The sound of his own bones shattering was not something Edric ever wanted to get used to.
The pain wasn't there, it never was. There was only the slightest sensation of wrongness, as his body looked at things the way they were meant to be and realized that they were not. He looked down at his hand. It had a stumpy look, his knuckles and metacarpals shattered and compressed by the force of the blow he had thrown.
With a sigh, he reached down and forced each back into place. There was a flare of heat as the structures resealed themselves. A few hours of aching at most and they would be good as new.
The same would not be said of the man who had earned his ire. The big mans face—it simply wasn't. The crater of the multiple impacts was more akin to a pile of shattered meat, so deep he couldn't tell if the bone he saw was from the front or the back of the skull. Edric shook his head and looked at his cuffs. The shirt was certainly ruined, which was something of a waste. One man with more muscle than sense and he would need to hurry home to change before the gala. With its fate sealed, he saw no issue wiping the spatter off his face with his other sleeve. Fortunately the jacket had been protected by the back of the chair it was hanging from. He had far fewer of those to spare. He walked back to the bar where he had been sitting, picked up the glass he had been nursing for the better part of thirty minutes and drained the amber liquid in one go. He picked up the jacket carefully with his cleaned hand and with a casual stride walked out.
The other patrons made such a point of not looking at him that they might as well have been staring. They were smarter than the corpse had been. Where his kind was concerned, it was always best to see nothing and remember less. The dead man had made that mistake, thought that a little liquor and an oversized bulk made him important. It hadn't been much of a fight—the man hadn't been alive long enough to know that he had grabbed the wrong shoulder trying to reach the bar. He hadn't been alone—but those who had been with him hadn't wanted to stick around and answer questions about why they associated with someone who would touch an Enforcer. Edric thought he saw a weeping woman off in the corner, look on the edge between grief and horror. Girlfriend, fiancee, wife—he didn't care enough to look for a ring and she wasn't quite pretty enough to be acquired for special interrogation.
Edric stepped into the street. It smelled of rain on the air, but whatever liquid had fallen, it was stopped far above by the monolithic structures that dominated the sky. It was all artificial weather this far down. Most days the actual sun could only be seen for a minute or two at most. You needed money to live up high enough to feel actual rain, not just to smell the damp of it. He knew that from experience.
The street was crowded, but he walked like a man alone. Sure enough, a wave of wary glances, staggering steps and sudden desire to be just about anywhere else left him a nice clear bubble. Even the keepers of stalls he passed too closely backed up, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they had polished metal counters and the full weight of the stall between him and them. Not that it would have mattered. From the stories he heard on the streets, most of them believed Enforcers—mechanically and biologically enhanced muscle in the service of the Twelve families—could walk through walls, leap higher than any car could fly and survive decapitation. All nonsense of course—but the more who believed it, the fewer that wanted to test the stories. As it was, incredible strength, self healing capabilities and a blanket immunity from the law were usually enough to get the work done.
His walk to the lift—which of course, emptied quickly—was uneventful. There weren't many lifts directly from the upper city to the lower and middle levels, but the ones that did exist were fast. Multiple kilometers in under a minute and he was stepping out, heading towards his home.
It was modest by choice, rather than by poverty. The families—however many there were, they were so inbred at this point that the lines were dubious—for all their flaws, knew that the keys to controlling a city were in making sure that your iron fist was kept happy enough that they didn't seek a better arrangement. Considering that was what had brought the last leaders from powers to puppets, it was a lesson well learned. They paid a small fortune and were repaid when they needed some arms broken to acquire that fortune. Symbiotic. The natural order of things.
He threw the jacket on a plain metal chair and ripped off the ruined shirt and as an afterthought, the trousers throwing both into the shaft for incineration before walking towards the shower, a towering figure of lean corded muscle. It was a brief stay, taking only half a minute for it to target and blast away blood and brain matter alike, as well as to dry him. Another suit had already been selected and he pulled it on. He checked the watch—heavy, gold and older than he was—and was shocked to learn that he wasn't actually late.
He got another drink—one of his own this time, far smoother than a run down bar could provide and was out the door. He would be returning late and so spent the brief drive ensuring that a meal and a girl would be waiting for him. A willing one this time, he wasn't sure he was in the mood to ruin another set of sheets.
He walked into the gala and quickly found a different girl on his arm. Female enforcers were rarer than men and the few there were were harder than iron and tougher than old leather. Yet oddly neither when one managed to get an arm around them. At least if they wanted it there.
"Almost late." She noted. "Something happen along the way?"
He shrugged and pulled her in tighter against him.
"Nothing important. Needed to grab a new shirt."
The pain wasn't there, it never was. There was only the slightest sensation of wrongness, as his body looked at things the way they were meant to be and realized that they were not. He looked down at his hand. It had a stumpy look, his knuckles and metacarpals shattered and compressed by the force of the blow he had thrown.
With a sigh, he reached down and forced each back into place. There was a flare of heat as the structures resealed themselves. A few hours of aching at most and they would be good as new.
The same would not be said of the man who had earned his ire. The big mans face—it simply wasn't. The crater of the multiple impacts was more akin to a pile of shattered meat, so deep he couldn't tell if the bone he saw was from the front or the back of the skull. Edric shook his head and looked at his cuffs. The shirt was certainly ruined, which was something of a waste. One man with more muscle than sense and he would need to hurry home to change before the gala. With its fate sealed, he saw no issue wiping the spatter off his face with his other sleeve. Fortunately the jacket had been protected by the back of the chair it was hanging from. He had far fewer of those to spare. He walked back to the bar where he had been sitting, picked up the glass he had been nursing for the better part of thirty minutes and drained the amber liquid in one go. He picked up the jacket carefully with his cleaned hand and with a casual stride walked out.
The other patrons made such a point of not looking at him that they might as well have been staring. They were smarter than the corpse had been. Where his kind was concerned, it was always best to see nothing and remember less. The dead man had made that mistake, thought that a little liquor and an oversized bulk made him important. It hadn't been much of a fight—the man hadn't been alive long enough to know that he had grabbed the wrong shoulder trying to reach the bar. He hadn't been alone—but those who had been with him hadn't wanted to stick around and answer questions about why they associated with someone who would touch an Enforcer. Edric thought he saw a weeping woman off in the corner, look on the edge between grief and horror. Girlfriend, fiancee, wife—he didn't care enough to look for a ring and she wasn't quite pretty enough to be acquired for special interrogation.
Edric stepped into the street. It smelled of rain on the air, but whatever liquid had fallen, it was stopped far above by the monolithic structures that dominated the sky. It was all artificial weather this far down. Most days the actual sun could only be seen for a minute or two at most. You needed money to live up high enough to feel actual rain, not just to smell the damp of it. He knew that from experience.
The street was crowded, but he walked like a man alone. Sure enough, a wave of wary glances, staggering steps and sudden desire to be just about anywhere else left him a nice clear bubble. Even the keepers of stalls he passed too closely backed up, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they had polished metal counters and the full weight of the stall between him and them. Not that it would have mattered. From the stories he heard on the streets, most of them believed Enforcers—mechanically and biologically enhanced muscle in the service of the Twelve families—could walk through walls, leap higher than any car could fly and survive decapitation. All nonsense of course—but the more who believed it, the fewer that wanted to test the stories. As it was, incredible strength, self healing capabilities and a blanket immunity from the law were usually enough to get the work done.
His walk to the lift—which of course, emptied quickly—was uneventful. There weren't many lifts directly from the upper city to the lower and middle levels, but the ones that did exist were fast. Multiple kilometers in under a minute and he was stepping out, heading towards his home.
It was modest by choice, rather than by poverty. The families—however many there were, they were so inbred at this point that the lines were dubious—for all their flaws, knew that the keys to controlling a city were in making sure that your iron fist was kept happy enough that they didn't seek a better arrangement. Considering that was what had brought the last leaders from powers to puppets, it was a lesson well learned. They paid a small fortune and were repaid when they needed some arms broken to acquire that fortune. Symbiotic. The natural order of things.
He threw the jacket on a plain metal chair and ripped off the ruined shirt and as an afterthought, the trousers throwing both into the shaft for incineration before walking towards the shower, a towering figure of lean corded muscle. It was a brief stay, taking only half a minute for it to target and blast away blood and brain matter alike, as well as to dry him. Another suit had already been selected and he pulled it on. He checked the watch—heavy, gold and older than he was—and was shocked to learn that he wasn't actually late.
He got another drink—one of his own this time, far smoother than a run down bar could provide and was out the door. He would be returning late and so spent the brief drive ensuring that a meal and a girl would be waiting for him. A willing one this time, he wasn't sure he was in the mood to ruin another set of sheets.
He walked into the gala and quickly found a different girl on his arm. Female enforcers were rarer than men and the few there were were harder than iron and tougher than old leather. Yet oddly neither when one managed to get an arm around them. At least if they wanted it there.
"Almost late." She noted. "Something happen along the way?"
He shrugged and pulled her in tighter against him.
"Nothing important. Needed to grab a new shirt."