar around his neck shifted on its own, forming thin tendrils with pulsing orange veins that slithered up to his ears and face. Tora shivered at how creepy that looked. He could neither see nor hear the small skull at the front of the collar, but he suspected it was changing too.

“What?” Roached belatedly asked.

“I asked what else can I help you with, Roach,” Randel said, starting to pace again. This time it wasn’t the idle pacing of a distracted person, but the movements of a predator getting ready to pounce. “You got what you came here for, didn’t you?”

Roach puffed on his cigar instead of replying outright, but he was nowhere near as nonchalant as before; his movements were jerky and his posture was tense. Tora’s chest clenched in fear—these Players were going to fight here, weren’t they? Even Devi had started to back off, shaking in terror, her eyes never leaving Randel. Roach noticed this too, glancing at Devi and back to Randel, and then taking an unconscious step backward. The two Noruk by the entrance had already pressed themselves against the wall, as far from Randel as possible.

“We’re done here,” Roach finally said. He tossed his cigar away and nodded at his henchmen. “Come on.”

He turned and walked out of the building without any further comment, and just like that, Randel’s posture became relaxed again.

“Come back soon!” Randel joyfully said, waving at the Noruk henchmen as they all but scrambled out of the building.

Tora gaped, unsure about what had just happened. Had he just seen Yorg’s men run off? Even though they got the money—more money than they had demanded, actually. And Randel … Tora hadn’t known he was so powerful. He was always very friendly with the children, and he never wore expensive armor like the other Players did, so Tora thought him to be mostly harmless. But now … even if he was just acting, he looked really scary and strong. It frightened and reassured Tora at the same time.

“Good fight, Randel,” Devi broke the newly settled silence, holding out her fist.

Randel wandered over to her, touching his fist against hers.

“Good fight, Devi.”

“Did you mark him?”

“Nah,” Randel said. “It seemed like he would have taken an unwanted tattoo badly. If we see him again, I’ll try marking one of his lackeys instead. But we should discuss this somewhere we can’t be overheard.”

Tora jumped in alarm after that last comment, scurrying back up the stairs with silent footsteps to the central hall. Just before he got out of hearing-range, he caught a few more sentences whispered between the two Players.

“Oh and Randel?”

“Yes?”

“Next time, you will be the slave.”