Chapter Text
“There’s a new liquidator on the streets.” Scar limps into the room, arm pressed tightly to his side. Crimson turned black with time and the gray skin layered beneath it blossoming violently from the gash pressed between his side and forearm. Drenching the skin, soaking into the flesh. His Hover dangles from one hand, fingers wedged in between the blades, the opposite end scraping against the floor. Scar shuffles a few steps forwards, breath heaving out of his lungs, before letting the Hover drop against the ground with a dull thud. He’s tryna’ hide it but Ekko can tell Scar’s struggling—shoulders drifting from pulled back to hunched as his distracted mind juggles between remembering to straighten his posture and slipping into a daze of forgetfulness.
“Shit Scar—what happened?” The words fumble from his mouth, surprised, as Ekko leaps over a chair, slinging the now-empty arm around his shoulders. It doesn’t do much; he’s still a fair bit shorter than the vastaya—but the thought is good enough. It isn’t like Ekko hasn’t seen Scar scraped up before. But nothing this bad. Not for a very long time.
No one has gotten this big of a drop Scar. An unwelcome trill of dread ripples through Ekko’s spine, suddenly the walls of their fortress seem ramshackle, thinner than a sheet of aluminum. The glaze of fear etching across his chest, squeezing everything tighter and tighter—the pressure buckling down onto his shoulders. The feeling of being a little boy again creeps over Ekko’s heart—alone. All alone in a world of sharp-teeth and glowing-malevolent eyes. A world where, suddenly, nothing was familiar; and he was forced to adapt. To struggle in the name of survival.
Scar glances down at Ekko, catching a corner of his vision filtered through coils of ivory hair. “The new liquidator happened.” He emphasizes the word gruffly, wrenching Ekko’s attention back to the more pressing matter.
“New slayer, huh—for who?” Ekko breathes out carefully, trying to control the anger flickering up in his chest like a bomb ticking in his chest. Another problem: they never can get a break, can they? A never-ending loop of problems; the Enforcers, Silco, Shimmer, dead comrade, Enforcers, Silco, Shimmer, dead comrade—and on and on and on. Just for one moment of peace, that’s all he prays for.
A startled wince huffs from Scar as they stumble forwards another step, lowering him with an agonizing slowness into a ripped armchair. Blood drenches through Ekko’s jacket—sickeningly warm and damp. Whoever did this, Ekko swears by his own flesh, will pay. Scar shifts his weight around on the faded-fabric seat, loosening a jacket slung around his waist and tying it across his stomach. He secures the knot tightly, gasping in pain as the clothing digs into his gash, before fumbling a battered tin flask from his belt.
He finally answers Ekko’s question after a long swig, wincing: “we dunno for sure, but we have reason to believe she’s Silco’s. Supposedly she’s pretty friendly with his inner circle” Shit. “Sevika and them people.” That makes everything that much more threatening. Ekko uses his free hand to brush a loose curl from his face with frustration. This is bad—no, worse than bad. This is rotten luck scraped from the bottom of the barrel. Vicious scum in the form of a killer, ready to pick off more Firelights one by one.
One of Silco’s. Crap. Ekko tries to keep a silver-lining in his mind; some optimistic bullshit about this not being a big deal and all that. But Silco has been gunning for the Firelights for months now—threatened by their presence or somethin’ like that; Ekko’s not sure whether to feel proud or ticked off for getting this much attention from that slime. This new member of Silco’s gang changes the game though; switches up the awkward equilibrium they had formed—that bitter stalemate they had been dancing at.
“She?” Ekko twirls the thought around in his head. Why haven’t they encountered this girl before? Especially if she is supposedly inner-circle. Does he know anyone off the streets that could be working for Silco? Not Rynatha—she’s too greedy, could never rush her way into Silco’s inner circle. Maybe Tasha; but then again I have never seen her close to any of Silco’s gang. He’s so stingy when it comes to loyalties—how would Silco suddenly have a right-hand executioner out of nowhere? Something about the whole ordeal can’t sit right in Ekko’s head. They’re missing something, he can feel it tug at the back of his mind, pulling his brain clear out of his head.
How could Silco keep this wild card so secretive?
Scar’s words snap Ekko back into the present: “Yep. She.” Scar runs his tongue over a pointed tooth, wincing as his chest heaves, more blood sheeting from his wound. “Never—never seen her before either, she’s not a rank-climber. Came outta crappin’ nowhere.” Ekko continues to pace in front of Scar, pausing briefly to hand him a medical kit.
“—here. High-quality stuff. We pilfered it from Zeena’s a while back, remember? You’ll be patched up fine.” Ekko mutters, as Scar accepts the stash reluctantly. Ekko knows how much Scar will resent using up these valuable resources—but without his second-in-command, Ekko doesn’t know how he would run this place. These people.
Ekko continues his tight circle in front of the armchair, hands wedged in his armpits. “Does anyone else know who she is?”
“Jus’ rumors,” Scar’s voice comes out breathy, labored from blood-loss, “nothing substantial. Otherwise: zip.”
“That can’t be right. There’s always someone who knows something.”
Scar grunts reluctantly, sniffing loudly to stop blood from trickling down his nose. “Well if that’s true then those ‘someone’s aren’t talking. Silco or—or somethin’ is convincing them to keep their mouths shut.” Arm, hand and side slicked with blood that has begun to congeal and dry across his grey skin. Scar takes out the stapler, tensing as the cold metal presses up against his skin and clamps it shut with a sharp click. They both stiffen in pain and sympathy. Closing up the last corner of the injury, Scar lets out a pent-up sigh of relief, sinking back into the stiff padding of the armchair.
Ekko turns his mind back to the matter at hand, turning it round and around in his mind like a river stone. Dead end after dead end. Thousands of loose ends as well that make no sense. No way to solve this problem; this mystery that can ruin all the peace and security he has built for his people—a peace that will be shattered if he just continues this war-monger to pick off his Firelights one by one.
He has no options: except one.
“Then there’s only one way to fix this—”
Scar’s head snaps up. He knows this voice. He knows where this is going—he has heard it thousands of times before. “No, Ekko—”
“I need to fight her myself.”
Scar shifts, attempting to stand up before coughing loudly, hacking shudders of his chest that press him right back into the chair. “That’s too dangerous. You could get killed.” Ekko whirls away from Scar, pushing back the lump forming in his throat—raw and uncomfortable. Pressing up against his tongue. “She’s good—she’s quick, and resourceful.” Scar coughs again, grimacing at the sudden motion.
“I’m quick and resourceful.”
“She’s a deadshot.” Guns—why does it have to be guns? Ekko glances down at his bladed staff. Maybe he should begin investing in long-range.
Shrugging off the prickle of unease, Ekko rolls his shoulders forwards, bouncing on the tips of his toes, forcing his body to stream his blood with adrenaline. “I can deal with that.” He can. And he will. Years and years of practice—practice to combat the rifles of the Enforcers. Training with—
“She beat me.” Scar grumbles. There’s a heavy weight to his voice, pride dashed on the ground. Ekko realizes that Scar hasn’t met Ekko’s eyes the whole time, disappointed in himself. But right now Ekko doesn’t care, a roil of anger rolls through him, bright and hot. Prickling with desperation—he can’t let Silco walk over him anymore. He just can’t. If the Firelights want to stay standing in this underground dystopia, they need to fight.
He needs to fight.
“I’m better than you! And I'll be better than her.” Ekko kicks the base of a drawer, steel-toed boot thudding duly with the decrepit wood. She beat Scar— so what? Ekko can beat scar. That’s why he’s in charge, not the vastaya. Ekko glances over, and Scar is finally looking back, eyes charged with acute worry. Frustrating, patronizing worry.
“Look brother, I’ll tell you what I’m not gonna do. I’m not going to sit around and wait for her to finish you off, and then Tomas, and then Byrch,” there’s been too many “ and then—”
“Okay—okay! I get it,” a confused satisfaction stutters at Ekko’s chest, “but I’m coming with you.”
“No. You aren’t.”
Now it’s Scars turn to be angry: “Yes, I will. Otherwise I won’t let you go, we’ll find her once I’m feeling better—but going off alone and play hero? That’s going to get you killed.”
“It’s one girl, Scar.”
“She is a wild card. And she hurt me. ” Scar shakes his head slightly, ears twitching, before standing up slowly. “She’s ruthless, she has no boundaries, no order.” Ekko watches him walk over to a grimy sink shoved into the corner of the room, prying the handles before brown water sputters out of the rusted nozzle.
The water actually looks quite clean today.
A fleck of water splashes onto Ekko’s shoe as Scar tosses some against his side, biting his tongue against the pain. “I will come with you.” There it is: the stubbornness that Ekko simultaneously admires and hates about the vastaya.
Ekko manages a stiff nod: “good to have you around brother.”