Ah. Exploiters. That was familiar enough at least. Shitty down-low exploiters? Even better. Smuggling? Jackpot.
“Lots of bark, no bite if we can help it. Capeesh.” Isfet gave the warehouse a quick once-over, trying to ping at a distance any obvious surveillance signatures or high-density technology. Maybe nothing he’d be able to recognize, but a little knowledge could go a long way. “What are they smuggling?”
“Oh, a whole metric shit ton of things,” War Dog answered, a long, regulator-model shock staff growing out from their hand (never mind the fact that it was technically part of their hand, and wouldn’t actually work all that well as a weapon). “I just need their nudie holos. You see anything else you like, help yourself.”
The volph nodded up to a set of metal stairs leading to a back entrance. “Unless you’ve got a reg uniform on you, might wanna slide in quiet-like while I bust in through the front.”
Despite being a gaseous shapeshifter capable of phasing through solid matter, stealth operations were not typically War Dog’s thing. That was a personal issue, more than a biological one. They hated keeping things low-key. But they loved seeing a plan come together, so just this once, they’d go with it. Maybe.
That said, they definitely hadn’t come dressed for discretion. The long coat was definitely on theme, but the blaring words “HELL WOLF” printed in large, repeating, blood-resembling red text on both sleeves was not. But they had to wear the hell wolf jacket because it matched the fang-print face mask and flame shaped sunglasses they were using to conceal their identity, as opposed to just shapeshifting. So it was all part of the plan.
Besides, what could go wrong, really?
The rendezvous point was on the open patio of a relatively swanky club, by War Dog’s estimate, anyway. From there, they and their Gaillot counterpart would proceed with the op. They’d only bumped into this one a couple of times, but he seemed just a titch more straight-laced than they preferred in a coworker.
Oh, well. War Dog was sure they’d find a way to have fun together, one way or another. So they waited, overpriced cocktail that they definitely had not paid for in hand, waiting for said fun to begin.
Isfet’s nose nearly crinkled. No, not regular vampire stuff, it was Liminox vampire stuff. But oh well, it didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.
Even if it did, his mind was quickly pulled out of the thought and toward his new companion, and their new look. It was immediately jarring. The whole thing was jarring. He was getting into trouble for no reason other than being goaded into it. Taking a completely unnecessary risk of winding up in over his head with no good explanation. About to jump into some chaos simply for the sake of it.
It was thrilling.
Isfet’s heart thudded fast, but he had no intention of backing down. “Not a goddamn bit. That a problem?” He licked his lips and glanced at the alley ahead before looking back. “I’m a quick study.”
War Dog shook their head, a helmet and visor extending out from their face and closing as they did so.
“No problem. Crash course, then,” the voice came out muffled, vaguely synthesized. “Hyper technologically advanced society, but their culture went stagnant when they ran out of reasons to build bigger or better. They realized they were one diplomatic incident away from world war on their home planet, and so agreed that they’d all scatter across space and find their own little turfs to economically exploit.These Onti are pretty much total failures compared to other arms of the syndicate I’ve scrapped with. Some places, they run whole star systems. Not shitty little smuggling operations.”
They stopped short of an opening that lead back out into the open city streets, gesturing over their shoulder to an abandoned-looking warehouse. “Couple’a important points. They don’t really consider us fully sapient lifeforms, at least not significant ones. They’re also extremely afraid of death, ergo hella risk averse, but they’ll go apeshit if one of their family gets hurt. Some kind of honor thing. So we try to go pure intimidation with this. Capisce?”
All three options occurred to Isfet as they wound their way through streets and alleys. He tried not to linger too long over the last one. The vampire still wasn’t doing much to avoid looking conspicuous, with his hands in his jacket pockets and his shoulders up near his ears, but when it came to these parts of town it did more to blend in than if he were strolling casual and carefree.
“Uh? I’m uh…” Getting into Family shit was loaded, and if this so-called immortal shape-shifter didn’t want to divulge what exactly they were… then neither would he. Not like it was that hard to figure out, if they felt like looking at him for more than three extra seconds. “I can see in the dark, fuck with electronics, make people see things…” Or not see things. He’d never truly figured out a succinct way to sum up what he was able to do. Maybe never would. “And no Reg mindfucks.”
“Cool! So regular vampire stuff then. That’ll fit in perfectly with what I’ve got planned for these dweebs.”
Unobserved in the darkness of the alleyways, War Dog’s skin begins to ripple and extend outward into chameleon clothing--in this case, a regulator uniform. This wasn’t part of the original plan, but they are exceptionally skilled in the art of complicating a plan with shit they thought of five seconds ago.
“So, we’re gonna bust these dudes. I just need you to play along with the bit, right? Put those illusions or hallucinations or whatever to good use! How much experience do you have with the Onti syndicate, by the way?”
Isfet had already drawn enough attention to himself, he figured. This weirdo had already drawn enough attention to him, really. And if he stayed right here, solitary out on the street with a pocket full of change? Very conspicuous. Very bad news.
Better to be conspicuous next to someone drawing even more attention to themself than to be the solo target. Right?
(Later he’d ‘remember’ that the real best idea was to simply go back to the apartment.)
The bag of shitty onion flavored non-onion rings was discarded behind him as Isfet took off behind War Dog. “Hold up, hold up!” he hissed until he was within muttering distance again. “You know if I was a Reg it’d be better for me to stick by and see what you’re up to, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. That plays into my hand, actually,” War Dog waved the objections away. “Couple things we gotta go over before we hit this mark though, so keep the BCE in reserve for a minute.”
Their pace slowed back to a casual walk as they ducked into an alleyway, navigating a (perhaps needlessly) complex path through the neighborhood. Whether this was to confuse hidden observers, provide a little time to chat, or just kind of fuck around with Isfet was anyone’s guess.
“So, let’s cover our bases. I’m an immortal shapeshifter and I’m just generally amazing at everything. What’re you bringing to the table? Laser vision? Bionic arm? Regulator mindfuck powers?”
Isfet was ready and perfectly willing to let the mostly-stranger go off and do their thing and be done with it.
And then War Dog said that, about being a Reg, and whether thy meant it as a metaphorical jab or not did not matter to him or his shoulders (which raised quickly in defense).
“Huh? I’m not a fuckin’– Reg,” he spat, the last word hushed a bit. “Fuckin’ watch it.”
The bag in his hand crinkled annoyingly.
It wasn’t that War Dog was deliberately manipulating him. Honestly, they were barely capable of that level of subterfuge. What they were capable of, however, was talking relentless shit simply because they thought it was a good bit of fun. And boy, was it.
“Ohhhh, sure,” they smirked, beginning to stalk off in the direction the van had driven away. “You’ve got BCE, my dude. Big Cop Energy. Just don’t handcuff me unless we agree to something beforehand.”
A cackle, and they broke into a jog, calling a final invitation over their shoulder. “You want fun and profit, follow me! You wanna keep sliding the stick further up your ass, uh, have fun I guess!”
Isfet did not jump at the popping of that bag of chips, though one lower lid did twitch just slightly. He was neither relaxing nor planning on sticking with them.
“The narcs worth worrying about are the ones you don’t notice,” he muttered.
For some unfathomable reason, this poor guy was not chilling out. If anything, he seemed to be un-chilling. Melting, even. Like an ice cube, square and unchill.
But that wasn’t War Dog’s problem. Their attention fell away from Isfet’s anxious murmurings and onto a black luxury van that was rolling by a street over. Suddenly, their eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store’s, or a dog’s in one of those cafes that sell expensive dog treats, or just a career criminal spotting an opportunity; they’d been watching this mark for weeks, and tonight they were feeling lucky.
“Whatever dude,” the yawned back to their compatriot. “You wanna score some hot alien imports, you tag along. Or you can keep being a reg about everything. Your call!”
Isfet had a retort on the tip of his tongue when he realized he was being mimicked. His mouth shut tight, and he frowned for a moment to rethink things before trying again.
Now, in a more even and less suspicious tone: “I’m… not supposed to be lingering around places. Not s’posed to even be out and about and I really don’t want anyone kicking my ass over… breaking curfew or whatever you wanna call it.” His shoulders had raised in tension as he spoke.
War Dog popped their bag of chips open and began chomping away as their frazzled companion spoke. This guy really needed a shoulder rub. Or drugs. Or both.
“Ha! I sure do not cotton to no curfew, amigo,” the response came through a mouthful of salty chips. “And even if I did, and even if anyone could kick my ass, I don’t see any narcs around here. Do you? Just stick with me, kid. We’ll be untouchable.”
Isfet looked stunned, and more than a little pissed off, at War Dog’s continued levity. His free hand came up and snatched the whole bag out of their hand. “Knock it off. What the hell do you want? Or you just wanna show off, huh?”
Did they look familiar? Something about… hamburgers??
Oh! The beach party! Greeeaat, a familiar face (even if only slightly). That might actually be worse than a strange one. “I’m trying to keep attention off myself, I’m not ruining that ‘cause you wanna bond over stealing shitty onion rings.” He was half-whispering, but in the way that it was clear he’d rather be yelling.
“Dude, I asked if you wanted one--”
Oh well. The Munyuns were a lost cause. That was okay.
“Hey, you know what’s super not stealthy?” they asked, mimicking Isfet with a stage whisper of their own. “This whole hushed tone thing we’re doing.”
A puerile snort, and they were reaching back into the vending machine, this time fishing out a bag of Flays a day off its expiration. “Bro, I’m telling you, you just gotta fly casual. What’re you so tweaked about anyway?”
Isfet nearly jumped out of his skin. Cop or crook, it didn’t matter, being noticed was rotten luck. Maybe he should have stuck with ATMs after all - at least a stack of hundreds didn’t make such a fucking racket.
Then a hand phased through the machine, and Isfet blinked rapidly, trying to keep up. Okay, so… crook. Alien crook. Maybe it did matter, a little, even if he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad news.
Still a bit stunned, he held out his hand as if to accept their gift of coins, then pulled it right back. “And more conspicuous,” he hissed, glancing nervously to one side and grabbing the (somewhat familiar?) person by the collar of their shirt and pulling them aside, next to the vending machine and at least a little less out-in-the-open. “What’s the big idea here, huh?” he spat accusingly.
‘The big idea’ was perhaps more of a philosophical undertaking than this earthling was ready for, so it was probably being asked in the more colloquial context. He clearly wasn’t happy. Maybe he felt embarrassed that his cool crime had just been one-upped. War Dog really had to remember to stop doing that.
“Conspicuous?” they nearly giggled the word. “Trust me, nobody notices phasing like that. And even if they do, they write it off as their imagination. Plus, I’m a pro. I know how to act natural.”
As if to demonstrate, they reached their arm into the machine again, this time from around the back where they’d been shepherded. A moment later, they were holding a bag of Blazin’ Hot Munyuns between themself and their jumpy acquaintance.
The problem with largely self-imposed lockdowns was that they were remarkably easy to break.
Also easy to break? Vending machines.
Well, not break, exactly. Or even break into. But easy to trick? Yes. Easier than ATMs for sure, and much lower risk for lower rewards. Sometimes you didn’t need $500. Sometimes you just needed $20 and if it came back to you in quarters and dimes, so be it.
(Isfet didn’t actually need $20, but he’d left the apartment without.)
(And yes, he was planning on hitting up at least one ATM before the night was over. This was just warm-ups.)
He actually didn’t have much for plans tonight, save for going food shopping just for the hell of it. Scope out some new blood sources maybe, but mainly just wander the aisles of whatever small-time grocery store or convenience store (or “spa”, wherever that term had come from) caught his eye and maybe pick up some cocoa fluffs and coffee for his trouble.
Isfet was snapped out of his mind’s wandering by the loud clanking of coins in the return slot. Ugh. Pay attention, stupid.
It didn’t matter. He was in a seedy-but-active part of town anyway. The weirdos were out in full force as they always were on Friday nights, and though he didn’t look directly he was certain none of them gave him or his loud change a second glance. Checking was conspicuous anyway, and if someone wanted to mug him for change on a bag of Flays chips, a half-second of looking side-to-side wasn’t going to stop them.
The weirdos were out in force, and War Dog couldn't have been more delighted. Here was (almost) everything they missed about wild space: seedy underbellies, casual lawlessness, and strangers ready to fuck each other up if it came down to it. They could get away with anything here; anyone could get away with anything. That was how it was always supposed to be.
Technically, they were working. You didn't get to be a successful dealer by taking Friday nights off. But you also didn't get the kind of reputation War Dog cultivated by being too diligent, either. And it was starting to feel like break time.
And just in the nick of time, a distraction. War Dog recognized this person! Was it from that party? Maybe. Didn’t matter. But they were pretty sure he was in the know about alien stuff, which presented an opportunity both to relax about all the cloak and dagger shit, and also maybe get on the market with something a little more lucrative than cannabis or magic mushrooms.
“Hey! Cool crime, bud!” they grinned cheerily at the petty thief. Damn, he definitely had a name that was rattling around somewhere up there. They just needed to dig it out of the big butterfly garden in their mind palace where useless information went. Ah, well.
They scanned to make sure there were no immediate eyes on them, before sticking their volphy little fingers through the vending machine and withdrawing their own fistful of change, which they held out to their new friend.
happy Fish friday everybody! i want you all to meet jessica! she is 100%. that. bitch. and i love her. she has siblings whose relative ‘that bitch’ levels i will outline in future posts. for now, bask in jessica’s glory!!!
TRANSCRIPT: Is this thing on? Right, cool. So, hey! Dog of War reporting. The wet rock is just as boring as you’d expect. Thanks for another fun-filled assignment, I guess (I am being sarcastic).
The native population are about a step away from obliterating themselves. You could squish ‘em easy. Not sure why you’d want to, but I’m not gonna pretend to understand why you do shit. If I can make a suggestion, I think there’s more profit here in trading than raiding. We are talking alien refugees like bees on honey (that’s an Earthism—so quaint!), and the Regs are all the way up everyone’s ass. I’ve got theories on why that is, but I’m not convinced by any of the explanations yet.
Point is, people here want shit they can’t get, and we’ve got. I’m gonna start testing the waters. See what tech is in demand. With the anti-Reg sentiment on display here, we could make a killing on arms deals alone. Just do me a favor. If you’re gonna go in guns blazing, try to give me a heads up this time? I want a couple days to evacuate my koi. That is a fish, by the way. I’m into that shit now.
Harper immediately reached out and closed War Dog’s mouth with both hands, sealing the horrid little skull inside. “ARGH. Don’t do that! You look like if the Alien alien was a horse.” They pondered their choices for a second, both hands still clasped around the “horse”’s muzzle, before finally deciding this was simply too cool a thing to pass up.
Manipulating gravity meant that normally clumsy things like clambering onto a horse bare-backed was MUCH easier than usual. They were perched in no time at all, smoothing down War Dog’s fancy fancy mane and patting their neck as if they were a real horse. “This is cool! I’ve never ridden any kinda horse, come to think of it. Uh, do you know how to get to B&B?”
To their credit, when War Dog finally committed to being a horse, they committed 130%. The form they’d taken was a gorgeous chestnut, with a mane that was just a little too luxurious. The fur in general was just a touch on the uncanny side in terms of softness and sheen. They were like a dream horse, with a nightmare dog inside.
“Buddy, I live B&B,” the nightmare dog’s voice came as a muffled echo from within the horse’s closed mouth. “We ride! To work and to breakfast--We fucking ride. Giddyap!”
Did they know the horse wasn’t supposed to be the one to say that? Did they care? Probably not. They were speeding through the streets now.
War Dog’s next communication is a short series of confirmations–yes, her name is Odessa (weird, for a TG to have a name). Yes, she will do as they ask.
The communication goes completely dark. On her side, there’s several days required to store up the energy needed to perform the simple task, and then a daily allotment of time to try and shape the item requested. The prevalence of cloud cover, and a day of rain, make it take longer than either could likely predict.
But, eventually, War Dog gets another confirmation. Task completed.
[Alright, Odessa, this is the BIG FINISH, the pièce de résistance.] The direct translation from Bardic standard here is a little sloppy, but the data that follows is anything but.
[You need to chuck that little implement we’ve been working on with the exact force and angle described. I advise a ‘darts’ throw or using your thumb and forefinger to just flick it. Now, if you run the numbers it’s probably going to sound like a bad idea, but there’s some stuff outside your scanner range that I extrapolated into the building plan. I’ve also extrapolated a structural weakness in the wall to your right. We’re going to blow that sucker a new asshole (safely).]
What should happen, according to War Dog’s figures, is that the arrowhead-like apparatus Odie’s forged will ricochet off the half-full handle of extremely high-proof vodka, abandoned by a previous tourist to this decrepit destination. From there, the projectile is meant to deliver a coup de grâce to a decades old rope hanging over the auditorium stage. The result is a plummeting sandbag meant to destabilize a pallet of spray paint, abandoned by graffitists making a hasty escape. And because graffitists are cool people who don’t care about OSHA regulations, the pallet jack is still winched up.
When it rolls into the wall on Odie’s right, it’s going to knock over and turn on an old boombox that’s been rained on a few too many times. The resultant electrical fire would normally sputter out without issue, but that’s what the spilled 192 proof liquor from before is for. The metric shitload of paint splatter should douse the fire, but the explosion of the cans themselves will spring the timetable forward on the wall’s collapse by a few years. It won’t be instantaneous; they’re not generating nearly enough force for that. But within days or weeks a section of that wall is going to crumble, and then a section of ceiling above it.
But there’s something War Dog’s calculations don’t mention; though Odie would be able to estimate it, depending on her internal functionality: The noise from all this is going to draw attention. Or, in a desolate place like this, maybe it won’t.
[Have I mentioned I’m like so proud of us? Teamwork makes the dream work, baby! Anyway, I’d love to help out more directly, but I’m not even really supposed to be doing this much. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume it’s because you’re saving all the cool new sun juice you’re getting exposed to. Should be enough to, I don’t know, signal boost, maybe? Just make sure you’re flying your SOS under the regs’ radar. War Dog, signing off!]
hello secret extraterrestrial internet! as you may have noticed, @serifsans and i have agreed to do a fight!
it’s the GOD OF WAR vs. the DOG OF WAR. old school vs. new school. some kind of class war angle that i sort of lost the plot of but we can WORKSHOP IT.
if you are a promoter or venue manager and want to get in on this SICK SHIT, the FIGHT OF THE EPOCH , send business inquiries to [email protected], or shoot me a dm here on this lovely site!
all you fight lovers sit tight! time and location TBD but it’s gonna FUCK HARD.
hey everyone, big bummer! it turns out because of NARCS the FIGHT OF THE EPOCH is cancelled.
the lesson learned: don’t post hype for your cool underground fighting thing on aboveground (kinda) social media. you live and learn!
i’m very sorry to all my fans who have been hurt by this news. DOG OF WAR will be back for another feud in no time baby! in the meantime, i wish GOD OF WAR the best in all future endeavors <3
hello secret extraterrestrial internet! as you may have noticed, @serifsans and i have agreed to do a fight!
it’s the GOD OF WAR vs. the DOG OF WAR. old school vs. new school. some kind of class war angle that i sort of lost the plot of but we can WORKSHOP IT.
if you are a promoter or venue manager and want to get in on this SICK SHIT, the FIGHT OF THE EPOCH , send business inquiries to [email protected], or shoot me a dm here on this lovely site!
all you fight lovers sit tight! time and location TBD but it’s gonna FUCK HARD.
