Bound for the Styx: The Association of Ishtar, #2

By Bonsart Bokel

These are the chronicles of Igraine Mortuba's adventures in Hades: an inter-dimensional space station drifting inside the void between worlds. Once she makes her way through the Halls of Hades, she ends up in Arkology. A cobbled-together community of refugees who, after losing their respective worlds to catastrophe, are delivered to this subterranean realm by an entity known as the White Airship. Now they must survive inside the overgrown ruins of Hades, which are home to every imaginable horror known to the multiverse. Igraine Mortuba came to this place to be healed, after which she would be free to continue her life of idleness. But before she's offered a cure, she must prove herself to her mysterious benefactor. First, she must survive the challenging lifestyle of Arkology's denizens, lest she'd end up in the Styx like all others who perish in this place. As Igraine gets initiated in the way of the scavs, she learns about the many opportunities the Capitol of the Multiverse has to offer. Can Igraine prove herself to a society of inter-dimensional exiles while navigating the machinations of Arkology's Founder? Find out in Bound for the Styx.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HCS Publishing
• Release date: Dec 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9789083199429

Bonsart Bokel

Bonsart started original stories for an audio drama Radio Retrofuture for Fallout. He has been writing Steampunk-inspired fiction ever since. Currently, he is developing himself as a novelist and comic book writer for the ongoing series, The Association of Ishtar. he also has a Youtube channel on Steampunk called Radio Retrofuture Main website www.associatioofishtar.com

Book preview

Bound

for the Styx

An Association of Ishtar story

Written by

Bonsart Bokel

––––––––

Dedicated to the Radio Retrofuture Community

Special thanks to Stephan Balance

A shoutout to all the backers of our Kickstarter

Cody Greene, Noe Medina, Daniel Krupp, Claire Ferguson-Smith, Sean Mullan, Eduard Birkaya, Marco, Patrick Teague,

Esa Eriksson, Miriam, Yohan Alexander, Jeanne Wilkins, WLanceHunt, Princesse-dokidoki, Carmen Franken, Jeanette Macklin, Logan Davis, Frequency Studios, Izaak, Lynn bowler, Wastrel, Erik Olson, Wilbert Kerkhof, Knutzzl

––––––––

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Bound for the Styx

Copyright © 2023 Bonsart Bokel

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 13: 9789083199429

Cover art by

Valentin's Journey

Interior art by:

Yohan Alexander

Jenkins Artwork

Lim Chuan Shin

Hollow Moon Art

Lee Smart

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE THE REGULATOR

CHAPTER TWO THE CAPTAIN

CHAPTER THREE THE LANDING

CHAPTER FOUR THE TUNNELS

CHAPTER FIVE THE HOUSE OF STYLE

CHAPTER SIX THE ARTISAN

CHAPTER SEVEN THE STYX

CHAPTER EIGHT LEAVING THE LIGHT

CHAPTER NINE THE LOCK

CHAPTER TEN THE GALLERY

CHAPTER ELEVEN THE TOMB

CHAPTER TWELVE THE ESCAPE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN THE WAITING ROOM

CHAPTER FOURTEEN THE DOCTOR

CHAPTER FIFTEEN THE VISITOR

CHAPTER SIXTEEN THE VICTORY PARADE

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN MEETING THE ASSOCIATE

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN BLUE DEATH

CHAPTER NINETEEN THE TRIGGER

CHAPTER TWENTY RECORDS

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE THE FOUNDRY

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO THE BURDEN OF COMMAND

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE STRIX SENTINELS ASSEMBLE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR UPSIDE

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE THE CRUISER

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX THE PIT

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN TITANIA IS CALLING

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT THE GARUDA COMETH

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE CONFESSION

PROLOGUE

We die for each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention that must sometimes be broken. We must also remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.

― T.S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party

May 20th, 1878 

Being blinded by the ceiling lamp, Igraine was squeezing her eyes as she awoke inside her finely furnished but windowless sleeping quarters. Rubbing her face to counter the drowsiness of sleep, she recollected the incident that had occurred a few days ago. 

You thinking about Dublin? she imagined a little girl asking.

Igraine shifted her gaze toward the plush doll sitting up against the boudoir’s mirror and looked into its smiling face. Morning, Anwin.

You made 189 mad again, didn’t you?

No different from my other relationships. A shame, but I could never stand his indecisiveness.

But he shot that smuggler in Dublin.

Well, that trollop deserved it! Can you imagine? Bringing in an invasive species just to make some coins.

You made him shoot her, though, Anwin elaborated. That’s why you are so mad.

Igraine squeezed her lips together. Failing to come up with a retort, she pushed herself off the bed and headed for the sink in the corner. As the water was flowing from the faucet, she paused to look at the engraving on her left palm. A stylized depiction of a black and a silver owl, which were joined at the claws, their talons wrapped around the eye at the image’s center. Balling her hand in frustration, she concluded 189 should be glad her actions had allowed him the opportunity to shoot the bitch.

You don’t really believe that, said Anwin.

They knew the risks. They knew the Association would come after them.

Did they really?

Unless they had no idea what they were doing. In which case... After some hesitation, she blocked out the thought. It’s irrelevant. This isn’t about justice. Those plants they were smuggling, if introduced to the wild, have the potential to destroy the world’s ecosystem.

You think they knew that?

Of course not, she hissed, drying her hands with a towel. Ignorant savages. Reluctantly, Igraine looked at the wall calendar on which various days were marked with childlike drawings of suns. Those smiling faces failed to improve her mood, however. 

Is it time again?

Sighing, Igraine pulled open a drawer of her writing cabinet and stared at the leather etui contained within. As she laid the contents before her on the counter, she looked at the heavy syringe and tubes labeled P-25. Through a glass display in the side of the metal housing, she inspected the turquoise liquid contained within for impurities. Rolling up her gown’s sleeves, Igraine sat down. Then she took out a vial, inserted the syringe’s needle into one end, and, by pulling the plunger, let the barrel fill up with the fluid. Once done, she injected the needle inside her left arm and squeezed the plunger against the flange.

Doesn’t it hurt?

Be quiet, Anwin, she hissed. Just when she was about to remove the needle, she got startled by a knock on the door. 

Miss Mortuba? asked a young man on the other side. Am I disturbing you? I have a message for you, miss.

Sighing, she removed the needle from her arm. Come in.

A young man, wearing ironed black pantaloons and a matching vest, entered. Dr. Poitin liked to look professional, but the enclosed collar on his white shirt made him appear far more uptight than he was. I hope I’m not disturbing you? he asked, looking around her room. I’m afraid it’s very important. 

I was just done, she said, cleaning the puncture.

He lowered his head, almost submissively, as was his character. 

After their first meeting, Igraine had assumed it was because she was an Outsider to him. But recently, she suspected it might be a kind of affection. However, Igraine’s attention swiftly changed focus when he showed her a closed letter sealed with the all-seeing eye of RA, the Regulatory Board of Rift Related Activity.

Getting up from her chair, she grasped the letter out of his hands. After breaking the wax seal, she read it contents aloud: Associate, regarding the incident that occurred on May 15th in... Fine. She scanned the text to the bottom. The Regulatory Board of Rift Related Activity wishes to interview you. Please report to the office in The Hague in the Kingdom of the Netherlands before August 5th for debrief... I’ve been summoned to The Hague?

This is serious, affirmed Poitin. Your recent faux pas must-

I’ve done nothing wrong! Igraine said forcefully.

He stepped back. Be it as it may, miss. If you were to fall out of their graces, the Chair might have to reconsider your arrangements.

She flared her nostrils. Surely the Association would not condemn me to death. Besides, I can handle the Regulators.

He just looked at her with those frail eyes of his. Clearly, words were amassing behind his lips, but none came.

Doctor, would you be so kind as to register my departure? I’ll return the moment my business is done.

You’re sure you don’t want to enjoy the sights? It is the seat of the Dutch King.

I’ve been out and about too much. I experienced Travel’s Decay once-

Yes, you said... Poitin suddenly held his hands to his mouth when he realized he had interrupted her. Pardon me, miss. I’ll get the paperwork in order.

She just shook her head when he closed the door behind him, and glanced at her remaining supply of green capsules in the drawer. There were just fifteen left. 

You’ll have to return soon, Anwin remarked.

Let’s see if I survive The Hague first.

Can I come?

Igraine slacked her shoulders. What do you think?

May 24th, 1878, above the North Sea

Shearing across the gray surface of the English Channel in the airship, Igraine looked past the pilot’s seat through the front window. The Nimrod’s interior was Spartan, with rudimentary canvas seats on either side of the only cabin with just enough room for men to squeeze past each other. Not since the evacuation of Druid Isle had Igraine been on a Nimrod. The Ship’s engines were so silent the howling wind jerking at the canvas roofing was drowning out their noise. Despite being unconscious for most of the evacuation, this journey reopened painful memories regarding the whole affair. Just thinking about it made her scratch the itching scar tissue surrounding the socket in the back of her neck.

Meanwhile, the Nimrod was approaching the Dutch coast. It was nothing like that of England. No cliffs. Just a beach, dunes, and cities as far as the eye could see, without any mountains or hills on the horizon.

There it is, Associate, announced the pilot’s nasally voice. The pilot, dressed in a thick leather jacket wearing a checkered flat cap, was even smaller than she was, which was saying something. I can already see The Hague. I told you it would be but a jiffy in the Nimrod. Oh, Oh! The Hague! he began to sing badly. Beautiful city beyond the duh-ns...

Igraine interrupted him. That will do, monsieur. What’s helping this thing fly anyway? The balloon is just for show, right? she asked, referring to the canvas dome covering the Nimrod’s interior.

Ah, yes. The blimp is just a disguise. And if I were to tell ye, I would have to kill ye. Like, seriously. It's in the manual, he emphasized. I meself have a cyanide capsule in my mouth at all times.

Gustav, sighed Igraine. Has anyone ever told you, you’re talking too much?

That's no fair. I have a lonely job. If any, my passengers are mostly dragoons. You think they are a barrel o’ fun?

Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with them yet. Just seen them fight.

That's what I mean, ma’am, said Gustav. They’re not particularly men o’ culture, unlike meself, he boasted.

Igraine looked at the photos of scantily clad women in the corner of his cockpit. You have an interest in culture? she remarked incredulously.

I’ll have you know I have a keen interest in history, ma’am. Beside me, I have all the seasons of the Robin Hood audio plays performed by Henry James Montague and Maurice Barrymore.

Igraine couldn’t help but smile. Pretty sure the historical Robin Hood didn’t fight German Dukes and Barbar slavers.

I mean... what do you listen to, ma’am?

Igraine shrugged her shoulders. Many things. I like Lady Domino.

From the Shade?

She had her own series, she elaborated defensively. Once. Broadcast after 9:00 PM.

Ohh... one of those.

It wasn’t! Well... for the most part.

All I remember are the parts where she takes her clothes off.

Igraine pursed her lips. Of course you do.

I mean, why bother? You don’t even get to see it. No wonder it bombed. Oh, got to slow down, Gustav said as he decreased the Nimrod’s speed. Don’t want to scare the natives.

Leaning over the pilot’s shoulder, Igraine peered at the nation’s capital that, from this distance, reassembled a scale model of some idyllic city. Curiously, she observed the many church buildings of various vocations and periods in history. By the street grids alone, she could guess how the city had grown through the ages, from the sprawling roads at the center to the preplanned avenues of the suburbs. 

Right in the middle of the city, a Ferris wheel, surrounded by a sea of pavilions and stalls, dominated the landscape. Just her luck to be pressed for time when the carnival was in town. At least, we get to admire The Hague from the air. It looks so... It looks like it has so many stories to tell.

That it does, said Gustav. You should take the time to visit. There is nothing like it in the world.

Igraine shook her head. Can’t stay long, unfortunately. I’ve been outside too much.

What do you mean, ma’am?

She looked at him and said, You know what Travelers Decay is, Mr. Gustav?

Uh, yeah. It's what happens if you leave your Plane of Origin for too long, he said. Then he looked over his shoulder. Wait, don’t tell me you’re an Outsider? How are you still alive?

Her lips curled into a wicked grin as her glass eyes burned a bright blue. If I told you, I would have to kill you, monsieur Gustav.

Moments later, the Nimrod started its final approach to an open field not that far away from the capital's center. From up high, Igraine had a good view of the parliamentary buildings, the Binnenhof, which was somewhat similar to Westminster, be it far smaller. Of course, Westminster had just been rebuilt after a large fire burned it down. The Binnenhof’s buildings, some of which dated back to the 13th century, were arranged in a rectangle that surrounded a court with a church at the center. There was a pond beside the complex that covered about the same area. For some reason, there was an unkempt island in there that didn’t seem to serve any particular purpose. And yet, it gave her the willies for no apparent reason. 

After landing, Igraine looked up at that same Ferris wheel on the nearby field where music was playing.

It’s gonna be busy down there, said Gustav.

Because of the fair?

Haven’t you heard? Ütter-Krapp is demonstrating their latest attempt at building a self-propelled aircraft.

She sighed. Oh, Lord, yes, I did. It’s all they talked about on the Wavecaster. It’s in The Hague?

It’s the Netherlands, miss. Ütter-Krapp’s headquarters.

The whole country? she asked in jest.

He raised his shoulder. Might as well be, he scoffed. That whole harbor stretched about the coast is funded by Ü-K. Everyone talks about them like Ü-K is just an entertainment provider. But their main source of revenue is real estate. And the Dutch make their own if you know what I mean.

Flevoland? guessed Igraine. Also known as the Flevopolder, the artificial island was a whole new province the Dutch created out of a lake. Another monumental project largely funded by Ü-K.

Cor-rect, said Gustav. Given the change, by the next century, England will be the west corner of the continent. Even this airship was developed with their help.

Her mouth was shaping into a forced smile as she looked at the mark on her palm. Yeah... Ü-K, she muttered. The monster you know.

So, um- got any plans? Gonna see the sights? Visit a palace? Check out the Gevangenpoort?

She shrugged. I heard the ‘grachten’ are nice.

Well, in case you want to stay longer, uhm, he said, scratching behind his ear. Remember that the Nimrod is the first prototype, and she is temperamental. So, sometimes I need a day to fix her issues. If you catch my drift.

I’ll remember that, Monsieur Gustav.

Well then. Enjoy your time in the city, miss. Be on the lookout for future visits.

I will do that. Where can I find you?

Right here. I have to stay with her at all times.

You sleep here?

As good a place as any for the likes of us.

Us, Monsieur Gustav?

Didn’t want to presume ma’am. But you look like a drifter yourself.

Igraine smiled. That ain’t a lie. Till then, Monsieur Gustav.

Later, in the streets of The Hague. The seat of counts and kings. An old city. A busy city. But also a foreshadowing of the future.

The moment she entered the commercial district, the veneer of antiquity had evaporated. Igraine had to force her way past the many pedestrians and bicycles coming at her from all directions in streets that weren’t intended for modernity. Pedestrians and cyclists. Horse-drawn carts and electric cars. All manner of transport were competing for space on the main roads. The old canal houses that looked so picturesque in the photos had been repurposed into storefronts, whose baroque facades were rendered invisible by the illuminated signs portraying the brands of warehouses like Drees & Vroomman, Imker, Dozer, and of course, Ütter-Krapp. Music was playing through green horns on every street corner when Igraine encountered an automated street organ adorned with a colorful array of wooden figures clanking brass percussion instruments. In front, the organ player was shaking his money tin to encourage donations. Igraine gave him a ‘kwartje’ (twenty-five gilder cents), thinking there was something brave about hauling that organ up here despite popular music being played all around from modern PA systems.

After pausing at nearly every boutique, she finally reached the quieter back streets where the tightly-packed houses were built along the city’s many channels clogged with boats both for work and leisure.

Eventually, she reached the RA office. The 17th-century manor could only be distinguished from its neighbors by the chalkstone mural of the all-seeing eye above the entrance, which Igraine couldn’t help but scoff at for its pretentiousness. The organization’s regulators might be the supervisors of all Rift Related Activities around the world, the Associates of Ishtar were its real eyes and ears. And, if need be, its sword.

Upon entering a marble hallway, she was received by the guards, who guided her through the herenhuis. They offered her a seat and a cup of tea inside a waiting room, whose dark wooden furnishing stood in stark contrast to the white walls and ornate ceiling decorated with baroque floral patterns. Sitting there, sipping her tea, she inspected the wood-carved coat-of-arms on the wall belonging to the twelve Dutch provinces. Each shield was being held by a pair of lions, except for Groningen, which was guarded by Imperial Eagles.

She looked at the heraldry of a red lion, submerged up to its waist in waves while pointlessly flailing its paws in the air. What province is that drowning lion, sir? she asked when the guard returned.

Taking his time, the guard was folding his arms behind his back as he looked up at the shield with reverence. Ah, ‘Luctor et Emergo’, miss, he cited. It’s the creed of the province of Zeeland.

I struggle and emerge? she asked, reading the translation in her eye display aloud.

It represents our ongoing struggle against the rising tides, miss. Zeeland consists of our nation’s southern islands, you see. If it wasn’t the tides endangering their shores,  it was Flemish pirates or Barbar slavers. And yet, they have flourished through everything.

Ah, she said, convinced it depicted a futile battle against nature.

Excuse me, miss. But the Regulator is waiting.

Oui, merci monsieur.

All mentally prepared to confront the bureaucrat, she followed the guard up to the Regulator’s office. As he opened the door for her, she straightened her back and paced into the room. But the moment she lay eyes on the Regulator - her body froze.

She gulped as the older gentleman, with reddish mutton chops and associated mustache, was observing her with his judgmental gaze while resting his right arm on a file cabinet. Monsieur Ol’Barrow? she muttered while he was tapping his prosthetic fingers.

Good day, Miss Mortuba, I had expected you earlier.

Uh, yeah. It's what happens if you leave your Plane of Origin for too long, he said. Then he looked over his shoulder. Wait, don’t tell me you’re an Outsider? How are you still alive?

Her lips curled into a wicked grin as her glass eyes burned a bright blue. If I told you, I would have to kill you, monsieur Gustav.

Moments later, the Nimrod started its final approach to an open field not that far away from the capital's center. From up high, Igraine had a good view of the parliamentary buildings, the Binnenhof, which was somewhat similar to Westminster, be it far smaller. Of course, Westminster had just been rebuilt after a large fire burned it down. The Binnenhof’s buildings, some of which dated back to the 13th century, were arranged in a rectangle that surrounded a court with a church at the center. There was a pond beside the complex that covered about the same area. For some reason, there was an unkempt island in there that didn’t seem to serve any particular purpose. And yet, it gave her the willies for no apparent reason. 

After landing, Igraine looked up that same Ferris wheel on the nearby field where music was playing.

It’s gonna be busy down there, said Gustav.

Because of the fair?

Haven’t you heard? Ütter-Krapp is demonstrating their latest attempt at building a self-propelled aircraft.

She sighed. Oh, Lord, yes, I did. It’s all they talked about on the Wavecaster. It’s in The Hague?

It’s the Netherlands, miss. Ütter-Krapp’s headquarters.

The whole country? she asked in jest.

He raised his shoulder. Might as well be, he scoffed. That whole harbor stretched about the coast is funded by Ü-K. Everyone talks about them like Ü-K is just an entertainment provider. But their main source of revenue is real estate. And the Dutch make their own, if you know what I mean.

Flevoland? guessed Igraine. Also known as the Flevopolder, the artificial island was a whole new province the Dutch created out of a lake. Another monumental project largely funded by Ü-K.

Cor-rect, said Gustav. Given the change, by the next century, England will be the west corner of the continent. Even this airship was developed with their help.

Her mouth was shaping into a forced smile as she looked at the mark on her palm. Yeah... Ü-K, she muttered. The monster you know.

So, um- got any plans? Gonna see the sights? Visit a palace? Check out the Gevangenpoort?

She shrugged. I heard the ‘grachten’ are nice.

Well, in case you want to stay longer, uhm, he said, scratching behind his ear. Remember that the Nimrod is the first prototype, and she is temperamental. So, sometimes I need a day to fix her issues. If you catch my drift.

I’ll remember that, Monsieur Gustav.

Well then. Enjoy your time in the city, miss. Be on the lookout for future visits.

I will do that. Where can I find you?

Right here. I have to stay with her at all times.

You sleep here?

As good a place as any for the likes of us.

Us, Monsieur Gustav?

Didn’t want to presume ma’am. But you look like a drifter yourself.

Igraine smiled. That ain’t a lie. Till then, Monsieur Gustav.

Later, in the streets of The Hague. The seat of counts and kings. An old city. A busy city. But also a foreshadowing of the future.

The moment she entered the commercial district, the veneer of antiquity had evaporated. Igraine had to force her way past the many pedestrians and bicycles coming at her from all directions in streets that weren’t intended for modernity. Pedestrians and cyclists. Horse-drawn carts and electric cars. All manner of transport were competing for space on the main roads. The old canal houses that looked so picturesque in the photos had been repurposed into storefronts, whose baroque facades were rendered invisible by the illuminated signs portraying the brands of warehouses like Drees & Vroomman, Imker, Dozer, and of course, Ütter-Krapp. Music was playing through green horns on every street corner when Igraine encountered an automated street organ adorned with a colorful array of wooden figures clanking brass percussion instruments. In front, the organ player was shaking his money tin to encourage donations. Igraine gave him a ‘kwartje’ (twenty-five gilder cents), thinking there was something brave about hauling that organ up here despite popular music being played all around from modern PA systems.

After pausing at nearly every boutique, she finally reached the quieter back streets where the tightly-packed houses were built along the city’s many channels clogged with boats both for work and leisure.

Eventually, she reached the RA office. The 17th-century manor could only be distinguished from its neighbors by the chalkstone mural of the all-seeing eye above the entrance, which Igraine couldn’t help but scoff at for its pretentiousness. The organization’s regulators might be the supervisors of all Rift Related Activities around the world, the Associates of Ishtar were its real eyes and ears. And, if need be, its sword.

Upon entering a marble hallway, she was received by the guards, who guided her through the herenhuis. They offered her a seat and a cup of tea inside a waiting room, whose dark wooden furnishing stood in stark contrast to the white walls and ornate ceiling decorated with baroque floral patterns. Sitting there, nipping her tea, she inspected the wood-carved coat-of-arms on the wall belonging to the twelve Dutch provinces. Each shield was being held by a pair of lions, except for Groningen, which was guarded by Imperial Eagles.

She looked at the heraldry of a red lion, submerged up to its waist in waves while pointlessly flailing its paws in the air. What province is that drowning lion, sir? she asked when the guard returned.

Taking his time, the guard was folding his arms behind his back as he looked up at the shield with reverence. Ah, ‘Luctor et Emergo’, miss, he cited. It’s the creed of the province of Zeeland.

I struggle and emerge? she asked, reading the translation in her eye display aloud.

It represents our ongoing struggle against the rising tides, miss. Zeeland consists of our nation’s southern islands, you see. If it wasn’t the tides endangering their shores,  it was Flemish pirates or Barbar slavers. And yet, they had flourished through everything.

Ah, she said, convinced it depicted a futile battle against nature.

Excuse me, miss. But the Regulator is waiting.

Oui, merci monsieur.

All mentally prepared to confront the bureaucrat, she followed the guard up to the Regulator’s office. As he opened the door for her, she straightened her back and paced into the room. But the moment she lay eyes on the Regulator - her body froze.

She gulped as the older gentleman, with reddish mutton chops and associated mustache, was observing her with his judgmental gaze while resting his right arm on a file cabinet. Monsieur Ol’Barrow? she muttered while he was tapping his prosthetic fingers.

Good day, Miss Mortuba, I had expected you earlier.

CHAPTER ONE

THE REGULATOR

Dublin, May 17th, 1878

That night the smog had turned to a dark yellow as the city’s gas light reflected off the wet cobblestones. The veil of rain made the city's denizens stay home or seek refuge in Dublin’s many establishments. But for the man and woman who were fleeing into the alley, the weather was the least of their concerns.

While they were gasping for breath, live waltz music was playing in the background, interrupted by the occasional splashing of water as they rushed across the crooked bricks. Holding up her drenched skirt the woman was being followed by a man clenching a suitcase to his chest as if his life depended on it. 

Both were looking for a door, a crowd, or any place in which they could hide from their pursuer. But as was typical for scenarios such as these, there were no opportunities to be had.

In here, said the woman rushing up to the nearest doorstep reverberating with the tunes of brass instruments cutting through the jubilant clamor of  clientele.

Wait! The man cried, chasing her up the steps.

Just hurry! she hissed. They’re- She paused as her blood ran cold.

On the alley's far end, lamplight was reflecting off the stranger's goggles as he came striding toward them, rain dripping down a mouth guard shaped like a falcon's beak. Getting closer with every passing heartbeat, the stranger, dressed in a riding outfit, was peering at them through a single lens as the other side of his goggles was sealed off with a metal lid.

The woman grabbed her accomplice’s arm. Come on! she screeched, pulling him up the steps. After barging into the hallway, they paced toward the music. The serving personnel, who were in a rush to serve their patrons, ignored them as they entered the dance hall. There the fugitives looked about themselves as the city’s middle class was galloping through the night, energized by the brass band playing on the balcony of the second floor. Just when the fugitives were pushing their way through the crowd, a gunshot ground the festivities to a halt.

Ladies and gentleman, cried a commanding voice as the scent of sulfur was spreading through the room. The crowd swung around in unison toward the masked individual who had stepped through the front door, dressed in a three-piece suit, holding a smoking revolver up to the ceiling. Pardon me for interrupting your evening. But please, vacate the premises. Right now! This is official business. As patrons were rushing for the exit he just stood amidst the chaos adjusting the reflective goggles above his beak.

Taking advantage of the panic, the fugitive holding the suitcase blended in with the crowd and ran past the masked gentleman unnoticed, until he suddenly felt a pull at his pants’ sleeve. 

Stopped dead in his tracks, he keeled forward. In a reflex he tried to hold his precious suitcase aloft, but it slipped his grasp instead. With a loud thud the coffer broke open the moment it hit the ground, spilling its contents.

The onlookers gasped as canisters bounced around the dancefloor like marbles. 

With the taste of iron on his lips, the man was on the verge of weeping while bystanders were marveling at the alien flora illuminating the glass vials’  interior .

Everybody out, cried a woman with a voice like gravel. At the back of the crowd, the masked stranger from the alley approached the fugitives, while the metal blind over her left eye closed like a diaphragm. Those people are notorious- Coral smugglers, she stammered.

Coral? asked one bystander, gawking at the luminous plant.

The masked gentleman beside him grabbed his arm and said. It so happens that certain sea life produces some of the most powerful toxins in the world. Now, please. Get out!

When the room had emptied, only the fugitives and some personnel were left in a bewildered state of shock as the masked gentleman aimed his revolver in the woman’s general direction. It’s over, madame. This is your last chance to come quietly.

The fugitive instead grabbed an older woman who was hiding behind the counter and pressed the end of a derringer against her head. Don’t come any closer! she warned. I’ll blow her brains out, I swear.

What? sneered the masked gentleman. Have you gone bonkers? You are not getting out of this!

They told me what you do with prisoners, she snapped back. Fuck that!

Whatever they told you, I’m certain those claims are highly exaggerated.

While the gentleman tried to defuse the situation, the female agent near the corner opened up the blind of her left eye, revealing a luminous blue light making her look like an inhuman creature from a different realm. 

244? What are you doing? scolded the gentleman when the female agent stretched out her hand as if she was reaching for the hostage-taker from across the room.

We are not police or private security, 244 said. We have no obligation to protect anyone.

The fugitive snapped her head toward her.