“And Wellson,” said Director Hawke, “yer heroics were appreciated on th’ way out o’ Stormwind. Just be … careful. Yer on yer own.” She extended her hand.
“Ain’ nothin’ keepin’ me from get’in’ back, if’fn tha’s wot ya mean,” said the Operative, taking the proferred hand. They shook on it. “Two weeks, I’ll do me par’ in Elwynn, fer me bruv’s Estate, and the surroundin’s. Nuffin’ stupit,” she agreed, letting go. She dipped her head respectfully.
She was worried when she entered the shop. Exotic leathers and pelts still graced the shelves; empty drying racks lined the upstairs. She heard a rustling in the back and drew her sidearm — the same sidearm, she’d been told by Elunara, once wielded by her brother’s best friend, Justine, for over thirty years. She would keep Myz’s in her slingpack, just in case. She brushed the curtain to the back room aside. The rustling stopped. Silence. She knocked thrice on the wall — noise seemed to attract them, these Scourge.
“Show yourself!” a familiar voice shouted. It was a terse command, one she also recognized from before.
“Et’s me… Joci!” she replied, unclipping her SI:7 — Unit 8 badge from her belt, sliding it toward the voice. She did the same with her new sidearm.
Hoss, the cobbler she’d met just before everything went to shit, was still alive. He was filthy, like he hadn’t been able to bathe for weeks. He placed his Dwarven shotgun on the ground.
“You… you made it?” he asked.
“Wouldn’ be standin’ ‘ere if’in I din’t, yea?”
The man, who had lost several pounds since last they met, rushed over and gave her a tight hug. “S-sorry, I just…”
Joci smiled as she was embraced by the man. “Aye. I ge’ et. Bein’ ‘lone durin’ all this?” She pat his back. “‘ere. I go’ somethin’ ta set ya a-right.”
Hoss let go and looked the woman up and down. “You got it, di—“
Joci presented the man with the soft-sole shoe design from Mister Yellah himself.
She shook her head. “Long gone. Bones. An ol’, forgot’en camp. Took a couple days searchin’, bu’,” she chuckled. “I go’ low, stay out’a sight…” She paused, picking up her items. “‘e go’ a propah burial, ‘e did.”
“How can I … this was the last of his… what can I do?”
“Well ya kin make th’ shoes fer one,” she said, cracking a smile. “Ya wanna walk ‘ome? Let ya ge’ clean?”
The towering man looked down at the diminutive brawler, flabbergasted. “If you can take on the dead and live?” he chuckled. “Give me a sec. I’ll lock up.”
Joci beamed. She felt like she had done something right, not just through fighting, but by using her brain. She entered the back of the shop. It was fetid. He had hid amongst his own filth and the rotting remains of the Scourge to remain alive. She picked up the bodies and emptied his slop bucket into the sewer; the sound of the undead still skulking about explained why he hadn’t himself. She slid the heavy oak lid across it and weighed it with a few cinder blocks from behind which he’d been hiding. She entered from the back room.
“You didn’t have to,” said Hoss, mortified.
“I know,” she replied, softly. “Ya ready?”
The man nodded. And with that, the two entered a City transformed by carnage, war, death, fire.
“Where?” she asked, watching a raven pick at a bloated body in the Canal.
“We’ll be there befir ya know et,” she said. She’d protect him just as she’d done for the Director and the young one, Nicole. Oh, she thought. Nikki. Gotta ‘member. Nikki.
“Where’ve ya been?” asked Kat.
“Yeah,” added Thea, drily. “Thought you died. Shame.”
Kat shot her a look. Joci did, too:
“‘elpin ou’, jus’ like I sai’.”
“Duskwind Patrol said they saw someone matchin’ yer description,” said Kat.
“I be five foo’ an’ one inch. Mebbe 105 poun’s. Plen’y o’ starvin’ people righ’ now…” she replied, thoughts drifting to Hoss, how he had changed. “Kingdom ain’ gonna ‘elp so, looks like I be a pop’lar person ta be now, don’ et??”
Thea crossed her arms indignantly. “You think you know so much, you little bit—”
“Thea!” shouted Kat so loud the rest of the Unit could hear. “Out. Now.”
The salty bureaucrat spun on her heel and stormed out. She slammed the door. Kat drummed her nails on the desk. “I’m going to ask you one time. Where were you.”
“Finding a dead man. Deadwind Pass.”
Kat rubbed her brow. “Jocelyn, I—”
“Direc’or,” she said the word popping out as it had before. She kicked herself for it. “I know a man. He can be o’ ‘elp ta us… isn’t tha’ wot we need? People we don’t pay bu’ barter wit’? I ‘eard ya talkin’ ‘bou’ et. Back in camp. I ownt a business —”
“A brothel,” she corrected Joci.
“Fine. I was a fuckin’ cum dumpstah pimp whore. Wha’eva.”
Kat rolled her eyes. “Yer point?”
“Ya cannae ‘spect goo’ things wit’ou’ get’in’ yer fists bloody.”
“You don’t think I don’t know that?” Kat’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t think I don’t look for wealthy patrons every fucking day?”
“These ain’ th’ wealthy. These be th’ people ‘ho need jobs! ‘ho lost everythin’! Fuck th’ rich! They wan’ fer nothin’! Ya donnae see me asking me bruv’s estate for ‘andouts, do ya? Ya wanna protec’ Stormwind? Donnae le’ et become anothah Moonbeam, yanno… like Wes’fall!”
Kat perked an eyebrow. “Moonbrook.”
“So ya remembah et’s name. Ya wanna medal?”
“Wot’s got you so fired up, anyway?” asked Kat, more interested than annoyed. She’d seen a fiery streak in Jocelyn before, knew about her insubordination within the ranks of the Proudmoore Admiralty… “Is this wot ya do? Ya get too close to people?” The Director scoffed. “Seven hells, Wellson. Ya can’t save everyone!”
Jocelyn set her jaw. She reached for her badge and drew Myz’s 9mm sidearm from her slingpack. She set them on the desk. “I be out.”
The fine lines around Kat’s eyes twitched. “Take a minute, cool down…” she said.
“Nah. I ain’ ‘eartless. Quinn, Nicole … er, Nikki … they be th’ only ones lef’ wit’ a warm ‘eart. Wit’ a conscience.”
“Ya think I don’t have a conscience? Ya think I’m heartless?”
“I fink,” said Jocelyn, “Ya los’ touch wit’ life when ya was gone. Ya ain’ th’ woman I met in th’ Park.”
“You’ve no idea wot yer talkin’ about, Wellson.”
The two stared at each other for a long time. The badge and Myz’s 9mm sat between them. The clock ticked as clocks do, marking endless hopes and lives slipping away. Finally Jocelyn spoke:
“I know ya play fav’rites. I know ya lef’ Tris ta die.” She cleared her throat: “Over’eard tha’ lil’ gem in camp.”
Kat’s self-confidence faltered for the briefest of moments.
Joci continued. “I know we make mistakes, yea? Lords I know… ya came ta me a’ me lowes’, when I was nothin’ bu’ guttertrash. Abandont. No way home. Death waitin’ there anyway. Couldn’t read a’tall. Me bruv… watched ‘im die…” She inhaled deeply. She sat in the chair Thea had been using. She exhaled. “I met an ol’ man, back befir th’ Scourge attack. A leatherworkah. A mastah leatherworkah. Defent ‘is shop from th’ Scourge, ‘e did. Walkt ‘im ‘ome today. He be smar’, an’ ‘e be goo’. Bettah, he be cheapah than th’ Crown, askin’ only fer materials.”
“Really?” Kat drummed her fingers on her desk, suppressing a cynical laugh. “That’s it? Yer willing ta forsake yer job fer one man? A cobbler?”
“If’fn I cannae ‘elp people, why di’ ya bring me in?”
Kat looked over Joci’s face. The scar just across her nose. The braid in her hair. Lines of sorrow and years of seldom joy etched like the broken sky. Kat slid the gun and badge across the desk. “This.”
“I swear ta fuck yer unbreakable. Ya got a heart. Don’t know how, after everything ya went through, but ya do…,” she said, trailing off. “Ya do. Come on then.” Director Hawke stood, gesturing for Jocelyn to do the same. “Take me to the shops ya know, that have crafted for ya. Let’s at least see wot’s left.”
“Aye aye, Director,” said Operative Wellson, tucking Myz’s 9mm into her sling pack. She clipped the badge to the backside of her belt. “Aye aye.”
(( @kat-hawke @tristanasneak @myzariel @nikkithorpe @quinn-varden // @justinegrotius @brian-wellson ))
