The pair stood silently as laughter spilled from inside the car. The window rolled down all the way, the sound growing louder, sharper.
They saw only one man inside. A mechanic.
Familiar enough to make Hannah's blood boil more than if he'd been a stranger with a gun.
"Wow, I'm surprised, Hannah. You kept one alive this time!" He gave her an exaggerated thumbs up.
"What the fuck is your problem?" she snapped, storming forward, ready to give him yet another lesson.
"Whoa, whoa—chill out, Hannah! It was just a joke!" He hit a button on the dashboard, silencing the laughter instantly.
She lifted her bat until it hovered under his chin, eyes narrowed. He raised his hands dramatically, a grin flickering through his fake fear.
"Yeah, another one of your obnoxious pranks. Especially in that." She huffed, tapping the car door with the bat. "You're lucky you know how to fix shit."
She pulled away to face Arman, "You can put the gun down now."
He lowered it immediately at her command, face flushed.
"Arman, this is Derek, our wonderful mechanic. Derek, meet Arman—the newbie."
Derek climbed out of the car, dark skin glinting in the sunlight, sweat running down his temple. His cap with the bill turned backwards hid his short black hair. Strange symbols were embroidered on the fabric in the back. His matching blue button-up and nylon pants were smooth but permanently stained from years of use.
"Yo," he said with a grin. "I'm the guy who fixes shit, as Hannah so eloquently put it." He offered his hand, and Arman shook it awkwardly.
His expression suddenly, all humor gone. "Now what did you do this time? The boss sent me because you were supposed to be back last night." The last words landed heavier than the rest.
"So, count yourselves lucky I'm the one who found you." He moved past Arman and popped open the hood.
"Thanks a lot, Derek," she muttered sarcastically, "I have no idea what's wrong. It was fine, then…just stopped working." She had a hunch, but wanted to hold onto the information of the monster—for now.
For a while, only the sound of metal clinking and Derek muttering under his breath filled the air, until he pulled himself out from under the truck.
"What the fuck did you do to this thing?" He straightened up, disbelief in his voice. "There's a shit-ton of holes completely punched through the bottom. That kind of damage doesn't just happen."
"Ran into a crazy guy in the Outskirts. Probably had something to do with it."
Derek gave her a flat look. "Really? You stopped for some random guy out here and didn't notice him poking fifty holes in your damn truck? You expect me to believe that?"
He turned his gaze between her and Arman. Arman just looked at Hannah, silently asking if they should tell him the truth.
"Look," Hannah replied sharply, "that's above your pay grade to be asking. You can't fix it? Fine. Then that's that."
Derek sighed. "Hannah, I'm trying to look out for you here. The boss is already pissed. You don't wanna talk, fine. I know you well enough to tell when you're hiding something—but you'd better have something good to show for it."
He kicked the dirt, then gestured toward his car. "Grab your shit and get in. I didn't bring a tow, so this junk stays here till I file the paperwork to haul it back."
Arman obeyed quietly while Hannah weighed her options.
At least she'd gotten what she came for—the target's essence and Arman. Still, she'd have to explain how a fictional monster destroyed one of their most important vehicles.
That new essence machine had just been installed, too. Made everything easier. Now she'd have to go back to hauling people all the way to New Democracy.
If she even got another chance.
No.
The boss needed her. She was the best—specially trained for this. He wouldn't toss her aside.
Hannah circled the truck, collecting anything useful—most importantly, the glass container of essence—before pausing at the side mirror. Her reflection stared back: scratched face, dirt-streaked skin, eyes too tired for her age.
Her mother's dark hair and soft eyes. Her father's hard jaw.
The one she hated sharing. A parasite on her body that refused to die.
The scars across her face were the only things she could truly call her own—marks of both her triumphs and failures.
Her fingers brushed across one. The sting of memory came with it. Then she turned away and walked back toward the car, where Derek and Arman waited.
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After thirty minutes of bumpy roads and Derek's reckless driving, Arman's stomach was in a knot. But finally, they reached the New Democracy.
The city barely stood out from the rest of the Outskirts. Buildings were patched together from brick and scrap metal, like someone attempted to glue back a life they'd already given up on. Houses sagged under the weight of time and desperation, only being held up by sandbags and old tires.
It looked worse than Arman had expected.
Advertised as the city of freedom, it looked more like a place that would bleed you dry.
Was this what freedom looked like?
The air outside shimmered with heat and grit. A sour metallic tang lingered from the rusted metal of the houses, mixed in with the scent of burnt rubber and old rain trapped inside the cracked pavement.
Weeds clawed up the sides of buildings, hacked or burned wherever they dared to grow.
The people didn't look much better—wrapped in mismatched scraps of cloth, patched and re-patched. They reminded him of Herd, only these people hopefully weren't plotting to eat him alive.
As Derek's car sped through the narrow streets, the crowd parted, eyes following them. Stalls lined both sides of the road, sagging under goods that ranged from fruit and candles to more expensive commodities like weapon parts and shiny metal trinkets. A strange kind of beauty hid in the grime; these people lived, even when everything around them was dying.
Arman swallowed hard. Whether he liked it or not, he was one of them now.
That was the deal. The reason he'd taken this job. To keep his family out of places like this.
His mom could keep her kitchen. His sister, her room.
Everything would be ok.
That's what he told himself, anyway.
"Hey, we're coming up on the place," Derek said. "Arman, put on your best face. The boss might be nice since you're new. Hannah's the veteran—most of the blame lands on her."
He shot her a look Arman couldn't see, one that made her stop mid-protest, before turning back to the road. "But don't think that means you're in the clear."
"Yes, I understand." Arman replied, shivers crawling along his spine.
The car slowed, and through the dust and crowded buildings, a massive hotel emerged.
It was unlike everything else around it, the building was pristine—white stone carved into ornate statues of ancient figures whose eyes seemed to follow them as they approached. Lights flickered faintly from behind lightly cracked glass, fighting the world around it that tried to dull its glow.
"Alright, get your asses out," Derek ordered. "I've gotta make a report and get a tow ready for your mess. Try not to fuck things up too bad this time."
Arman nodded, grabbing his bag. He glanced back—Derek was whispering something to Hannah. Her face stayed blank, unreadable.
She stepped out of the car, still deep in thought—whether about Derek's words or what waited inside, Arman couldn't tell.
"Let's go," she said finally, starting toward the hotel doors.
"W-wait," Arman whispered. "Are we gonna mention…what happened? To anyone?"
She shot him a look sharp enough to cut. "You know how stupid that sounds, right? We don't tell anyone. Got it?"
He nodded.
She kept walking, her pace steady, as if the conversation hadn't happened at all.
The statues' eyes followed them as they entered the building—a silent, unblinking march toward whatever waited inside.