He had better things to do, like polish the war pick he had just purchased and make sure the tip was straight for maximum armor penetration. Instead, he was being paid to stand outside some old man's house because the old man 'swore he heard rattling bones and scratching fingers on his window.' Absolutely ridiculous. The money was good, but Fuze was convinced he was wasting his time. He was a high ranking guardsman and this is what he was being used for? Why not repelling enemy attacks or training new recruits? Stupid leadership. They weren't like Six. Six knew him.
What would he use the money he got as a reward for anyway? After the return of said giant monster thing, all of this would just return to normal anyway. What was even the point in investing anything into this world anyway? His humanity would be restored, he'd have his normal clothes back, he would return to being normal Shuhrat Kessikbayev, chief of police. This was horse shit. Fuck that giant stupid hand god thing anyway. How was he supposed to beat it? He didn't have a clustercharge or a gun or anything. He could breathe fire, which was nice, but gunpowder apparently wasn't a thing yet! Which was stupid, he could simply just introduce it into the market by combining the right ingredients, giving a demonstration of the capabilities, and then-
He's interrupted in his monologuing by the literal rattling of bones around the side of the house. His head cocks, and he reaches for the war pick, shield in hand as he stalks around the corner. This better not be a prank. He would be pissed if it was. Upon turning the corner, there, at the window, was literally a skeleton. An entire skeleton, moving on its own. Holy shit. What the Fuck? Okay, now he was getting angry. This place had made a fool of him for the last time. Fuck this skeleton, fuck this dumbass magical bullshit, fuck everything, fuck fuck fuck. He smacks the skeleton away from the window and ignores everything it says, the chattering of teeth only pissing him off more. He cracks a rib with a jab from his shield, the blunt side of his war pick catching a femur and breaking it in half. His slim and lean tail grabs a hand and yanks it off of an arm roughly, and his shield implants itself in their jaw. He takes the sharp end of his pick and buries it into the skull once, then twice, then three times, before he yanks it back and stands up, his angry fit culminating in a burst of red hot sparking fire being dumped onto the broken skeleton, almost like a thick viscous fluid. Fuze wipes his mouth, watching the skeleton perish. He'll tell the old man in the morning, he thinks, before returning to his post. He's got some anger issues to work out, for sure, but beating up skeletons seemed to do the trick just fine for now.
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