The transition from the sweltering passage to the marketplace was like plunging into cold water. As they walked through the entrance, the temperature dropped drastically, so the night was unusually refreshing.
But the physical relief was short-lived, immediately eclipsed by a sensory riot.
Loud noises, bright lights, hurried conversations. The Basin pulsated.
Neon signs bled jagged colours into the dark, and a cacophony of hurried haggling and mechanical whirs pressed against their eardrums. It was a beautiful, chaotic overstimulation.
The air was a tapestry of charred, savoury tang of grilled meat and the cloying sweetness of spiced pastries.
Above, the sky held a navy hue that promised rain, considering the stars were visible through the thin veil of smog and there were practically no clouds.
Ratelsi didn't look at the vendors.
Her fingers drummed a disconnected staccato against her thigh, keeping time with the rhythmic scrape of boots on the corrugated metal road.
Every few seconds, a stray breeze caught her long, dark hair, whipping it across her face. Artificial warmth radiated from the floating halo orbs hovering just above her shoulders.
Walking ahead, Timoth moved with a hand shoved deep into his pocket while the other anchored two contra bags against his shoulder. He glanced every few paces to make sure Ratelsi was still close by.
She, however, was drifting.
Her attention had been snared by a passing pair of Peculiars. The woman's skin was the texture of aged oak, and her hair a wild mane of verdant leaves. Her boyfriend bore his brand like a badge of honour, emblazoned in dark ink across the back of his hand.
But Ratelsi didn't care about the brand, nor the bark-fleshed woman.
Her world had narrowed entirely to the cream-filled bun held in the man's tattooed hand.
She watched, mesmerized, as he took a casual bite.
The pastry yielded with a soft, pillowy sigh, venting a puff of steam that suggested it was fresh from the oven. A dollop of rich, pale cream escaped the edge, and Ratelsi felt an ache of pure envy.
Her mouth watered instantly, her mind conjuring the taste of toasted sugar and velvet filling.
She lingered a second too long, dragging her feet until the distance between her and Timoth began to stretch. Realizing she was falling behind, she longingly licked her lips and hurried to close the gap.
As she pulled alongside him, the audible grinding of her teeth caused Timoth to falter. He canted his head, eyeing her with growing concern.
"Quit eyein' the crowd and look at me for a sec, would you?" Timoth spoke loud enough to hear but it barely registered.
Or rather, she didn't hear him over the hunger clouding her thoughts. It pulsed behind her glowing malachite eyes, and soon, the crowd blurred into a haze.
The Basin was suffocating with the stench of unwashed bodies and the fragrance of mana residue.
Thin trails of iridescent vapour drifted lazily in the breeze, rippling and distorting the air with heatless energy.
It created a "mirage effect", revealing the invisible currents of magic in certain areas where spells had recently been cast.
Timoth stopped, blocking her path.
Making a show of studying her from every angle—as if he were inspecting a particularly moody piece of art—he reached out. His fingers were warm against her jaw as he gently guided her face upward, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"Ah, there you are," he murmured, his smile softening.
"Lost you for a sec there. Now, what do you say we find Hexoset? I have a feelin' you could use a good pint right about now."
Ratelsi didn't pull away.
Instead, she seized his hand. Her grip was perhaps a bit tighter than intended, still, she arched an eyebrow, trying to pull her mask of composure back into place. "I wasn't staring at anyone, Timoth. Do I look paranoid to you?"
"Paranoid?" Timoth chuckled.
He hooked his hand around Ratelsi's shoulders and drew her into his personal space, steering past a group of Peculiars whose marbled skin shimmered like oil on water.
As she's pulled off-balance, Ratelsi let out a tiny, muffled "oh!" of surprise.
She stumbled into his side, her mussed strands brushing against him.
Ratelsi's face instantly warmed.
Thank Liyuen for her brown skin hiding the blush spreading across her cheeks.
Sometimes, Timoth could be so..
...so what?
Caring? Bold with his gestures? Protective in his own way? She didn't know which it was.
But she no longer saw the crowd as a magical haze, only Timoth's satisfied expression as she looked up at him with wide, startled eyes.
Once she regained her footing, he leaned down, his blue eyes flashing with a teasing, dangerous glint. "You don't look paranoid, Rat. You look ravenous. Like someone itchin' for a lot more than just a meal."
Timoth held her gaze, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So, let's go find that pint, shall we? Maybe once you've had a drink, you'll finally spill whatever it is that's got you so restless."
A shadow crossed her face, her expression darkening as she considered how to respond, but no words came.
Tch.
She didn't even bother denying it—she knew her glowing eyes had already given her away. Their dilating slits darted toward every moving shadow and passing colour like a moth to flame.
Timoth noticed her hand hovering near her bulging pocket, thinking the Verenites inside the capsule was the real reason behind this sudden thirst for adventure.
He opted for silence.
Experience with living with Ratelsi had taught him that pointing out the obvious was the fastest way to get his head bitten off, and he wasn't in the mood for a scar today.
She recoiled as if stung, then continued walking. "Is Hexoset where we find the scum, then?" Ratelsi asked. The words were clipped.
Timoth let out a dry, rattling snort and fell in line behind her. "If by 'scum' you mean Broco, then yeah. That's the hive he calls home."
The mention of their target seemed to snap the wire of Ratelsi's nerves. The rigidity in her shoulders collapsed, replaced by a predatory grin that didn't reach her eyes.
"Wanna bet on how much of his hoard he pisses away on the strippers every night?"
Timoth quickened his pace to match hers. "The man owns the damn club, Rat, so he's playing with house money. But for the sake of the wager, I'd say at least five hundred Aures. He was always an easy mark for a painted face and a bit of flattery."
"Five hundred? Please," she scoffed, tossing her head back with a theatrical groan.
"Try a thousand. Minimum. Broco knows exactly what he is. An ugly oaf who throws Aures around because that's the only way he can get a woman to look at him without gagging her intestines out."
Their chat flowed effortlessly as they strode down the winding paths of the black market - a playground where all the shady stuff happened. Here, you could score just about anything if you asked the right questions. Even the wrong ones might work, but never too many.
Because, c'mon, you wouldn't want to find yourself at the bottom of the river, now, would you?
Getting around this sort of place required a certain level of street smarts. You had to have a mental map of exits and safe routes ready to go, because one misstep could turn your night upside down. Those offering the most tempting deals might just be the same folks who'd make sure you didn't return for more.
Trust was in short supply here. All it took was a little suspicion.
Just like the nightclub Hexoset, The Basin housed many treasure troves; Red Light Street with its pleasure houses indulging every hedonistic whim. Spillpits, where Peculiars fought to prove themselves to paying sickfucks who gambled in blood sports.
Armsmiths, repair shops, food stalls, The Basin had it all.
But amongst its clandestine activities, only two operators were most prevalent: Mongers and Mercs.
The first were gatekeepers of access, peddling pretty much everything from random junk to stolen weapons, drugs, mutated animals, and most importantly, intel. If you had a talent for being a sleazy piece of shit, then being a Monger was a pretty sweet gig.
Hence, the unspoken rule is never to trust them. Ever!
They were as sketchy as they come, the apex predators in this somehow thriving hotspot for vice. Second to them were the Mercs. If you craved thrills or had a taste for danger, this was your calling. Say delivery runners, miners, bodyguards, escorts - the list goes on and on.
Mercs were freelance operatives, mostly Peculiars, who took on high-risk gigs in The Basin and beyond. Though the gigs varied widely based on the client and contract terms.
However, despite being the second biggest operation, Mercs were still at the bottom of the social ladder, often exploited by Mongers and distrusted by clients. Their Peculiar status was what made them valuable in the first place. And don't fool yourself into thinking Normies weren't at least a little curious about what happened in this underbelly, because oh man, that would be so naïve.
How else would they get a taste of lawlessness without getting their hands dirty?
Most belonged to a tier of society where the concept of a 'leftover' was as foreign to them as manual labour. The idea of eating the same thing twice would have felt like a personal failure, or perhaps a glitch in the universe. They were accustomed to a world that arrived on silver, stayed for twenty minutes, and vanished into the bin the moment it lost its novelty.
These Normies paraded in as patrons, or just curious clients looking to indulge in whatever erotic and bizarre shit this black market had to offer. Y'know, the usual fun stuff. It wasn't uncommon to see them flinging Aures around for the oddest schemes you wouldn't find in Balun.
It's not like they had to worry about ticking off street scanners or raising an alarm with the Paladins at checkpoints. That's what Mercs were hired for. To be the shield and sword for those with money but no guts.
Still, it took three to tango in this dance of dubious dealings: Mongers needed Mercs to handle the heavy work, while Mercs relied on Mongers for gigs. Both groups depended on client demands to keep the Basin's ecosystem running.
It was a well-oiled machine of transactional dependency where trust issues abounded, but everyone knew their role and worked to maintain the status quo.
Tonight was a big night for the two Mercs, about to wrap up their six-month contract with Broco Aqqa. Finally, fi-na-lly, they wouldn't have to deal with that balding puss of a boss anymore.
Freedom was tantalizingly close, Ratelsi thought as she ducked under some leopard skins hanging from a Monger's kiosk.
Balancing a jelly cube in the crook of her finger, Ratelsi watched it perform a sluggish, awkward dance.
It was a pathetic specimen of a dessert—bruised-looking and structurally unsound, threatening to liquefy under the mere warmth of her skin.
"This jelly looks… anaemic," she murmured, tilting her hand.
The cube slumped to one side, catching the bright light of the halo orbs overhead. "And the texture is remarkably adhesive. Is it supposed to cling to the skin like an overeager parasite?"
Timoth didn't look up from the time reading 7:18 pm on his HoloSmart. Instead, he sighed wearily. "It's sugar, water, and enough synthetic ingredients to keep it solid-ish," he muttered resignedly. "It's a treat only us slum rats can afford."
Ratelsi didn't look convinced and curiously brought the trembling morsel to her lips. As she poked at the translucent surface with the tip of her tongue, her brand—the Arcane Eye—showed itself before disappearing in the darkness of her mouth.
"I don't get it," she muttered, wiping a smear from the corner of her mouth. She stared at the translucent morsel jiggling under her scrutiny with genuine offense. "Isn't jelly supposed to be… fruity? Sweet? This tastes like a lab experiment gone wrong. It reeks of… regret."
Timoth didn't offer a witty comeback or a defense of the dessert.
He simply locked his fingers around her wrist and guided her hand toward his face. She watched as her fingertip came to rest against the seam of his dry lips. The heat of it was a sharp contrast to the cold, synthetic gel on her skin.
Then, his tongue swiped across her pad. Slowly. Rhythmically. With strokes entirely too deliberate to be accidental.
Timoth lingered there, tasting the pathetic "strawberry" residue with a dull pressure that sent heat surging up her arm and settling firmly in her chest.
He finally pulled back, though he didn't let go of her wrist. A dry, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Mhm. Regret is the primary ingredient," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly hum. "But if you hold your breath and swallow it fast enough, you might just manage to trick yourself into thinking it's not so bad."
Ratelsi tilted her head, expectant. "What does it actually taste like?"
"Stale water and disappointment," Timoth replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "But hey, it's better than nothing. Hexoset is just around the corner anyway." He nodded toward the last bit of jelly in the cup.
"Your turn."
"As if!" Ratelsi scoffed, almost offended, and chucked the plastic cup into a nearby garbage bin. "What a rip-off. Why do I have to eat shit like this, huh?" Timoth just chuckled.
In the sky, colourful auroras danced like spirits across the dark night, breathing life into the endless canvas with their luminous beauty. Even Argona's force field did nothing to taint the stars twinkling in hues no artist could replicate. Halo orbs lit up the street with their bright balls of light, casting long, inky figures on the ground.
Everywhere, the noise was a living thing.
The hum of generators was drowned out by the bustling market. Underneath corrugated tin roofs, a sea of bodies surged. A man with six eyes, each a different colour, was haggling over a canister of goo, his low growl punctuating the frantic gestures of the Monger.
Across the way, a woman with chitinous wings was selling tiny vials of Blyss to a hulking brute with hands the size of dinner plates. He looked eager to enjoy the hallucinogenic effects of the drugs.
The percussive clang of a cybernetic arm being hammered into place echoed nearby, while a telekinetic strained to lift a crate off the ground. Shrouded in the shadows, a figure discreetly slipped a purse of tallys into the hands of a Normie.
Quick, clipped conversations about deals mixed with clinking bars and the hiss of a pressure cooker from a food stall. Ratelsi's eyes darted around, noticing silhouettes moving on rickety platforms where the homeless folks had settled.
Her stomach nagged at her, getting angrier by the second since she hadn't eaten yet. But Ratelsi was running low on Creds from her tight food budget. So, her brain, impregnated with ideas, birthed a sneaky plan to swipe something. Amber eyes scanned the labyrinth of stalls, looking for a shortcut in case she needed to make a break for it.
Timoth would find her anyway; he always did.
That's when pixels shimmered before her, materialising into a neon-bright hologram. The avatar was a candy-coated fever dream: bubblegum-pink pigtails, bulbous eyes, and a grin so plastic and perfect it belonged on a vintage toy.
"Hey, you! What a gorgeous night to be out, right?" she chirped. The warmth in her voice was startling. Warm. Human-like. Probably some advanced AI gimmick.
"I'm Joji," she said, leaning in with a playful wink. "My scanners tell me you're one hell of a tough cookie. Ever think about a career upgrade?"
Ratelsi didn't even break her stride to acknowledge Joji and instead let out a big yawn, covering her mouth with her hand while keeping her eyes on the path. Then she walked right through the hologram.
"Ugh, wow, that's rude!" Joji exclaimed, blinking in surprise as a digital tear threatened to fall. She dabbed at it, then instantly brightened. "Okay, okay, I totally get it. You're busy. But this is important!"
A weary sigh. Ratelsi shifted her shoulder to avoid colliding with a Normie whose cart was piled high with what looked like confiscated LuBot drones. The Normie shot her a nervous glare, unfazed by the hologram he just passed through.
"Look, I already got a job, and you're in my way," said Ratelsi.
Oblivious to the Peculiar's urgent need for food, Joji simply floated in front of her. Her digital form flickered with static as a colourful flyer appeared in her hand, showing off the Arcane Eye, along with bold text saying, "Mercenary Scouting. Join the Cura today!"
Ratelsi gave a sarcastic laugh, arching an eyebrow high. "You're not fucking serious. The Cura? That's like asking a junkyard dog to prance around in a poodle show."
Joji burst out laughing, earning a few annoyed looks from nearby vendors. "A poodle show, that's good! I'll have to remember that one."
The joke wasn't even that funny.
"But hey, don't sell yourself short! We're always on the lookout for new talent. Join us, and you'll get access to top-tier gear, awesome pay, and the coolest missions in the city! You could really stack up some serious Aures."
Ratelsi scoffed, finally stopping to face Joji. Her gaze hardened as she spoke in a low, threatening tone. "So, you're just pulling names out of the hat, huh? I'm a runner. A delivery girl. The toughest mission I've got is getting packages where they need to go without getting ripped off."
She spat to the side, jaw clenched, voice rising with defiance. "Why in all that's unholy would I risk my life for a bunch of oversight idiots who turn a blind eye to the very thing I'm tryna avoid?"
Joji tilted her head, still sporting an annoyingly cheerful smile despite Ratelsi's obvious irritation. "Because a runner's a courier, and a courier is just a Merc dealing with smaller packages. Clearly, you've got the skills and know how to navigate this….well, this 'grime'. Do you really want to spend your life delivering boring packages to boring clients, or do you want to be a legend?"
"I just wanna stay alive," Ratelsi replied flatly, starting to walk again. "Besides, legends have a nasty habit of ending up in pieces, so if you don't mind, I need you to move out of my way; you're literally blocking my path."
"Fine," Joji huffed, her pigtails bouncing a bit. "But just so you know, the Cura offers some pretty awesome perks like free Medipod services! Seriously, think about it, okay? Free Medics!"
The bribe almost worked. Almost. Ratelsi mumbled about her sore feet and how she'd kinda lost interest in the idea of snagging something to eat. Still, she kept her pace, leaving the flickering hologram to bother someone else.
Amidst the crowd, Ratelsi caught sight of a flash of honey-coloured curls weaving through the tightly packed bodies. It was like a lighthouse in a stormy sea, beckoning her closer.
She dove into the throng, pushing through the mass of people, keeping her eyes on the familiar bounce of Timoth. He paced anxiously in front of a vending machine, looking utterly frazzled as if he was about to combust.
When he finally saw Ratelsi, his face crumpled to pure relief. "Ratel! I swear, you're tryna drive me insane! Don't disappear like that again, please. Do you even know how many terrible things I thought might've happened to you?"
There was a desperate edge in his voice that just made Ratelsi grin wider. "Sorry. The crowd just sorta carried me out. Also, you look like a lost puppy. I'm actually considering getting you a leash."
"Not cool."
"C'mon, it is a little funny…"
"Yeah, you're not getting out of my sight again," Timoth said, taking her hand to guide her away from the thinning crowd.
"Tch, I'm not a kid. I won't get lost," Ratelsi snapped, though the heat rising in her cheeks betrayed her.
But Timoth wasn't letting go; he interlaced their fingers, holding a bit tightly like he was afraid that the moment he let go, she'd vanish into the crowd again.
"I know you can take care of yourself," he said teasingly.
"But we both remember what happens when you get distracted. Like that time you stumbled into a back-alley poker game with a guy who had a three-eyed snake tattooed on his neck? And who was it that had to bail you out with their very last Creds? Oh, right. That was me."
Ratelsi gave a half-hearted tug to free her hand, but her resistance faded into a cheeky grin. "That was one time! And for your information, I was one hand away from a clean sweep. That guy was practically begging to be robbed; I saw his cards plain as day."
Timoth shook his head, a small laugh finally escaping to cut through the lingering tension. "Let's just get moving," he said, checking over his shoulder. "Before our wallets get snatched—or worse, before some holographic scout tries to press-gang us into a gig for the Cura."
He didn't notice the way Ratelsi's posture suddenly locked, or how her breath hitched at the mention of Joji. She stayed silent, falling into step beside him as the cacophony of the market began to bleed into the muffled hum of the residential district.
"I really thought this was going to be a quick run," Ratelsi said, her voice sounding a little forced as she tried to shake off the stiffness. "You know? In, out, grab our pay, and bounce. Didn't think we'd stumble into a literal circus of... weirdos."
Timoth offered a lopsided, knowing grin. "We're weirdos too, Ratel. Don't act like we fit in anywhere else."
******
"Alright, ladies, club badges up. One at a time," announced the bouncer in a gravelly baritone that resonated at the entrance.
Standing imposingly at the door, he was a mountain of a man with pale skin and a dyed mohawk, his tank top straining against shoulders as broad as those of a grizzly bear.
Three young ladies in identical, low-cut glitter-sequin dresses exchanged light-hearted giggles. They were beautiful, but in different ways. Whispering to each other, they playfully nudged one of their own toward the bouncer, a girl with fine chestnut hair trailing over her shoulders.
"He's all yours, Chloe," the one with short, blonde hair said in a conspiratorial tone.
Somewhat flustered, Chloe approached the bouncer, extending her hand. "Hi there," she greeted him, her voice a little squeaky.
The hexagon inked on her wrist glimmered faintly beneath the storied building and neon lights announcing "CLUB HEXOSET" in blue and pink calligraphy. The bouncer, identified by his name tag as 'Snigel', smiled broadly as he looked at her.
"Hello yourself, darlin'. Let's see that ticket to paradise, shall we?"
From his pocket, he withdrew a handheld scanning device. It beeped as it passed over the identity marker on her wrist. A holographic profile materialised above Snigel's HoloSmart, displaying her photograph, name, age, and a green check mark next to "V.I.P."
The absence of further details indicated her status as a Normie.
"Ch-lo-e," Snigel pronounced each syllable melodically. "Pretty name. You look like you're gonna stir up some trouble in there."
At his words, Chloe's cheeks flushed a rosy pink as she replied, "Only the harmless kind, I assure you."
"The harmless kind is indeed my preferred variety," Snigel chuckled, offering her a nod. "Welcome to Hexoset."
The short-haired woman approached him next, exuding confidence with her tall, slender body. "It's my turn, big fella," she said with a playful wink, extending her hand toward him.
"Be gentle on the wrist there; I've got a hot date waiting for me on the dance floor."
Her lips were deep red, and her almond eyes were cerulean. Snigel appreciatively gave her his attention for a moment. "Oh? I was just starting to get used to the view," he remarked smoothly as he took her hand.
Beep. "Scarlet.. I would presume you possess a fiery temperament. Planning to break some hearts tonight, are we?"
Scarlett let out a clear, melodious laugh. "Is that an invitation?"
"Perhaps," he replied, mischief glimmering in his eyes.
The third woman was a petite blonde with an effervescent smile who couldn't contain her giggles at their banter. When it was her turn, Snigel's demeanour softened.
"You're new, aren't you?" he asked warmly, bending down to scan her hand. His massive frame seemed to dwarf the smaller woman, who shamelessly fluttered her eyelashes as she looked up.
"Ah, sweet Lily. Be cautious, and don't let these two troublemakers lead you astray. Hexoset is full of distractions."
Lily beamed up at him coquettishly. "I'll try my best, Snigel. But no promises."
Snigel's loud laughter rang out in the open space. "That's my girl. Now, get on inside, all of you." He smiled charmingly before stepping aside to allow the trio entry into the thumping atmosphere beyond the doors.
Led by Scarlett, the girls catwalked inside, winking once more. Snigel observed their departure before turning his attention to the next group of eager patrons in line.
"Next!" he commanded in a booming voice.
Ratelsi winced, sucking her teeth sharply. "Is there any need to shout when we're right in front of you?"
At the sound of her irritated response, Snigel's smirk faltered, replaced by a fleeting look of annoyance. Brown skin, slitted amber eyes, and an arrogant look, he quickly recognised Ratelsi as the Peculiar who had humiliated Mhode. Consequently, he felt a sudden reluctance to allow her passage. Snigel regarded the delivery runners with a sidelong glance, sizing them up with noticeable disdain.
"Say, Timoth," Ratelsi inquired of her companion beside her, "how much satisfaction do you imagine I'll derive from punching him the next time he glares at me?"
"I'd say that it would bring you immense pleasure. Some people possess faces that provoke a desire to rough them up a little," he replied with a smirk, clearly entertained by the idea.
Snigel's sneer deepened at their exchange, and he muttered with contempt, "Verdammt widerliche schweine."
Ratelsi offered no words, only a bared-teeth snarl and a look that dripped poison. Then, fueled by a sudden audacity, closed the distance and stepped into Snigel's space.
Her eyes moved over him with the cold, clinical detachment of a butcher weighing up a carcass.
She studied Snigel not as a man, but as a collection of parts, mentally marking the joints where the blade would slide in easiest.
The already charged atmosphere intensified, almost electric.
Snigel felt it in his marrow. An instinctual awareness triggered the fine hairs on the bouncer's arms to rise; his entire being felt threatened by her proximity, recognizing a threat his mind couldn't quite name.
It was like being trapped in a cage with something wild and nameless, something that lived for the hunt. Behind those eyes, he was certain the fucking creature was cackling with glee.
And she was..
Ratelsi's lips parted in a wicked grin. She could tell from the Normie's increasingly scornful expression that he sensed her intent to provoke, and this realization evidently displeased him.
But at that moment, the club door swung open and out came a tall blond man with his face smeared in red lipstick. His shirt was unbuttoned with his zipper undone, but he didn't seem to care. The initial whiff of booze reached the queue first, followed by a mix of sweat and sex as the tipsy dude clumsily staggered past them.
Timoth turned to Snigel, seemingly unfazed by the latter's malevolent glare. "Listen, man, we obviously don't like you any more than you seem to like us. So how 'bout you just tell us where Broco is, and we'll take our leave, yes?" He discreetly gestured toward the bags they were carrying.
Snigel's gaze flickered between Timoth's face and the bags in question. The mention of Broco, coupled with the implication that they possessed something of significance for him, momentarily disarmed Snigel. His aggressive stance softened a bit. Although he still looked like he'd rather knock them out than speak to them, the threat in his posture eased.
"How do I know you're not here to cause trouble afterwards? Broco's already occupied with important guests and is not anticipating any other visitors. Especially not…." He shot a venomous glare in Ratelsi's direction, who met his look with an assertive tilt of her head that silently dared him to take a swing.
Timoth exhaled a long, exasperated sigh. "Clearly, you don't know we're his runners. Call him or whatever, but you gotta let us through, alright? At least let us wait in a different area."
Snigel looked indecisive. He evidently struggled to trust them, having never encountered them before. But the boss would never send for these...Peculiars unless he required their specific services. Still, Snigel felt the need to be thorough. After all, it wouldn't be the first time someone used Broco's name to gain unauthorised access to Hexoset.
"Hand over the bags," he instructed, extending his hand toward them, expecting compliance.
Ratelsi's arm shot out across Timoth's chest, stopping him in his tracks. "Like shit he will."
She responded defiantly, then deviously smirked. "I would like to see you attempt to take them."
The invite was not only clear but was so compelling that Snigel hesitated, caught between his pride and his instinct. Something about Ratelsi made his skin crawl, like worms writhing beneath his flesh every time those magma eyes met his.
As Snigel's disgust slowly intensified, a static crackled from the earbud positioned within his ear. He instinctively reached for the small device. The jarring intrusion was quickly followed by the familiar, impatient tones of Broco.
"Let 'em in, you idiot," He hissed through the speaker. "They got my gifts, so I'll deal with them. Don't fucking make a scene."
With his jaw tightly clenched, Snigel directed his gaze to the hidden camera within the signage, his sense of pride clashing with the direct order. He was clearly pissed; he had a job to do, more people had joined the queue, and his guts screamed that these Peculiars were trouble. Nevertheless, an order must be followed, despite his strong desire to prevent Ratelsi's entry and to wipe that arrogant smirk off her stupid face.
And so, the Normie and Peculiar remained engaged in their silent stare down, a battle of wills tested to measure the other's resolve.
Timoth scoffed and crossed his arms under his chest. "Understand this bro, there's absolutely no way you stand a chance against those eyes. Trust me, I speak from experience."
Snigel's lips were drawn back in a thin, visible line of revulsion. His eyes, wide and slightly narrowed, seemed to be fighting the urge to look away from the object of his distaste.
A sharp, audible sniff of contempt escaped him as he finally wrenched his gaze away from Ratelsi. He gave a curt, dismissive jerk of his chin toward the entrance.
"Penthouse," he snapped, his words tumbling out with an edge of frantic impatience. "Through the main hall, past the bar, then left to the elevators. Vesir will escort you."
It was clear the Normie couldn't rid himself of them fast enough. Even as the directions left his mouth, he was already gesturing vaguely toward the mezzanine, his eyes darting to the next group in line. He shuttered his expression instantly, acting as if the last two minutes—and the people in front of him—had never existed.
"How disappointing," Ratelsi remarked, her voice smooth and dangerous as she strode past him. "I was truly hoping to savour a few of your pitiful howls. It would have been... entertaining."
Timoth trailed closely in her wake, a smug chuckle vibrating in his chest. He caught the man's eye one last time, leaning in just enough to whisper:
"Told ya."