The air in the Grease Run was thick enough to chew. It smelled of fried magic, ozone, and something vaguely biological. Neon signs from the streets above cast everything in sickly, overlapping colors—a toxic green glow from a leaking pipe, a violent pink from a buzzing fungal growth.
Kurok took point, his sneakers making sticky sounds on the pavement. A security camera swiveled towards them, its red eye blinking. He didn't break stride, just pointed a finger. The camera lens fogged, then frosted over, becoming a perfect, delicate macaron that crumbled away.
"Show-off," Nana muttered, but her eyes were scanning the rusted balconies overhead.
They came around a corner and found the pack waiting. Bloated, hairless things the size of dogs, their skin stretched tight and gleaming under the green light. One turned, its eyes glowing with unstable energy, and charged.
Nana moved. A silver blur, she dropped low, tendrils not slicing but whipping out to wrap around its stubby legs. She used its own momentum, swinging it in a full, brutal arc before releasing it. It sailed through the air, a squealing, swollen projectile, and hit its two companions. The impact wasn't silent. A wet, percussive THUMP echoed in the alley, followed by the sound of a hundred kernels of popcorn exploding at once. The air filled with the smell of fake butter and the sight of greasy, white fluff settling over everything.
Kael didn't flinch. She just stepped over a twitching, deflated leg, her boot squelching in something. "Efficient."
The next one detonated early. A shower of razor-sharp gears and shiny, metallic confetti erupted from its body. Nana became a spinning top of reflected light, her tendrils a whirlwind of clinks and pings as she deflected the deadly hail. A single, perfect red gear embedded itself in the wall beside Kurok's head, spinning down with a faint whir.
He plucked it out. It softened in his grip, becoming a warm, jam-filled pastry. He took a bite. "A little metallic," he mused, "but the raspberry is a nice touch."
Dr. Gloubi, meanwhile, was trying to bottle the shimmering confetti. It kept dissolving into smoke in his jars. "Fascinating ephemeral properties!"
Another creature lunged from a shadowy doorway, maw gaping. Kurok met it head-on, his palm slapping against its forehead. There was a flash of pink light, a sound like fat sizzling on a grill, and the creature was gone. In its place, a perfectly grilled kebab, still spinning on a vertical spit, materialized and clattered to the ground.
Kael stared at it. Then, she picked it up, sniffed it, and took a defiant bite. Her eyebrows went up. She didn't say anything, just kept eating as she walked, occasionally using the skewer to point out potential threats.
This was the rhythm. The squelch of a transformed Bloater underfoot. The zing of Nana's tendrils deflecting shrapnel. The occasional, mundane crunch of Kael eating her kebab. The world was a riot of nauseating color and visceral sound, but their movements were a practiced, chaotic dance.
They reached the mouth of the alley, the real city's light flooding in. They were a mess. Nana's chrome was streaked with grease and glitter. Kael had a smear of something yellow on her cheek. Kurok licked a spot of jam from his thumb.
A shadow fell over them.
Not from above. From the manhole at their feet.
It slid open without a sound. A figure pulled itself up, moving with an oil-slick grace. He was tall, wrapped in a coat made of stitched-together tarps and shiny packet liners. A gas mask with one cracked lens covered his face. On his shoulder, a small, mechanical rat with glowing red eyes chittered silently.
He looked them over, his gaze lingering on the glitter in Nana's hair, the kebab skewer in Kael's hand, the general aura of delicious ruin that clung to them.
From within his coat, he produced a single, unlabeled can. He tossed it to Kurok.
It was cold. Beads of condensation rolled down the metal.
The figure didn't speak. He just tapped two fingers to his temple in a casual salute, dropped back through the manhole, and was gone. The cover slid back into place without a scrape.
Kurok looked at the can. He popped the tab. The hiss was loud in the sudden quiet. He took a sip.
"Well?" Nana asked.
"Tastes like radishes," Kurok said, and grinned. "And cheap lager."
He looked out at the glowing, reeking, endlessly hungry city. His city.
"Let's go get a proper drink."