managed to keep the sounds out better, until a paper crane winged its way across her vision, then looped into a half-Immelmann over Eastwood and dive-bombed his face.
Eastwood reached out and caught the crane, which unfolded in his hand and started talking. It spoke in the voice of Lucretia d’Fete, one of the Pearson Underground. She was an Elegant Gothic Lolita Fate Witch, and was in no way a fan of Eastwood’s.
Dear Anthony,
By now you will have had the fortune of enjoying the first phases of my vengeance for your despicable affront and robbery last fall. As revenge is a dish best served cold, I decided to inflict my fury on all those who would associate with you, including that nursemaid Grognard, with his childish clubhouse; your erstwhile upstart apprentice; and, well, whomever else happens to be around.
I thought it most appropriate to turn your little ritual tools against you. Perhaps robbed of your crutches, we will see what you’re truly made of.
I look forward to gazing down on your bloodied broken corpse and reclaiming that which was stolen from me. And then I will leave you out in the street as a message to all in Pearson that to cross Lucretia d’Fete is to invite death and ruin.
With coldest regard,
Lady Lucretia d’Fete
Eastwood let out a string of what Ree assumed was cursing in either Mandarin or Cantonese. Ree suspected he’d repeated one of the longer curses from Firefly —“Holy Mother of God and all her whacky nephews” or “Shove all the planets of the universe up my ass”—Ree had learned some of the translations but not the curses themselves.
Grognard shook his head, cracking his knuckles. “When I get my hands on that snooty, sanctimonious—”
The brewmaster’s rage was cut short by a flurry of motion. Ree ducked back behind the table when she saw it coming, so the arrow that had been heading for her face managed to cut off only a chunk of her hair, making a gash through her cheek along the way.
“Cockwaffle!” she shouted as her hand went to her face. The cut wasn’t deep, but if she hadn’t moved, she would have become the punch line of a Homestar Runner joke.
Ree bent over and grabbed the small medical kit from Grognard’s stash. Drake rolled between tables with his usual efficiency and set his rifle down at her feet.
“Why don’t you let me do that,” he said with a knowing smile.
Ree tried to focus on the fact that it was dumb to do first aid on your own face rather than the fact that it was a chance to have his hands on her face. Yep. Staying good, that’s me.
Eastwood kept up the suppressing fire and Talon slashed at anything that got close enough to grab Ree’s and Drake’s cover. Grognard hadn’t come back behind the cover.
“What the hell is Grognard doing?”
Drake peeked out from behind the table. “He appears to be wrestling a set of floating longbows.”
Ree laughed, then instantly regretted it as moving her cheek opened the cut up even more.
“Please stay still,” Drake said, only a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice.
She wanted to make another snappy comeback, but instead she took a long breath and let Drake apply the butterfly bandage. But will I get a rad scar? Ree wondered. I probably don’t want a rad scar. Unless I can get one on each cheek like Inigo Montoya.
“There. That should suffice until we are able to get out of this morass,” Drake said, taking up his rifle again.
“Thanks.” Ree raised her phaser, and they nodded to each other. Ree looked around the table back into the fray, then took a pot shot at a fat orc that was waddling its way over with an oversized mallet.
The orc took her shot in the belly, and kept coming. Ree adjusted her fire upward, and her blast hit the thing in the head at the same time as Drake’s green blast. The orc went down, and Ree changed targets.
If this was all Lucretia’s doing, then it’d have to be chaos-oriented—her magic was all about fate, luck, destiny, and
Eastwood reached out and caught the crane, which unfolded in his hand and started talking. It spoke in the voice of Lucretia d’Fete, one of the Pearson Underground. She was an Elegant Gothic Lolita Fate Witch, and was in no way a fan of Eastwood’s.
Dear Anthony,
By now you will have had the fortune of enjoying the first phases of my vengeance for your despicable affront and robbery last fall. As revenge is a dish best served cold, I decided to inflict my fury on all those who would associate with you, including that nursemaid Grognard, with his childish clubhouse; your erstwhile upstart apprentice; and, well, whomever else happens to be around.
I thought it most appropriate to turn your little ritual tools against you. Perhaps robbed of your crutches, we will see what you’re truly made of.
I look forward to gazing down on your bloodied broken corpse and reclaiming that which was stolen from me. And then I will leave you out in the street as a message to all in Pearson that to cross Lucretia d’Fete is to invite death and ruin.
With coldest regard,
Lady Lucretia d’Fete
Eastwood let out a string of what Ree assumed was cursing in either Mandarin or Cantonese. Ree suspected he’d repeated one of the longer curses from Firefly —“Holy Mother of God and all her whacky nephews” or “Shove all the planets of the universe up my ass”—Ree had learned some of the translations but not the curses themselves.
Grognard shook his head, cracking his knuckles. “When I get my hands on that snooty, sanctimonious—”
The brewmaster’s rage was cut short by a flurry of motion. Ree ducked back behind the table when she saw it coming, so the arrow that had been heading for her face managed to cut off only a chunk of her hair, making a gash through her cheek along the way.
“Cockwaffle!” she shouted as her hand went to her face. The cut wasn’t deep, but if she hadn’t moved, she would have become the punch line of a Homestar Runner joke.
Ree bent over and grabbed the small medical kit from Grognard’s stash. Drake rolled between tables with his usual efficiency and set his rifle down at her feet.
“Why don’t you let me do that,” he said with a knowing smile.
Ree tried to focus on the fact that it was dumb to do first aid on your own face rather than the fact that it was a chance to have his hands on her face. Yep. Staying good, that’s me.
Eastwood kept up the suppressing fire and Talon slashed at anything that got close enough to grab Ree’s and Drake’s cover. Grognard hadn’t come back behind the cover.
“What the hell is Grognard doing?”
Drake peeked out from behind the table. “He appears to be wrestling a set of floating longbows.”
Ree laughed, then instantly regretted it as moving her cheek opened the cut up even more.
“Please stay still,” Drake said, only a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice.
She wanted to make another snappy comeback, but instead she took a long breath and let Drake apply the butterfly bandage. But will I get a rad scar? Ree wondered. I probably don’t want a rad scar. Unless I can get one on each cheek like Inigo Montoya.
“There. That should suffice until we are able to get out of this morass,” Drake said, taking up his rifle again.
“Thanks.” Ree raised her phaser, and they nodded to each other. Ree looked around the table back into the fray, then took a pot shot at a fat orc that was waddling its way over with an oversized mallet.
The orc took her shot in the belly, and kept coming. Ree adjusted her fire upward, and her blast hit the thing in the head at the same time as Drake’s green blast. The orc went down, and Ree changed targets.
If this was all Lucretia’s doing, then it’d have to be chaos-oriented—her magic was all about fate, luck, destiny, and
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