Cracker chuckled.
Straining to see, Zyra thought she caught a glimpse of red drapes, wood-panelled elegance and glass display cabinets, before the door slammed shut behind him.
‘Seems ya gots more learnin’ to do, yet,’ said Tark in his best menacing voice.
Zyra's hands moved like lightning, producing and throwing three stars in quick succession. With equal speed, the Cracker raised his right arm. The stars froze in mid-air, a centimetre from the back of his hand.
With his other hand, the Cracker pointed to a watch-like device strapped to his wrist.
‘Magnetic field.’
With a flick of his wrist, the stars were flung aside.
‘Toys,’ Zyra said.
‘Yeah, well,’ said Tark, stamping his feet and looking down at his boots. They still had splatters of green sludge on them. ‘I coulds just kick the crap outa ’im.’
The Cracker's eyes fell on Tark.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said slowly, tongue darting across his lips. ‘Aren't we the pretty-pretty boy.’
‘Wot?’ said Tark, glancing at Zyra, who rolled her eyes upwards.
‘You must be Zyra's pretty-pretty boy,’ continued the Cracker, eyes examining Tark from top to toe. ‘My, my, my. A thief for hire. The thoughts of potential coinage verily doth gives me the dizzies.’
‘Wot?’ snapped Tark, louder now, glaring at the Cracker. ‘Wot's ya on about?’
‘You, my pretty-pretty,’ explained the Cracker. ‘There is peoples who'd pay handsomely for a thiever the likes of you.’ He then shifted his attention to Zyra. ‘Of course, the two of you. Together. Now that's would be some serious coinage.’ He stroked the back of his hand across his burnt cheek. ‘Says the word, and I woulds be willing to forgets past grudges.’
The muscles in Tark's face twitched. ‘We works for no one!’
‘Sods off!’ snarled Zyra.
‘Haves it your way.’ The Cracker shrugged and reached into his coat. He pulled out a glove made of shiny black fabric, inlaid with silvery wires. It crackled and sparked with energy as the Cracker pulled it onto his right hand.
‘Nots more toys,’ grumbled Zyra. ‘Where, in the name of the Designers, does ya gets ’em all.’
‘Froms me employer, o’ course,’ said the Cracker. ‘And he wants you out of the way.’
‘Ya has an employer?’ asked Zyra.
‘’Course I does,’ said the Cracker flexing his gloved hand. ‘I freelance as well. But alls the big jobs is for the Fat Man.’
Zyra's eyes narrowed. ‘Ya works for that tub o’ lard?’ she spat.
‘Now, now, now, my pretty-pretty,’ said the Cracker. ‘Name callings will gets you nowhere.’
‘I can help you,’ called a voice from the whiteness.
Princeling Galbrath dashed out from behind a door.
‘Why woulds ya wanna ’elp us?’ asked Tark, surprised.
‘I have no intention of helping you,’ snarled the princeling. ‘I meant that I could help this fine gentleman, who is in the employ of my potential benefactor.’
‘Wot?’ asked Tark and Zyra together.
The Cracker also raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘The sword o’ light,’ explained the princeling. ‘The Fat Man is my buyer. I was on my way to sell it to him when you,’ he pointed an accusing finger at Tark, ‘stole it.’
‘Shoulds ’ave used a star when ya hads the chance,’ said Tark to Zyra.
‘I believes I have the matter in hand,’ said the Cracker to the princeling, lifting his gloved hand and cracking his fingers, one by one.
Tark drew the sword o’ light. ‘It mays have lost its shine,’ he said, threateningly. ‘But it's still a sword. And I knows how to use it.’
The Cracker suddenly clenched his fist and thrust it forward. A bolt of white-hot energy discharged from the glove and blasted the sword from Tark's hand. Tark yelped and clutched his hand, which tingled and stung as if it had just been set upon by a swarm of bees.
‘Watch it, you moron,’ yelped the princeling. ‘That sword is worth more money than you'll ever see in your pathetic
Straining to see, Zyra thought she caught a glimpse of red drapes, wood-panelled elegance and glass display cabinets, before the door slammed shut behind him.
‘Seems ya gots more learnin’ to do, yet,’ said Tark in his best menacing voice.
Zyra's hands moved like lightning, producing and throwing three stars in quick succession. With equal speed, the Cracker raised his right arm. The stars froze in mid-air, a centimetre from the back of his hand.
With his other hand, the Cracker pointed to a watch-like device strapped to his wrist.
‘Magnetic field.’
With a flick of his wrist, the stars were flung aside.
‘Toys,’ Zyra said.
‘Yeah, well,’ said Tark, stamping his feet and looking down at his boots. They still had splatters of green sludge on them. ‘I coulds just kick the crap outa ’im.’
The Cracker's eyes fell on Tark.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said slowly, tongue darting across his lips. ‘Aren't we the pretty-pretty boy.’
‘Wot?’ said Tark, glancing at Zyra, who rolled her eyes upwards.
‘You must be Zyra's pretty-pretty boy,’ continued the Cracker, eyes examining Tark from top to toe. ‘My, my, my. A thief for hire. The thoughts of potential coinage verily doth gives me the dizzies.’
‘Wot?’ snapped Tark, louder now, glaring at the Cracker. ‘Wot's ya on about?’
‘You, my pretty-pretty,’ explained the Cracker. ‘There is peoples who'd pay handsomely for a thiever the likes of you.’ He then shifted his attention to Zyra. ‘Of course, the two of you. Together. Now that's would be some serious coinage.’ He stroked the back of his hand across his burnt cheek. ‘Says the word, and I woulds be willing to forgets past grudges.’
The muscles in Tark's face twitched. ‘We works for no one!’
‘Sods off!’ snarled Zyra.
‘Haves it your way.’ The Cracker shrugged and reached into his coat. He pulled out a glove made of shiny black fabric, inlaid with silvery wires. It crackled and sparked with energy as the Cracker pulled it onto his right hand.
‘Nots more toys,’ grumbled Zyra. ‘Where, in the name of the Designers, does ya gets ’em all.’
‘Froms me employer, o’ course,’ said the Cracker. ‘And he wants you out of the way.’
‘Ya has an employer?’ asked Zyra.
‘’Course I does,’ said the Cracker flexing his gloved hand. ‘I freelance as well. But alls the big jobs is for the Fat Man.’
Zyra's eyes narrowed. ‘Ya works for that tub o’ lard?’ she spat.
‘Now, now, now, my pretty-pretty,’ said the Cracker. ‘Name callings will gets you nowhere.’
‘I can help you,’ called a voice from the whiteness.
Princeling Galbrath dashed out from behind a door.
‘Why woulds ya wanna ’elp us?’ asked Tark, surprised.
‘I have no intention of helping you,’ snarled the princeling. ‘I meant that I could help this fine gentleman, who is in the employ of my potential benefactor.’
‘Wot?’ asked Tark and Zyra together.
The Cracker also raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘The sword o’ light,’ explained the princeling. ‘The Fat Man is my buyer. I was on my way to sell it to him when you,’ he pointed an accusing finger at Tark, ‘stole it.’
‘Shoulds ’ave used a star when ya hads the chance,’ said Tark to Zyra.
‘I believes I have the matter in hand,’ said the Cracker to the princeling, lifting his gloved hand and cracking his fingers, one by one.
Tark drew the sword o’ light. ‘It mays have lost its shine,’ he said, threateningly. ‘But it's still a sword. And I knows how to use it.’
The Cracker suddenly clenched his fist and thrust it forward. A bolt of white-hot energy discharged from the glove and blasted the sword from Tark's hand. Tark yelped and clutched his hand, which tingled and stung as if it had just been set upon by a swarm of bees.
‘Watch it, you moron,’ yelped the princeling. ‘That sword is worth more money than you'll ever see in your pathetic
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