🌿💀🌿

It’s been two days since our clean-up of that DeadNettle den. Maybe my babysitter voucher expired or Tamara needed them for something else; but Larkspur and Kapudal are no longer in my place, depleting my fridge’s contents. 

I flirt with the idea of going grocery shopping but the simple thought makes my head hurt. 

Just as well, I don’t know when I’ll get the call from Tamara. It would probably be better if I stayed at the HQ. I’d be ready for the next step in the plan sooner. 

But I couldn’t take all those eyes on me, everyone just waiting to see if I snap. I get pins and needles just thinking about it. 

No, I’m much more comfortable going insane alone in my apartment. My inevitable and possibly imminent spiral into incorrigible mental instability needs no audience. 

That said, the idea that I might slip into autonomous nothingness doesn’t sit well. It’s an excessive weight around my neck. 

Nothing seems to take my mind off it besides physical activity. My exercise routine lets my mind drift from the dread that wants to drown my soul. But I can’t do it for too long, I don’t want to push it too much. I need to be in top form for what comes next. 

I try anything else to take my mind off it. I clean my entire place, every surface, and under every object. It didn’t take as long as I thought it would, but at least my place is clean. 

I start cleaning my guns, disassembling them and meticulously wiping them down as needed. 

I briefly think that a person sitting alone in their apartment, cleaning guns in a hidden alcove is not the behavior of a sane person. But I dismiss the idea quickly since it isn’t fucking helping. 

With everything clean and some exercise done, I have nothing else to do and there are many hours left in the day. Nothing on TV holds my attention for more than a few minutes. I feel like I’m watching myself, watching TV rather than whatever stupid thing is on. 

Two weeks. 

I blacked out for two weeks. I walked, talked, ate, slept, and killed for two weeks and don’t have a shred of memory of it all. The only thing I got from it is these headaches. 

What will become of me? Will I still talk? Have feelings, think, and care for myself; but beneath it all, nothing of substance? A vase with a hole in the side can hold some water, for some time. That’s what I am now, I figure. But the cracks are getting bigger and bigger. 

I’ll just be shards of what was once my mind. 

I turn off the pottery documentary I was watching. 

“I have to go to sleep,” I say to no one. Maybe lying unconscious will calm me down.

Getting ready for bed, I look at the unfamiliar clothes in my dressers. They aren’t my style at all, so I’m not sure what could’ve possessed me to buy them. Predictably, a sharp pain forms in my head. I shake it off and wander over to my bed. 

How can I know I’ll stay asleep? What if I go to sleep and slip into that…

I refuse to name it. The dread that wants to spread throughout my being won’t gain a foothold. Fear can be defeated with preparedness, that’s what Tamara always says.

I stand up and go for my tools; velcro strips, adhesive patches, and some heavy webbing. 

Rather than sleeping in my bed, I set myself up in the corner of my room. Placing the velcro strips on the walls, I stick them to the heavy webbing to trap myself in. 

It’s uncomfortable, and somewhat irritating my skin, but it keeps me in place. If I slip away in my sleep and wake up, to do god knows what, the straps will have to be ripped off. That way, I’ll know if I blacked out again. 

Maybe strapping myself to the walls is further proof of my insanity, but I don’t have a shitload of options. 

As I sit upright against the wall and try to will myself to sleep, I realize I should’ve grabbed a pillow. Or at least took a sheet and folded it up. 

“Ahh, next time.” No one ever makes the perfect blackout tracking system on the first try. 

I somehow manage to fall asleep sometime later. I dream about something, someone. I can’t see the person I’m talking to. I’m not sure if I’m just not facing them or if they’re just not there. But I am talking to someone, and they’re talking back. I don’t actually hear the words, I just have this feeling someone’s talking to me. I’m not even sure what I’m saying, really. 

But something about it…reassures me, somehow. 

I wake up, still confined in the constraints. There’s no sign of me undoing and then reattaching them. 

“I made it through the night.” I sigh with relief and get out of the corner. The achiness in my neck and back makes it clear why more people generally don’t sleep against a wall. Lesson learned. 

I stretch out in the shower, hoping we get the plan moving soon. Need something to do and there’s nothing left for me here. 

I get dressed, slightly more tactical than street wear; in the hopes we’ll start today. 

Anxiously, I head over to the HQ. Soon as I park the car in the lot someone says to me,

“Hey, Hollyhock!”

I turn to see who the voice belongs to. A woman with cool brown skin greets me. She looks somewhat familiar but her face doesn’t immediately ring any bells. 

My confusion must be apparent because she clarifies by initializing the Bay Leaf handshake; both of us using our right hands we give a tap of the knuckles, interlacing of fingers, and using thumbs to tap the other’s digits in a specific order, ending with a double tapping the back of our hands and a finger gun. 

The Bay Leaves may have military-grade weapons and training, but we aren’t above such demotic gestures. While I know most of my fellow assassins, there are a handful who have just been out of my orbit. Being able to recognize a Bay Leaf through our handshake is a lot like meeting a cousin you didn’t know you had. 

At least, it’s how I imagine so; never having had cousins myself. 

“It’s me, Mirabilis!” She says. That name ignites recognition in my mind. Wondering why she didn’t just say that I squint at her face. 

I swear she looks different than the last time I saw her. Her straight nose and almond-shaped eyes are familiar, but I remember the space between her features being different. Her skin also seems a slightly different shade, like her undertone changed. I also recall her having some pockmarks or something like that. Her face is now very smooth. 

Then again I am losing my mind, so there’s a good chance I’m mistaken. 

She has a slim build for someone in our line of work, but not much muscle mass either. But as far as I know, her physique hasn’t caused any issues on the job. She offers a wide smile and I try to give a genuine one back. 

In a recognizable gesture, she scratches her Adam’s Apple. I have no idea why that gesture sticks in my mind, but it confirms this is who I think it is. 

“You look like you saw a ghost,” Mirabilis says, speaking with a South American accent. Peruvian, I think. 

I shrug. 

“It’s been a tough…week.” I’m not really sure what day it is. 

Mirabilis nods her head as if remembering what’s going on with me. That’s when I notice the large contractor bag she’s pulling. 

“Whatcha got there?” I ask. 

“Accountant gumbo,” she answers. I guess Tamara got what she needed and didn’t like that he spat at her. The opaque black bag obscures the state he’s in, though I’m guessing it’s not all in one piece. All of us are killers, I have no problem seeing or handling a dead body, but I have a threshold of how much viscera I can be around. Mirabilis, seemingly, has no such compunction. 

I notice the smell suddenly. 

“I gotta take care of this, I’ll see ya later!” She says cheerfully and drags the body along. I give a friendly wave goodbye and head inside. 

As expected, HQ is abuzz with activity. Some apprehensive stares are aimed at me, but I do my best to ignore them. With the accountant dead, Tamara got what she wanted. She’ll also have a snitch telling her what’s going on. With everyone running around, I’m guessing shit’s about to get real. 

Speak of the devil, Tamara walks out from around a corner. She’s talking to Koki’O and they both immediately turn to look at me. The head and heart of the Bay Leaves approach me. 

“What a coincidence, I was about to call you, Hollyhock. Seems you’re getting better at being in the right place at the right time,” Tamara says. 

“Tamara,” Koki’O says, giving her a small nudge. Tamara clears her throat. 

“But I, uhh…digress. A snitch told me the DeadNettles are meeting up, just like we planned. They’re congregating in their lil’ clubhouse on Gladioli Drive, somewhere around ten p.m. It’s all hands on deck, first, we get everyone fitted, then we’re going over the blueprints to form a strike plan. We’ve wasted enough time talking, get to work, killer.” 

She dismisses me with that. Needing no further direction, I move to help the closest person who’s moving an ammo cache by themself. We place it with the others, stockpiled by the door. 

From there it becomes a whirlwind of activities; which I’m grateful for. Checking assault rifles and protective gear lets me ignore the dread being concocted in my head. The tactile, precise feeling of equipment sliding into place as it should; latches, straps, clips, grips, pins, zippers, and the various other pieces of it all. They instill a sense of definitiveness, absolute certainty. 

‘If it is done properly, it’ll work properly’. Words carved into us by Tamara when we trained with our weapons. She had us dismantle a gun a hundred times blindfolded before we’d ever fired a single bullet from one. Funny how much that used to piss me the fuck off then, but now I’m yearning for the surety of the process. Not that I’ll ever let Tamara know that. 

I assist the greener Bay Leaves with their gear, showing them the most efficient ways to do everything. Before I know it, I have a small group orbiting me. They’re freshly trained, yet inexperienced, and want to soak in the knowledge of a seasoned killer such as myself.

I’m aware of my skills, and what I’ve accomplished. My reputation isn’t something I particularly think about, but it obviously proceeds me; as these rookies hang onto my every word. For some, this’ll be their first assignment. And what an assignment it is for their first run, wiping out a whole group. 

I can’t help but judge the wisdom of letting newbies on an assignment like this. First jobs are almost always solo work; to see how one handles the weight of this life alone. If they fuck up, it’s their own ass to pay. It’s how we get proven killers. But this? If they fuck up and hesitate for a moment, they can end someone else’s life. Should the lives of my fellow seasoned assassins depend on them?

But then, maybe I’m being too harsh on them and the more experienced killers. We’re more than skilled enough to cover ourselves and these babies. Besides that, I suppose this is an invaluable demonstration for them. What they’ll be capable of if they can survive long enough. 

Not that it matters what I think anyway. Tamara is doing this for two reasons, the first being that this is the fastest way for this crop of Bay Leaves to truly understand what this life means. That we aren’t your garden variety killers. That we hold ourselves to a higher standard in this line of work. And that we operate on a singular mantra: Do not fuck with us. 

So maybe she doesn’t need every single Bay Leaf to arm up and storm this place. But what better show of force is there to the other powers at play in this city? That if you fuck with us; all of us will show up and obliterate you from existence. This isn’t just about professional vengeance, it’s a grim warning to anyone who might even think about crossing us. 

When everything is prepped, checked, and squared away we gather in the sanctuary. Tamara and Koki’O stand where a pulpit should be, waiting for all of us to sit in the pews. It’s a somewhat bizarre atmosphere, us sitting and facing a solitary figure in a church. All of us, with bated breath, eager to hear from a leader. Do regular church sermons have such lethal anxiety from their congregation? Do the leaders usually have thigh holsters on? Who’s to say? But this is America after all, so the chance isn’t zero.

A projection of the DeadNettle’s HQ is displayed on a large whiteboard that we only keep around for such occasions. Even though we’ve already been told about this; Koki’O goes over the blueprints, detailing entry points, blindspots, and recent additions to the building. Which is good because I didn’t study the schematics at all.

We’re to wait until they’re all in, then surround the building, cutting off all exits. Dumb as they are, the DeadNettles aren’t without some brain cells. In so much, that they’ll be armed. They think that someone might try something and hope to ward off an attack with a display of strength. This will take the form of several guards being posted outside. 

Stealth will not factor into this operation. That’s made clear when Tamara says Kapudul is going to take the first shot and provide support with sniper cover. She gives a “WOO!” in response to this. 

The DeadNettles might be expecting some trouble, but they’re not prepared for the full force of the Bay Leaves. Few are. 

Tamara starts assigning groups with leaders to take point. I’m half expecting to be put in charge of some of the newbies that have been following me around. But all the groups are made and I don’t hear my name called. As everyone gets into their cloisters I approach Tamara about this. 

Before I can say a word, she says to me,

“Hollyhock, you’ll be with me, Koki’O, and Digit.” She took the wind out of my sails a bit with that announcement. Here I thought I was about to be sidelined but it’s just the opposite. I’ll be in the spearpoint with Tamara. 

Kapudul saunters over next to me, a spliff between her fingers that she fully intends to light before Koki’O gives her a look. She puts it away in her pocket. I’m about to ask what she’s doing here when Digit comes over, carrying two large cases.

Digitalis is our doctor, armorer, techie, tattooist, and weaponsmith; but I sometimes forget he’s also a Bay Leaf like the rest of us. The amount of guns he has strapped to his person is evidence enough of his killer prowess. He puts one case down and presents it to Kapudul.

“Christmas came early for you, it seems.”

“Oh yeah?”

He opens the case to reveal the most beautiful sniper rifle I’ve ever seen. 

“This is the C-Buckthorn,” he informs her. I’m not Kapudul heard him as she stares at the dark green weapon. She might be in love.

“I might be in love,” she says. A small chuckle escapes me.

“Semi-automatic. Cartridge holds eight .50 caliber bullets, if you have a problem with 2,000 meters of this baby, you won’t have a problem soon enough,” Digit explains, but again I think it falls on deaf ears. She picks it up gently and cradles the large rifle like it’s a child she just gave birth to. Digit still has more to say, “These are standard rounds.’ he points to a cartridge on the left. “These are armor-piercing incendiary, steel plates don’t put up much fight for them.” he points to a cartridge with a red line going across it. “And these,” he points to the final one with an orange line across it. “Are explosive rounds. You shoot a person with one of these, you’ll leave a hole you can put an arm through.”

Kapudul looks like she’s about to cream her pants. I honestly can’t blame her. 

“You only use those,” Tamara speaks up “If I give the word, understood?” 

That gets through to the sniper, who nods her head as she looks at the deadly ammunition, perhaps envisioning all the death she will cause with them. 

“Good, go,” Tamara dismisses. Kapudul picks up the case, shushing it.

“Let me take you away from the bad man, you’re with Mommy now,” she says as she walks away. Tamara rolls her eyes but Koki’O laughs a little bit.

“What do I get, Santa?” I ask, seeing the remaining case.

“You’ve been a good girl this year,’ Digit says with a Santa-like voice. 

“Stop,” Tamara orders.

“You’re no fun,” he replies. He opens the case and hands over a jacket.

It’s black, embroidered with flowers all over. “This one took a while, but it’s some of my best work. The extra material absorbed the treatment well. Making it leagues more durable than any other one I made,” he says, clearly proud of himself. As I take it I can feel what he means, the weight alone is proof of how the chemical blend has fortified it.

“You picked this out?”

“No, you did.”

“I did?” Another spike of pain shoots through my head. I do my best to hide it but Koki’O notices. 

Doesn’t seem like the kind of jacket I’d pick out, but it’s the best I got. Besides that, it also looks pretty cool. Sliding it on, a surge of confidence fills me as that feeling of safety covers me. It’s hard to describe the sensation exactly, besides intrinsically knowing how strong it is. The embroidery on the sleeves is especially thick and I can tell it’s extremely tough. I’ve had treated jackets before, but this one feels like more than just armor, more than safe. It’s…….

I don’t have a word for it. Familiar? Home? Can clothes feel like home? Maybe because it’s a tangible link to what I’ve missed. 

“We got a couple hours ‘fore it’s go time. You can ease up,” Koki’O says.

It’s 84 degrees outside, but I don’t want to take off the jacket. 

“Nah, I’ll go help out some-” Before I can finish Koki’O claps a large arm around my shoulder. 

“C’mon, killer. Help me with something,” she says in a tone of voice that I can’t refuse. Tamara gives us a nod and starts talking with Digit. 

Koki’O takes me to the kitchen, where she already has some things cooking. It’s an assortment of side dishes mostly, none too heavy; mashed potatoes, home fries, rice with beans, mac ‘n’ cheese, collard greens, and lots of other stuff. It’s a delightful melange of aromas.  

“Start making plates,” she orders. “Newbies are trying to go in there on empty stomachs.”

I start assembling different combinations of food. 

“Maybe they’re scared they’ll shit their pants?” I proffer.

“This’ll be their first time killing and seeing killing. I’d rather them throw up something than dry heave,” she replies, going over to the stove. A silence falls between us. We can hear the sounds of everyone walking around, getting ready. Koki’O prepares more food and I keep making plates.

Then a chuckle comes from her.

“I just remembered when Tamara had that helicopter for us to practice with our wingsuits,” Koki’O reminisces. She puts the fire on low. “You put on a brave act, but I could tell something was wrong.” She leans against the counter and looks at me.

It’s clear what she’s getting at; that she senses something wrong. But I won’t give it to her that easily.

“Jumping out of a helicopter for the first time can make anyone trepidatious,” I say as I place some cornbread on a paper plate.

Koki’O sighs, realizing I’m going to make her work for it.

“What’s the problem, Hollyhock?” She asks properly.

What should I share? My fear of going permanently insane? The dread creeping into every fiber of my being? That’s too heavy, she’ll go right to Tamara with it 

“These headaches won’t go away,” I answer. “I don’t know what’s causing them, they come at random intervals, and haven’t gotten weaker.”

Koki’O walks closer to me. A firm but gentle hand reaches out and holds my face. She starts to inspect me and I let her, offering no resistance. It makes me feel like a little kid quite frankly. She turns my face side-to-side, looking for something with an unreadable expression. 

“Have you told Digit?” She asks.

“No,” I mumble, her hands squeezing my cheeks. “He’ll take it to Tamara.”

“And maybe he’ll take you to an MRI,” she retorts, letting go of my face. “You scared, that it? Afraid to get a diagnosis?” 

I shrug.

“I don’t know.” I know exactly what I’m afraid of, but that isn’t related to the headaches. At least, I don’t think they are. “The blackouts aren’t new, obviously but the headaches are. I don’t see why I’d start getting them now.”

“Maybe whatever’s going on in here,” she says, putting a finger on my forehead “is getting worse.”

“That’s encouraging.” 

“Look Holly, if I could magically take the pain away I would.” 

That pain shoots through my head again.

“But I can’t. You should seriously get it checked out.”

“Okay, I’ll see what’s what,” I say. It’s an empty promise. I have no interest in knowing whatever’s wrong with me. If this…affliction kills me or takes over my brain then so be it.

Tamara taught us how to do everything we know well, but lies can never get past Koki’O. Still, maybe as mercy, she lets it slide. 

“Alright,” she ruffles my hair. “Let’s get back to it.”

That question pops up in my head again, but I push it away. I don’t care if my brain is turning into mush; that question won’t ever be voiced. I have to keep that promise. If nothing else.

We get back to the task at hand. When enough plates are made we call down the newbies. Some of our more seasoned killers come as well. Larkspur has a pack of neophytes clinging close, much to their annoyance. At first, they’re all hesitant to eat, but seeing Larkspur immediately grab a plate assuages them. As they all get food, a lively atmosphere comes about. Stories are told and bits of advice are shared. You’d never think that this a pre-assault supper.

The time whittles away, but soon we start to shift. Plates and utensils get traded for guns and ammo clips.  Everyone gets their pick from our arsenal; since we’re going loud a lot of rifles come out to play. 

When I get to the armory I look over my options. So many killing tools to choose from. I grab a couple of karambits, two thermite grenades, and a tactical flashlight. With the appetizers done, I move on to the main course. To start, the Echinace-A submachine gun. The “A” stands for automatic, this gun is made for suppressing multiple enemies. Coming standard with a double drum magazine, it has a frightening fire rate and had an even scarier flaw. The initial prototypes overheated quickly, making them useless after a time. To combat this, a liquid nitrogen cooling system was added with extreme success. The gun will be cool to the touch even after emptying its clip, earning its nickname “Cold Killer.” It produces quite a bit of steam as you fire it. 

With dessert being the Senna-68 Rifle. I imagine this weapon was designed by a sadistic hermit genius somewhere since it has little to no recoil; even on full automatic, making it damn near laser accurate as well as capable of expelling armor-piercing rounds. The yellow and dark brown weapon is easy to handle, so much so that it’s a go-to rifle for those who employ child soldiers. It’s also been acquired by an unsettling number of such people in further unnerving amounts. With a unique sound, the Senna-68 has gained the reputation of being the gun that’ll make you shit if you hear it. This one has a heat sensor attached to it. 

When we’re all fully equipped we get into our groups and head out before Tamara stops us all. Her voice comes through all our radios.

“What we’re about to do will upset the balance in this city. There will be consequences to this, but we’ll handle it as we do everything. They brought this on themselves. I expect all of you to come back here, understood?”

We all give various expressions of agreement. No more words need to be said.

Nondescript black vans await us outside. As we pile in, the energy shifts in all of us. Tamara has tempered us to be cool, collected before such assignments. So, despite the heat, the air around us is ice cold. 

Or maybe it’s the AC Digit is blasting. The four of us sit in the van in absolute silence. Digit, Koki’O, and I are all wearing helmets; though Tamara always chastises us to wear them, she doesn’t have one. When I was younger I asked Koki’O about it and she said ‘It’s cuz she doesn’t want helmet hair.’

I didn’t really buy it back then, so I always assumed whatever past Tamara has influenced that particular decision. I sometimes wonder what her life was like before all of this. How it fostered that distant stare in her eyes. She’s sitting across from me but she might as well be on the other side of the world. 

She notices me looking at her. 

“You nervous, killer?”

“No. You?”

Instead of answering that, she leans back.

“This has to happen,” she starts. “I’m…” she tries to think of a word.

“Apprehensive,” Koki’O supplies. Tamara nods. The fact that Koki’O knew the word means she’s privy to what troubles her.

“About what comes next.” Tamara expands. 

“With the Argonos?” I probe. Tamara nods, somberly.

“You know how many people I’ve killed?” She asks. Koki’O and Digit both perk up at the question.

“Well, at least three,” I joke.

A very rare chuckle comes from Tamara. 

“You’re not wrong.” She sits silently for a moment. “Some kills were more…constructive, than others.”

Now I wonder what the actual number is, but more than that I want to know what she considers a ‘constructive’ kill. And a non-constructive one. 

But her distant stare returns and I know I won’t get an answer. Koki’O and Digit divert their attention back to driving. 

With only the inside of the van to look at, it’s hard to tell where we are, but then the road smooths out under us. Tamara briefly looks out the windshield and grabs her radio. I turn mine down before she says,

“We’re coming up on the targets, heads on a swivel, no one but us leaves that building. Understood?”

A litany of confirmations comes through the radio. 

“Understood,” I say to her directly. I turn my radio back up and go to look out the window. 

The DeadNettles may be organ stealing, drug dealing, human smuggling assholes, but they at least have some style. Their headquarters was once the most influential building in Oleander City: The Aurinia Exchange. It’s a massive building that dwarfs most other structures built around the same time.  

It was created during the Gold Rush which saw a massive increase in population around here. The building was designed with a dual purpose, a gold exchange and refinery plant. People would come with whatever nuggets of gold they found for money, and the plant would create gold bars and coins. 

With a healthy amount of gold to be found here, business was good; so good that the owner opened a mine under the building. That was initially successful, but greed kills. Cut corners and poorly maintained conditions, along with an earthquake, led to the mine collapsing. 13 miners were crushed immediately, and another 20 starved to death as they were unable to get out. 

Between the payouts to the families and people losing faith in the place, it soon went out of business. Most of the equipment inside was sold off, or stolen. But the structure itself stands strong. It’s three stories tall and built with brick and mortar, but I’m willing to bet there’s some asbestos in there.

How exactly the DeadNettles got their hands on it is beyond my interest. Since then they’ve repainted the white pillars out front purple and have thrown up their insignia all over the place, the earth turning purple instead of blue. 

After tonight that symbol will be a grim reminder if anyone remembers it at all. 

This place has its own road, so we park near the street to block it off. 

All of us get out and perform one last radio check, weapons, and gear.

Kaadupul gets into position with her new baby.

“Formations, now,” Tamara commands. We all comply, getting into our groups. I go over to Tamara’s left, her right reserved for Koki’O, with Digit at our rear. “Advance.”

All Bays Leaves maneuver to their designated entry points, with us taking the front door.  

There are two guards at the ready at the front. Though ‘at the ready’ seems generous as they’re both on their phones, the one on the left watching a loud annoying video.

She laughs like an idiot too. 

“Kaadupul, when you’re ready take out the one on the right,” Tamara orders. 

“Left,” I suggest. She briefly looks and sees what I mean.

“Actually the one on the left,” she adjusts. The soon to be dead DeadNettle burst out laughing again, annoying her fellow guard. 

“Everyone else when you hear that shot, and you will hear the shot, do what we do best.”

There is no need for confirmation. 

Like a crack of thunder, Kaapudul’s new toy fires our opening shot. The guards don’t have time to react to the sound; the one on the left is thrown against the wall where a sizable hole has excavated her forehead. Koki’O fires a burst shot into the chest of the rightmost one. 

The slaughter begins. 

Like wolves, we quickly advance on our prey. Digit shoots six shots through the front door, hearing people approach. Three more bodies fall before we’ve even stepped foot inside. 

Tamara shoves the door open and we enter the final night of the DeadNettles. 

All around us, Bay Leaves have ingressed and started wordlessly killing. There is confusion, desperation, and fear spreading through our targets, making them all the more vulnerable.

No time to bask in it, I get to work. My Senna-68 rifle finds a victim who’s slightly less disoriented than the others. Doesn’t stop me from putting four bullets through his chest though. I pivot as I notice a motion to my right. Another one, getting their gun ready, the trigger gets squeezed and their blood decorates the walls behind them. 

There’s no time to think, anyone not wearing a helmet, save Tamara, is not a Bay Leaf. 

And that means they die.

We advance, putting down targets left and right. We keep a tight formation, but Tamara walks like this is a Sunday stroll for her. She knows we’ll eliminate anyone to her flanks and no one’s been unfortunate enough to get in front of her yet. 

I kill five more as we get further into the building. By now some semblance of organization has infected the DeadNettles, they rashly form groups or find cover. It hardly matters though as we’re still advancing and have a clearer understanding of what’s happening. Lambs can crowd together all they want, doesn’t make a wolf’s fangs any less sharp. I hear a shot from Kaapudul’s rifle and two DeadNettles that were crouching next to each other have holes through both their necks. 

Seems she’s in the fight too. 

Ahead and above us is a catwalk connecting the two sides of the building. A group of DeadNettles rushes out onto it, thinking the height will give them an advantage. It normally would over any regular person, but a combatant like Tamara is not your average killer. Barely looking up, she takes out her sole gun.

Custom like her brass knuckles, her weapon is a fully automatic pistol that she simply calls ‘Rue’. The exact specs on it are a mystery to me, which seems to be the point as it has a thumbprint scanner. Only she can fire this gun. With a sweep of her hand and the squeeze of a trigger, she puts a bullet through either the head or neck of the seven elevated attackers. Some fall over the railing and crash in front of us. Not losing her stride, Tamara tucks the weapon away and steps over a corpse. 

We keep advancing, sweeping through this first floor. In the distance, I recognize Larkspur with their group of newbies. Lark, of course, is efficiently killing everyone. One of the newbies catches a bullet from somewhere, falling over. Lark quickly turns to find the shooter and eliminates them. The newbie is okay, the vest protected her. She gets back on her feet and Lark taps her shoulder twice, signifying for her to get behind them. For a moment, she hesitates but obliges. 

The momentary distraction isn’t enough for whoever gets the drop on me to get a clean shot. A bullet whizzes by and hits me in the elbow. In the split second it made contact, I feel it gets deflected by my treated jacket. It hurts like I just hit my ulnar nerve really hard, but tolerable. I spot who fired the shot. This time their aim improves, landing a round in my left shoulder. Again the jacket does its job, spectacularly at that. The bullet spins and gets redirected elsewhere. The shooter hesitates, thinking I should be down or at least hurt. I don’t let them get another shot off, emptying the clip in their torso. 

“You good?” I hear Digit ask while I reload.

I quickly inspect the spots where I was shot. There aren't even signs of damage to the jacket itself. 

“I’m good. This jacket’s the shit,” I reply.

“No chatter,” Tamara interjects. 

We both nod. 

The cacophony of bullets and screaming continue all around us as we advance upstairs. There are double doors to a corridor that Tamara opens. 

Almost like she has a sixth sense strictly for violence, she immediately ducks and dodges a long knife wielding DeadNettle. She spins and delivers a swift uppercut to his elbow, making him drop his weapon. Now that I get a second to look at it, I see it’s a machete. This motherfucker actually had a machete and thought this was the best time to use it. 

Tamara doesn’t give him long to regret the poor decision. She grabs his chin with one hand and his shirt with another. There are other DeadNettles in the corridor but they watch the ensuing gore in horror. Her teeth get flashed and close around his throat. He can only scream out in pain for a moment. She bites harder and harder and shakes her head side-to-side. 

The voyeur DeadNettles learn the absolute difference between them and us. They are only killers with guns and knives. But people like Tamara? She’ll kill with anything at her disposal; teeth included.

Maybe that’s why she doesn’t wear a helmet.

With a sickening sound, she tears his throat out. The would-be attacker falls over, blood gushing from what remains of his neck. The leftovers are firmly between Tamara’s teeth. She spits it out and the bit of viscera lands just before one of the DeadNettle’s feet. She doesn’t need to say anything, the message is clear.

If they had any will to fight at all before that, it evaporates as they throw down their weapons and put their hands up in a universal sign of surrendering. One guy even pisses his pants in a further sign of submission. 

Tamara wipes her mouth, only getting some of the blood, to finally say,

“Kill them.”

With no wavering, we tear them to pieces. No one leaves this building but us, that includes cowards who might try to get revenge later. Other Bay Leaves catch up to us, none commenting on Tamara’s red mouth. 

We advance further, Digit and I keep vigilant. 

“I haven’t seen you do that since-” Tamara cuts Koki’O off.

“No chatter,” she says, a little less stern. 

I briefly wonder if she’s a vampire or a zombie.

My head spikes in pain, but I endure it. 

We all continue throughout the building, encountering laughable resistance. Coming up on a hallway, Tamara sees something we don’t.

“MOVE!” she shouts. 

We jump to the sides before a flood of bullets rushes where we just were. Gaudy stone pillars provide cover as an insanely huge woman is firing a Bradford Pair minigun at us. A dual four-barrel rotary machine gun that can shoot bullets for days. Typically mounted on a vehicle, how the fuck she’s carrying it let alone shooting it would be impressive if we weren’t aimed at us. Even over the rapid firing, I hear her laughter.

“NOT SO TOUGH NOW, ARE YA?” 

Bullets continue to fly, we have cover for now but she’s walking closer and closer.

“KAAPUDUL, WE’RE PINNED! SECOND FLOOR, HEAVY TARGET, EXPLOSIVE ROUND!” 

We suffer three more seconds of the hellfire. On the other side of the hallway is a large window overlooking the city, from there we hear another thunderous shot. Gunfire stops and its sound is replaced with a meaty thud. I, tentatively, look out from behind the cover. The walking turret is indeed dead. 

“WOOOO! YOU SEE THAT SHIT?!” Kaapudul says through the radio. 

There is a crater big enough to stick a fist through where her chest should be. The explosive round did its job aggressively. All the Bay Leaves break out into cheer for our sniper. 

Tamara silences it immediately by raising her hand and making a tight fist.

“Anyone hurt?” She asks. Two of the newbies got grazed, one in the leg, and another in the side. Nothing serious. 

“We celebrate after. Finish the job.”

Going throughout the rest of the building we encounter laughable resistance.

As we enter one room, the DeadNettles inside try to take cover by flipping over a table and ducking behind furniture. They’ve seen too many movies, thinking wood and couches are bulletproof. Holding back a chuckle, I unleash the Echinace-A on their dumbasses. 

On the third and final floor, we take out the last handful that were running around. The last room we haven’t cleared is the boss’ office. Large oak double doors, engraved with an idealized scene of people first coming here to Oleander City to secure their future. Bunch of bullshit if you ask me. 

Among all the DeadNettles we took out, no one confirmed their leader was among the count; so he has to be behind these doors. All of us wait for our leader to open the doors. The second she does we all pour into the room, checking for any threats. To our surprise, there’s only one man in the room. He’s leaning over his desk, not facing us. There is no reaction from him as the entirety of the Bay Leaves surrounds him.

The room has been decorated with a lot of East Asian art. I’m no anthropologist, so I can’t nail down which culture it is exactly. Though, the giant painting of Genghis Khan I’m just seeing now makes me think it’s Mongolian. 

Still leaning over his desk, he sighs. I notice a knife sticking out of his back pocket.

He’s dressed in black sneakers, black jeans, and a red shirt that ombres into purple. Quite a collection of tattoos he has on his arms as well. One on his bicep is a depiction of a young man. ‘R.I.P’ is written under it. 

He stands up straight and turns around. He doesn’t seem fazed by all of us aiming guns at him. Maybe he has a brain cell or two, unlike his subordinates. He knows he’s outnumbered, outgunned, and frankly outclassed. But there’s a look of indignation on his face. Absolute rage in his eyes as he scans over all of us. 

“Which one?” he asks. I know he’s talking about me. He overlooked Tamara, searching for someone specific. I step forward, unlatching my helmet to expose my face. 

“You,” he says with bitter hatred towards me.

“Me,” I say, cooly, since I don’t know what his fucking problem is. 

I only know him by reputation. He goes by “Acer” Ginn. His real first name is unimportant to me. I know the relevant stuff; though he’s heavy into his Mongolian heritage, he was born here. Got the nickname “Acer” ‘cause he always came up with good ideas. But if the current state of things is any indication, I’d say that he’s run out of them. 

He continues to stare at me with the rage of a man wronged. I still don’t know why he’s pissed, his crew is the one that tried to kill me.

“Weapons down,” Tamara says. All Bay Leaves comply. It’s obvious what’s about to happen. I hand my helmet to Tamara, my guns to Koki’O, and step into the impromptu cage match. 

He has to know he’s not leaving here alive. But he still wants a piece of me.

His mistake.

I walk up to him and he grabs a saber off his desk. I roll my eyes so hard that they almost fall out of my head. My hands grip my karambits. He gets closer and I have a proper look at him. 

He’s unkempt, his hair and beard are out of control. It might be because of our incursion, but something tells me he’s been worse for wear for a while now. The young man tattooed on his arm looks similar to him. 

Acer is tall, he has a few inches on me, with a solid build. 210 pounds, if I had to guess. 

I’d be more worried about the sword if he wasn’t so clearly furious at me. He thinks anger will benefit him in this fight, but it won’t. That and this is the 21st century, not sure who told him a sword is cool. 

“Pizda,” he curses at me. 

I just raise an eyebrow at that.

This is my chance for revenge but I still don’t feel anything. 

He swings his sword at me, bringing it horizontally. Copying Tamara’s move from earlier, I duck and spin under the blade. Instead of a punch, my karambit slices the inside of his elbow. 

He drops his sword, but I kick the handle so it comes back up. I catch it and examine the blade. It’s finely made but is still impractical. There’s engraving along the back of the blade but I can’t understand it. 

Flipping the sword to a reverse grip, I toss it to the side. One of the newbies catches it. Their first souvenir. 

“That all you got?” I ask, putting my knives away. I don’t need them anymore. 

“Gichii!” He yells. 

“Huur.” I only know how to insinuate someone’s death in other languages. With that, he tries to deliver some hooks at me. He’s holding nothing back, they’re strong but slow. I almost want to let him hit me, so I could feel a fraction of the anger he’s putting out. But cold indifference has an ironclad grip on me, years of training has me dodging his attacks with little effort. 

He tries a haymaker but I step into it, his fist harmlessly flies by, and I bring my right hand to the back of his head. Grabbing a fistful of hair, I slam his face into my knee. I let him go as he recoils in pain. 

I look around at my other Bay Leaves, hoping they’re enjoying the show. But it seems they already know the outcome of this fight. What they’re really waiting for, what I’m waiting for is the end. After I beat the anger out of him and he can talk. 

Until then, this beatdown continues. 

He rushes at me with his face freshly bloodied. Rage makes him dumber but not faster, throwing a jab that I sidestep. I counter with an uppercut to his chin, with some restraint since I don’t want his jaw broken. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way, interrogating people with broken mandibles isn’t fun or effective. 

He reels back from the punch and I grab his shirt to pull him in for a knee to the gut. He’s hunched over in pain and I slam my elbow into the back of his neck. He crashes onto the floor. I take a few steps away and give him some space and time to gather his rage.

He gets back up and shouts at me while going for another swing. I crouch down and give a punch of my own to his right knee. Some blood from his mouth drips onto my sleeve. He folds and I rise to give another uppercut. Now that he’s standing I start to traumatize his chest. Three punches in I feel a rib or two crack. His stamina is depleted, but I’m just getting started. I raise my foot to stomp on his uninjured knee. It twists at an unnatural angle and he yowls out in pain. He falls over again, holding his leg. 

I look at the knife he still hasn’t pulled out. 

“Tired yet, champ?” I ask more genuinely than sarcastically. But I guess he doesn’t see the difference. Some immutable part of his soul compels him to stand. It’s almost admirable. 

Almost. 

He hobbles over, desperate to land a hit. Maybe he thinks he’ll get lucky. Like one punch of his will make me explode.

Within arm’s reach, he swings again. I duck under and drive my fist into his side for a devastating punch to his right floating rib. 

He falls over, folding onto me but I roll him off my shoulder. 

“You…fucking…bitch” he groans.

“That'd sting more if your mouth wasn’t filled with your own blood right now,” I counter. He growls, trying to muster some strength to stand. But his rage gets drowned in his pain. I stand over him. 

“Wanna tell me what your problem is yet?”

He answers in the form of trying to spit at me, but it doesn’t get far, landing on his chin.

I offer a rebuttal by pressing my foot on his left knee. Some pain to clear his mind. He yowls out again. 

“I’m sure this wasn’t how you wanted this to go, but pretty much everyone else here knew this would happen. You decided to fuck with a Bay Leaf and you’ve almost paid the price in full. I heard you’re the brains around here, so I really need to know why you thought that was a good idea.”

He’s silent for a moment. 

“You don’t know?”

“Kinda why I asked.”

He huffs. In my peripheral vision, I see Koki’O moving to be closer. 

“Fucking…bitch.”

“Real original. You come up with that all by yourself?”

He seethes lying there. His fury radiates out in palpable waves. 

I’m starting to think a beautiful friendship isn’t going to blossom between us. 

“Three months ago…you killed my younger brother,” he manages to spit out between rage-filled breaths. 

I wait a moment to see if he’s going to add anything to that, but only silence follows. 

“That it?” I ask. “That’s the reason?”

If this guy wasn’t mad at me before, he is now. He tries to swing a fist at me that I casually sidestep, and he ends up hitting the floor. 

“If I killed your brother-”

“Ain’t no ‘if’ about it. I know it was you,” he interrupts. 

“Then he was a grown ass man. I don’t kill kids, so I don’t see what the issue is.” 

I don’t recall killing anyone particularly special these past few months n

“He-” I interrupt him this time. 

“You’re not a fucking idiot, you knew doing what you’ve done in Oleander City had these risks. Any day of the week you can get shot, by another gang, by the cops, or if you’re really unlucky: by us. Yours isn’t the first brother or sister I’ve killed and he won’t be the last. So I don’t know what’s got you feeling so goddamn unique that you’d go against our rules and try to fuck with the Bay Leaves.”

The heartlessness of my words doesn’t elude me, but this is the reality of our shadowy world. People who live this life might get killed. 

“You probably felt like you were on top of the food chain for a while. Made some money, killed some people, might’ve even fucked some bad bitches.”

I kneel down as a sharp anger rises within me. 

“And I’m sure when I killed your brother that it rocked your pathetic little world.” I can’t keep the venom out of my voice for this man I bloodied. That such a reason is what brought us all here today irritates the fuck outta me. “It was a reminder of the life you actually live. That no one is above having a price on their head in this city. Your brother's death might have been the most transformative experience in your wasted years on this earth; but to me? That shit was just another job.”

“But it wasn’t another job,” Acer informs me. He takes a shallow breath. “There wasn’t a hit out on him, bitch.” 

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“You don’t even remember, do you?” He coughs. “Psychopath like you probably kills so often that the faces start to blend together.”

I want to break his sternum for saying that but I need him to elaborate.

“You killed him in a bar, in front of dozens…smashed his face in, all cuz he got handsy with some young thing. Nobody did a damn thing to stop you either. That ringing any bells?”

I can’t remember doing anything like that at all. Not a single shred of that event comes to mind. I want to believe he’s lying but what possible reason could he have to do that? To get him and all the DeadNettles killed by us? That’s why they were hiring us so much recently, to find me specifically. The dread I was hoping to quell lurches deep inside me.

“Sounds like he had it coming,” I reply to Acer, ignoring the terror building in me.

He regained some strength during our little talk, grabbing the knife in his back pocket and hoping to slash my throat. 

I lean back out of the way and see Koki’O toss me my Echinace-A. Catching it without looking, I turn the safety off and unleash a fusillade of bullets into Acer’s torso. At this range, the blood splashes on me as I empty the clip. 

That click resounds throughout a now eerily quiet room.

I let the empty clip drop and load in a new one. Then I expend it again into the corpse before me. When that one is done, the pile of gore at my feet doesn’t even resemble a human body anymore. 

With that, the last DeadNettle is gone, my revenge complete, and I’ve never felt so empty inside. 

“My fault,” I mutter. “This is all my fault.” 

I caused all of this and my piece of shit brain couldn’t be bothered to hold on to the memory.

A sick laughter erupts from my mouth, it’s the only sound filling the room. 

“THIS IS ALL MY FAULT!” AND I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW IT!” 

I drop my gun as I hold my sides from laughter. 

“MY BAD Y’ALL! THIS ONE’S ON ME!” 

Tears roll down my face and I can barely keep myself up. I’m barely getting enough air in my lungs to continue laughing. A quick look around and no one else is laughing at this hilarious turn of events. Even through their helmets, body armor, and my tears, I can tell they’re all feeling some kind of way. I can’t tell what that way is exactly because I can’t stop laughing. I fall to my knees, staining my pants with blood. My cachinnation is met with a very troubled expression from the only other exposed face: Tamara’s. 

Why isn’t anyone else laughing? 

Ch. 25 End