The gas had cleared. The vines lay dead, curling in on themselves like scorched worms.
But 4317 stayed kneeling, clutching what was left of 3952. The warmth was long gone.
He couldn't mourn for long. Footsteps squelched through the mud.
Give me a break.
His fingers closed around something solid beneath the shredded thermal sleeve. His scorch gun. Barrel twisted. Half-melted. Still better than nothing.
"You! Gutter rat!"
A Watcher loomed over him in a black-armored suit, visored helmet dripping blood, vine sap, and ash. He nudged 4317 with his steel-plated boot.
"Move the carcass to the nutrient chute," he barked, kicking him again—harder this time.
Unacceptable, no way I'm letting him become fucking plant food.
4317 didn't respond. His nails bit into his palm.
"Ya deaf, mutt?" Another kick. This one sent him sprawling sideways. 4317 glared up, eyes locking onto the visor.
"Feisty," the Watcher sneered. "Don't blame me."
He spotted the bloated, blackened leg—4317's injury—and pressed his heel into it. Slowly.
4317 didn't make a sound. He just kept staring.
"…Tch. It's no fun if you don't squirm." The Watcher eased off with a grin. "The party must've fried your nerves. Get moving before Jax sees—"
THWACK.
The Watcher's jaw snapped sideways as the blunt end of a metal lance crushed into it. He dropped like a stone, mouth hanging at a grotesque angle.
Another stomp followed, cracking ribs.
Jax stood over the wrecked man, grinning wide. 4317 gripped the useless scorch gun tighter.
I will erase the grin on his mug someday…
Jax's gaze slid to him. "Number. Now."
4317 stared in silence.
Jax grabbed his collar and yanked him upright. Instinct took over—4317 swung the scorched gun like a club, jamming its muzzle into Jax's plated chest.
Click. Click.
"It only works," Jax bent, whispering into his ear, "when we say it does."
His gauntleted hand whipped across 4317's face, flinging him across the mud.
4317's vision blurred, his jaw burning. He blinked up through the sludge, saw Jax approaching, and saw the ring of Watchers gathered like jackals around fresh meat.
"Number 4317, right?" Jax said, almost humming. "I had hopes for you. You obeyed."
He drew a weapon—short, polished, crackling blue at the tip. A shock lance.
"Wanna beat me up, eh?" He tossed it into the mud. "Then fetch."
4317 stared at it. His mind reeled.
I'm dead either way. Better make use of it.
He reached out; the cold metal felt comfortable against his palm.
Jax lunged for a stomp. 4317 rolled, clutching the lance. It was heavier than it looked. He barely had time to breathe before Jax closed in, his metallic shin arcing upward.
4317 saw it coming but couldn't move in time. It landed on his chest with a crack. He gasped for air, rolling sideways.
"Get up," Jax said, yawning. "C'mon. Try harder, entertain me."
4317 wheezed, clutching his ribs with one hand and holding the lance with the other, he struggled to stand. His leg trembled.
Don't fall, MOVEE, DAMMIT
Jax threw his arms open, taunting, "I'm wide open..."
4317 shakily walked up to him, jabbing the lance forward and hitting Jax on his bulging abdomen. The crackle sizzled out.
"Oops, forgot to charge it," Jax mocked. The crowd laughed.
4317 couldn't react—a boot to the chest. Another to the side. He fell on the mud, a flurry of blows rained down on him. He tucked his limbs, bracing for the impact. Little did it help, blood filled his mouth.
"Pathetic worm," Jax spat. "You've ruined my mood now."
He turned his back.
The crowd booed.
"Wait," one of the Watchers muttered. "He's still standing…"
Jax turned and saw 4317 on his feet—barely. The lance was dragging behind him.
"All the bread didn't go to waste, eh?" Jax smiled. "Fine. One last time."
4317 stumbled forward.
One chance.
Jax raised his arm wide. A killing blow.
4317 dropped. A fake collapse.
Then surged up, screaming.
Now!
The lance struck—not a full thrust, but a flick—aiming for the eye.
"I almost pissed my pants," Jax growled, catching his wrist mid-swing. "You've got some nerve. I admire your tenacity."
4317 glared daggers. thrashing his free hand and dangling legs. He spat in Jax's face.
The smile vanished. Jax grabbed 4317's free arm just above the elbow.
Snap.
Pain exploded. His left arm twisted the wrong way. Bone ripped through skin—white, jagged. Blood poured.
He screamed.
Jax kept going—yanked the broken forearm up like a trophy. And threw it in the mud.
"NOW THAT'S MORE LIKE IT!" Jax howled to the crowd, holding 4317 aloft.
Don't black out. Not yet.
A low snarl built in 4317's throat. His vision narrowed. His mind emptied. His world shrank to the hand Jax still gripped.
4317 Twisted unnaturally, leveraging his right arm.
The jagged ulna shimmered like an unpolished ivory dagger.
SCHLICK.
The bone pierced Jax's eye.
Jax shrieked. He slammed 4317 like a sack of broken meat, clutching his face. Blood and vitreous fluid streamed between his fingers.
"You fucking mutt," he bellowed. "I WILL KILL YOU!"
4317 saw Jax's boot getting bigger, he closed his eyes.
At least I got his eye.
"Enough, Overseer."
The voice cut through the chaos. Jax was too enraged to stop.
The skull-shattering blow never landed. The two guards flanking Elara blurred forward like shadows—one parried Jax's leg mid-stomp, and the other twisted his wrist backward and drove a boot into the back of his knees, forcing him down.
Jax roared, still blind with rage. "Who dares—?! Unhand me, you fu—"
A slap silenced him.
4317 blinked past the blur of pain and blood. A silhouette approached. He could barely focus. Couldn't even breathe properly. The world rang. But the scent… something sweet, clean, unlike anything he'd ever known.
A figure squatted beside him. Pale hand, sharp nails, a jeweled ring. The jewel glowed faintly, and a vial followed.
"Feed it to the boy," the woman ordered.
A guard hesitated. One look from her was enough.
Fingers pried open 4317's mouth and poured the liquid in. He gagged on the burn at first—it scorched his throat like fire—but then the warmth spread. His vision began to sharpen, and he breathed easier. Energy returned, if barely.
He sat up, swaying. Then he saw her—properly.
A woman draped in deep violet, hair braided in platinum coils, flawless skin pale as moonstone. Her face was expressionless. But her eyes—they were red.
"Good fight," she said, offering the faintest smile before standing.
She moved toward Jax.
Though she walked through ankle-deep mud, her heels remained clean.
"Jax," she said softly, almost playfully. One hand resting on her hip, the other under her chin.
The guard holding his jaw let go.
"Lady Veyron! This filth—he blinded me—!"
"I have eyes," Elara cut in coldly. "You play too much. But those toys never belonged to you."
Jax froze. He knew. He'd fucked up.
"I—he attacked—!"
"So did you," she interrupted again. Her voice dropped. "With that filthy look of yours."
Jax stared down at the mud, jaw trembling.
"Still see from your left eye?"
He nodded once.
"Good," she whispered. "Then look at me."
Jax didn't move.
"I said—"
He looked.
She glanced past him, at 4317. Something in her gaze shifted.
"Next time, kid… Finish what you start. Learn."
Then she turned back to Jax.
"Open his mouth."
A guard obeyed.
"Wait, wait, please—!" Jax began—but a gag was put in his mouth.
Too late.
Elara raised her right leg, clad in a sharp-heeled boot. She stepped forward slowly and, without breaking eye contact, drove the pointed heel deep into Jax's remaining eye.
SHHLLICK.
The heel sank fully in.
Jax writhed like a dying insect, muffled screams spewing around the guard's hand.
4317 watched, jaw slack.
Deserved.
Elara left the shoe embedded in Jax's skull. The guard, with practiced calm, slipped a new one onto her foot without a word.
Then she approached him again.
4317 stiffened. Didn't know what to do. His body ached in too many places.
"Take him to the healer's chamber," she said.
She turned to him, eyes bright. "What's your name?"
4317 blinked, confused.
"…Number?"
"…4317," he managed.
Elara smiled.
It made his chest stutter.
She reached into her coat and pulled out a linen-wrapped, still steaming bread. It scented the air.
"Black rye. Finest in Thornhold. For you."
She extended it to him.
4317 reached with his one good hand. Took it.
It was warm.
He stared at it for a long second. Then pressed it against his chest.
"I don't want your pity," he rasped, voice raw. "I… earned it."
Elara laughed lightly. "Sure."
She winked at him.
And just like that, 4317 blushed, heat rising in his ears.
"I like you," she said. "See you soon.