Filth and grime stuck to Abraham's perspiration as though glued, but he paid little heed. He'd been filthy for months. What was a little more dirt? He buried his front into the steel garbage can. It tipped, and he fell with it. The restaurant's waste spilled over his head. He coughed and scrambled out, spitting and throwing the juices and maggots off.

Quales was a large enough town that food scraps were allowed to waste, which was a stroke of luck that Abraham was grateful for, though the state of the scraps was not agreeable. Alas, he took whatever he could get to keep himself going. His eyes were on the prize.

He almost cried at the very thought of silk sheets and fresh fruit and clean showers. The life of a street scavenger was not for him.

He tossed a partially eaten apple, dressed in white mold that stood like hairs, to his unnamed horse. The equine was breathing heavily. He devoured the apple and nudged his cruel rider for more. Abraham, though he had trouble with getting the horse to work with him, had driven the beast to ride for the whole night for the second time in a row. Neither of them had slept for days. The horse's eyes watered. His ears twitched.

Abraham delved back into the trash can and found a spoiled carrot. A logo imprinted on its leaves gave away its artificial properties. The horse chowed down. His rider pulled out a handful more of treats, then searched in a second can to feed himself.

Still starving, but too queasy to carry on after mouthfuls of mold and rot, Abraham eventually pulled his satchel over his shoulder, dryly gagged, and stumbled out of the alley. He led the horse with him by a rope that he had managed to salvage in his digging. The horse resisted at first, but tiredly gave in at Abraham's pleading, and they wearily followed his map's direction on wobbling legs.

He stopped to vomit not long after. He searched over the map, then angrily balled it up and threw it against a wall. Lost and aggravated and losing hope, he despondently retrieved it and tucked it away for later.

"This way," he mumbled, and pulled his horse onwards.

His purpose gradually depleted, and he began to question his own determination and hazy goal. His feet dragged at length into an open square and he recalled his bearings. The technology vendor, marked on the map, was near. Did it matter?

He drew out the map once again to determine his location, and pointed to the side street where the vendor's shop resided. His finger lowered upon the sight of a black horse tied at the street's corner, equipped with green and gold saddle and reins.

"No..." he whispered. He weakly giggled. His eyes wet and he staggered nearer. He stroked the mare's sleek hide and fingered the Shir family emblem engraved into its tack. The horse shifted and shook its head, snorting threats. Abraham's stallion, finicky, pulled to get away. Abraham fell back, clutching his horse's rope lead, and his steed fearfully dragged him away from the mare. Abraham held on, twinkling eyes quivering over the familiar messenger steed. His run-down mixed-breed stopped at the other side of the side street. Abraham weakly pushed himself up and leaned against the wall. He peered around the corner and squealed, then pressed his knuckles to his lips.

The black mare's rider ambled from a shop, with eyes on the purchase in his hands. He dressed in the distinctive uniform of an officer, two promotions higher than Abraham's former captain position in the glorified loyalty system of the eternals—the Shir's faithfully employed. A tailored army-style jacket in forest green, adorned with four polished badges, hung open around a gold-trimmed pale lime waistcoat. Golden buttons would be added to the jacket at the next rank; colonel. It wasn't the civil clothing that delighted the former guard so, however, but the face of the messenger.

Abraham hid behind his horse and peeked wondrously over at Officer Derrick Walsh, who had formerly attended the same school and class. They had never been friends, but at the very least they were familiar, always next to each other on the roll and in seating arrangements. Derrick, as the athlete between the pair, had been offered employment in the Shir ranks two years earlier than Abraham, who had earned his placement via a mathematics competition on the year of his high school graduation. They had always lived separate lives, but one thing that Abraham knew of the young man was that he enjoyed writing, and ever since the third grade had boasted the goal to—and this is what truly cheered Abraham—purchase a device for recording spoken notes. He pressed his hands together and wept gratefully to the sky.

The messenger mounted his mare, and Abraham tumbled over himself in a rush to reach the store that Walsh had appeared from. The technology store. He stumbled inside.

"EY," the shopkeeper barked from behind a desk. He swatted a cloud of smoke from his green-ended cigarette. A mechanical eye whirred, held to his skull by a strap of leather and steel. "Stop there, twig. I ain't seein' coin on you. If ya ain't buying, ya ain't browsin'. Scram."

Abraham froze at the doorway. He opened his mouth.

The shopkeeper's false eye opened wide and fully exposed the red light at its center. Abraham gawked at the red spot focused on his chest, trembling. "Touch your pistol and you'll be dead before you can beg forgiveness. Turn around, boy."

"Th-That man.. th-that just left. What did he buy?" Abraham pleaded, holding his hands up to sign peace.

"None o' yer damn business."

"Was it a recording device?"

"I said that ain't yer damn business. Are you deaf?"

Abraham was too hopeful to believe that it may not have been. He wheezed with pleasure. "Do you know where I would find him?"

The shopkeeper abruptly stood. "Leave, boy! I ain't his keeper!"

Abraham staggered back. "All right! I'm going!" He scampered to his horse and scrabbled onto its back. He kicked its side. "Push on, boy. Push on."

Prints in the dirt, distinctly from the messenger mare, left a convenient trail to follow. A Shir emblem was imprinted with every step.

The former captain urged his steed to pick up the pace. The horse neighed, shook his head, and leisurely trotted on. They came across the decorated black mare tied outside of a tired old building, muzzle buried in a trough. Abraham fumbled to tie up his mount and anxiously peered through the grimy window of the inn. The trademark green coat stood out against the din.

Abraham hauled open the door and scampered inside, trampling dirt onto the red doormat at the entry. Patrons covered their noses with repulsion at the smell he carried, but the man was too focused to notice. He slid into a chair across from Derrick.

The officer raised his eyes, and recoiled in disgust, in the middle of having a drink.

"Derrick, I—" Abraham began.

The eternal's eyes bulged and he spewed. Abraham gagged at a face-full of spit and booze.

"Walters?" Derrick burst. He slammed down his glass. "You're supposed to be dead!"

Abraham lifted his gaudy tie to bitterly dry his cheeks and eyes. "Yes. Listen, Derrick, I—"

"You look dead, you smell dead," the officer continued, baffled. He queasily eyed his lunch, still steaming. "I hope you aren't still carrying that repulsive plague."

"I need your help, Derrick! I—"

"O-ooh." Derrick clicked his tongue. He pushed his plate to the edge of the table. "I don't owe you any favors."

Abraham's heart clenched at the plate hitting the floor. It shattered, and peas, spinach, carrots, and a roasted drumstick scattered over the floor. His stomach churned and he dropped to his knees to reclaim the drumstick. His old classmate's judgemental eyes seared his back. The twig of a man returned to his seat, shuddering at the waste on the floor. "I haven't had meat or vegetables for months, you privileged piece of shit," he snapped. "Don't look at me like that. I need you to tell me what you just purchased at the tech store."

Derrick's eyes narrowed. "Nothing. I didn't make any purchases. How are you still alive?"

Abraham chomped on the chicken and its satisfying juices dribbled down his chin. He choked down a bite that was too large. It struggled down his throat. He pounded on his chest and swallowed. "Liar. Did you buy that voice recorder that you've been saving for since the third grade? Don't lie."

"What's it to you?" He raised his drink.

"Because I have no choice, I am letting you in on the opportunity of a lifetime. Do you hear? I need that technology to provide me with proof. You can have an equal share of the reward. We'll do it together."

"Reward?" Derrick asked. He squinted. "Proof? What are you suggesting? You're too vague, Abe."

"We'll turn in Drew Hughes."

Derrick spat his drink, again, over his company. "What?"

Abraham grimaced, and every muscle tensed. Inwardly, he screamed. It came out as a wheeze through his clenched jaw. He picked up the end of his tie to dry himself. Drumstick in hand, he held out his left forearm. "He cured me and—" Abraham sourly frowned and prodded Derrick's glass away before the man could take another sip. "And he is now on his way to the city with the intent to overthrow Lord Pallis. Hell, he may already be there."

The officer leaned back in his chair with a gasp, then leaned forward again. He rubbed the ugly 'X' scar seared into the former captain's arm. "I heard a rumor that he was alive last year, passed on from the woman that worked my route before me. A twenty-odd-year-old rumor, though. She, that is, my predecessor, overheard it long ago from a conversation between some Englishman and one Evelyn Marsh, whom I keep eyes on as a part of my charge. Mrs. Marsh was the last person that he saved, so they say, before he was exiled. She lives in Northwood. If he's on his way back to the city, maybe he'll pay her a visit."

"He left West Haven seven... No, eight days ago. With a caravan, so he wasn't traveling fast. Regardless, he'll be nearing the city now. We can't wait. We have to go presently."

"I've never heard of West Haven."

"It's in the middle of nowhere, off a side road. Never mind that." Abraham tore off another mouthful of meat. He gulped it down. "If we can find Hughes and plant your recording device on him, then get him to talk about himself... we'll have a chance at proof."

"This tech cost me five hundred dollars, Abe. Since my last promotion, I've been doing well, but not well enough that I want to part with—"

"The rewards, Derrick! Think of the rewards! Five hundred dollars is a trifle in comparison. Risk the device, and chance riches beyond the limitations of 'need'. You'll have everything that you could ever want. Think of it."

The eternal's eyes longingly drifted to the ceiling, and he licked his lips. Abraham extended his right hand and wiggled his fingers enticingly.

"Come now. The real American dream."

"What do I need you for?" Derrick pondered, searching his distasteful company. "I have the device, and the access to the city. What do you have?"

Abraham scowled. "I can recognize the man. His posters depict him at eighteen. He's nearing sixty. Hardly recognizable."

Derrick sneered. He took a hold of Abraham's filthy hand. "Very well. We can reach Northwood by six at a gallop. I have a package to pick up before we head to Ban-Ken."

"Excellent."

"But," Damien finished his drink, "you're having a bath, first."

"Even better."

***

Northwood was a charcoal mining town, covered in a thick blanket of black. At first glimpse, Alyn took a liking. It had a one-of-a-kind contrast that delighted her. The people dressed in bright and beautiful clothing, dyed and unique and vibrant, and burst against their desaturated backdrop. Despite the coal-dusted cobblestones, and dark, dank shadows cast by the looming cement structures, unmistakable light radiated from the settlement. It had an off-kilter charm. Out of the ordinary, but enticing for that reason.

The apprentice and her master spent the day on the outskirts, where Alyn practiced more of her drills. Hughes was oddly absent in her training. He didn't watch, he didn't growl or put her down. And, for a length of time, which Alyn used fully as a break, he disappeared into town on his own. On his return, the apprentice immediately pretended that she hadn't noticed his leaving and picked up her drills where she had left off. He stood a distance from her and mumbled to Patriot. He spoiled the stallion with fresh carrots and apples until the horse could eat no more. Hughes bit into an apple and squinted distractedly back to the buildings. He peered at his fob watch.

The only times that he acknowledged Alyn was when she took breaks. He barked at her to get back to the drills, and lost interest as soon as she did.

An hour before dark, he kicked her legs out from under her, and she gracelessly toppled. Her swords clunked in the dirt. Panting, she glared up at the master. She dried her dripping brow with her shirtsleeve.

"You're slow," Hughes growled. "You're clumsy, your left arm is faster than your right, and you are unbalanced. Your footwork looks like poor improvisation, and your sword movement is too mechanical." Hughes snatched a fistful of her shirt and yanked her up. She had discarded her jacket and scarf in the caravan. "You don't know how to walk in boots, and anyone could see it. I wouldn't trust you to fight by my side, and I only see you as dead weight. Furthermore, you smell repulsive and I wouldn't be surprised if you had parasites. Get your things and you will clean yourself, and your clothing, in the horse trough."

Alyn scowled and grabbed her swords. "Anything else?"

"No," Hughes snapped. "You have no potential for anything."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "You know, I was so worried that there may have been something wrong with you. Quiet all afternoon, distracted and jumpy all day... But, no. No, I see you're fine. Harsh as usual. Good golly."

His lip curled. His eyes flicked briefly to the town, and he turned back towards the caravan. The horse trough was set out beside it in plain view, where it could easily be seen from the bare road and the blackened buildings of Northwood.

Alyn frowned and followed him, arms loaded. "Master Hughes, you don't really mean that you wouldn't trust me, right?"

He exhaled sharply through his nose as some sort of half-asked response. A puff of smoke escaped into the air.

"Nah, you don't mean it," Alyn dismissed. She grinned and dumped her blades into the caravan. "We're pals!"

"We are not pals," Hughes growled.

Alyn chuckled. "Yeah, we are. Best pals, you and I."

"Clean yourself."

The girl peered at the horse trough. Patriot lapped at the water. Alyn made a face. "But, Master Hughes... that water's got horse slobber in it and... and it's in plain sight where anyone could see me if they was lookin'."

Hughes made an expression halfway between irritation and exasperation. He pulled the detachable canvas flap off the back of the caravan and thrust it into her arms. "Make do."

"Fine," she spat, and sourly trudged to the trough.

"Come over here, Patriot," Hughes called. The horse flapped his lips, spraying his watery drool. Alyn received a thick splattering on her face. Patriot whinnied, a sound that Alyn took as the equivalent of a human snicker, and pranced to his master. He earned a hearty mane-scratching.

Alyn glowered at Master Hughes and scraped the slobber from her face.

The corner of his lips twitched, as if he were to smile. He did not.

Alyn pressed her back against the trough and dug her heels into the dirt. With determination, she pushed with all her might and laboriously shifted the it up against the caravan's side. She flung the canvas over the trough and the caravan to make a cramped sort of tent.

"Wash your clothes, too, you revolting little animal," Hughes commanded.

"But, then everything I have'll be wet!"

"You don't need to worry about that."

"What, yous gonna build a fire?"

"Just hurry up, girl!" the blacksmith barked. He batted smoke away from his ears and stalked off, dragging Patriot with him.

A pair of horses tore past on the road, and he shouted at the riders and shook his fists.

Alyn grumbled and disappeared into the canvas tent. She kicked off her boots, unbuckled her belts, and stripped down to bare skin and fur. She carefully set her braces outside of the tent, as far as she could reach to place them without exposing herself, then knocked off her hat and sunk beneath the water.

By the time she had finished washing herself and her clothing, inefficiently, the water had turned a murky brown. She covered her drooping ears with her sopping hat and reluctantly dragged her soaked shirt over her head. It clung to her. She couldn't bear to pull on anything else. Instead, she pulled down her makeshift tent and held the canvas cover protectively around herself. She scooped up her clothes and cheerlessly trudged to the back of the wagon to drop them.

Master Hughes eyed her over a book.

"You didn't make a fire, I see," Alyn coldly remarked. She blinked away hot tears and fiercely glared. The dampness was miserable.

"No." Hughes closed his book and put it down. He stood and stepped off the caravan. "Too slow. I want to go into town."

"Well, how else do you plan on drying me?" Alyn cried, accusing. He'd soaked her just to make her suffer, she was certain of it.

"Ah..." He plucked off his fingerless gloves and laid a palm on her shoulder. He looked down on her, and she, sniffling, looked away. "Just don't take this the wrong way. I am making use of my nanotechnology. Nothing more." He peeled the canvas off of her and pulled her into him. One of his hands found the small of her back and splayed over her scrawny shoulder blades. The other hand slipped beneath her hat and combed through her tight, frizzing curls.

Up close, he was surprisingly soft. He smelled clean, and felt clean, which was more than unusual. But, above all, he was warm. So very warm.

"Aw, gee..." Alyn breathed, almost instantly relaxed his his arms. "Yous sure are good at givin' hugs, sir."

Hughes, knelt to her height, rested his whiskery chin on her head and released a long sigh. Excess smoke poured from his lips.

"Boy, oh, boy... You can hug me as long as you want, sir."

The warmth that radiated from him increased temperature. She cried out as his hands burned her, before the heat diminished again to a comfortable level.

"M-Master Hughes! Golly! Th-That hurt!"

"Just shut up, stupid girl." He felt her hair. "Is your fur dry?"

Alyn paused to think on it. The warmth all around her made her feel perfectly at ease and effectively dried. She focused on where her legs were and decided. "Yes, sir. But, you don't have to stop because of it."

He immediately released her. He rose and dusted himself off. He massaged his throat, blew another stream of smoke, and threw the canvas flap back over her.

Alyn wrapped the canvas around her furry waist and pointed to her effects. "Those are still wet."

The blacksmith sighed and scooped the pile of clothes into his arms. He waited.

"Is that what yous went into town for, earlier today? A wash-house? You're all clean. But, properly. Not horse trough bath clean."

"Hmph."

"Why? And why did I get stuck with the th—"

"Oh, imagine that," Hughes sneered. "A faun showing up at a wash-house a mere handful of miles from Ban-Ken. That would work out well for everyone involved, wouldn't it?"

Alyn frowned and glared crossly at the horizon to her right. "All right, don't rub my nose in it. Why are you suddenly cleaning up?"

"Because it was about time." His expression was too guarded. He dropped Alyn's things onto the back of the caravan and snatched up his gloves. "You wouldn't know, but it feels good to be clean. Now, cover up those legs. We're going into town. Dump out your filthy bathwater, shove the trough away, and put the canvas back where it belongs. Step to."

"Yes, sir," Alyn mumbled. She eyed him suspiciously when he turned his back. He was keeping something. It may have been something small, but that only made it bruise more. He really can't trust me, she thought, and it hurt. She sniffed and obediently turned to follow his orders.

Not long after, Hughes tugged on Patriot's reins outside of a colorful, and closed, flower shop. The caravan stilled, and the blacksmith swept onto the grungy cobblestones to glance around the area. Next to the florist, there was an inn. Firelight streamed from its windows, and a gas lamp stood outside to light the night for those partial to cigarettes and stale Kentucky air. It wasn't often that one found establishments that segregated smokers, but Hughes appreciated them, far averse to the idea of the invasive tobacco and nicotine entering his lungs. A man in a neat green jacket, adorned with four badges, stared at him over a smoke. A second man sat, trembling, beside him, face hidden behind a newspaper.

Hughes, bristling under his cool and calculating eyes, pulled a rude finger in the green-clad man's direction. The man looked away and muttered to his company. The blacksmith stalked to the back of the caravan and pulled aside the canvas flap. "Out."

Alyn clambered out.

Hughes pointed to the inn. "We are going there."

"For food? Or... for drink..."

Hughes' brow lowered. "Both. It is an inn. I will be buying a room and staying the night."

"Don't leave me again, sir," she groaned. "I can't have you coming back even stranger tomorrow morn'."

"What... What is that supposed to mean?" He shook his head and combed his fingers through his already groomed hair. "Never mind. Come. You'll be staying with me."

Alyn spread her arms and whined. "What is going on, sir?"

He blinked. "Going on?"

"You didn't clean up and rush into town for nothin', sir. I ain't as thick as you seem to think I am. It's insulting, sir. Insulting. You've been distracted all day, jumpy, quiet, and just plain strange. Now you've combed yer hair, ironed yer coat, and brushed yer teeth." She raised an accusing finger. "And don't say yeu didn't. I can smell it on yer breath."

He opened his mouth, but did not respond. The girl narrowed her eyes and puzzled it over.

"Are you meeting someone?" she asked. "Is that it? Better be someone real special what with yous not havin' the gumption—no, the decency—to tell me. Yer secrets are drivin' me mad, sir. I ain't thick. I know when you're keepin' things."

Master Hughes clenched his jaw. He ruffled his hair. "It isn't combed," he grumbled, and walked off.

"Master Hughes!" Alyn howled, aggravated. She threw her fists to her sides.

He waved a goodnight to his horse, and carried on into the inn. Alyn muttered under her breath and dragged a hand down her face. She closed the canvas flap and scurried after the blacksmith. She caught the saloon style doors before they battered her face and pushed through at his heels.

"Thank God I don't have epilepsy," Hughes muttered, eyes narrowed at the vibrancy of the place. "I'd be in fits."

Alyn, filled with wonder, forgot her quarrel with him to marvel at the positive atmosphere. Soft red carpet spread over the wood floor, and the walls were painted a rare modest purple. Paintings enriched the decor, and carvings bordered the two fireplaces on either side of the large room. The patrons dressed in bright colors, colors as beautiful as the garments themselves. They were as gaunt and malnourished as the people everywhere else, but they were happy and at ease, and their cheer brought the already lively environment to another level. Charcoal stained their skin, but the hues of what they wore, if anything, complimented the imperfections.

Alyn clambered onto a bar stool next to Hughes. "I like this place."

"Hm." He swept his glum coffee stains around, searching for something or someone. He looked back to the bar, disappointed, and waved over the bartender. Alyn frowned at him.

"What, your special someone not here?"

He glanced at her sternly and drew a single golden gear from his coat.

Alyn drew out her silver. "I'll pay if you tell me who you're waiting for."

Hughes set his gear on the bar and pushed hers away. "No, stupid girl. You may use that to buy something that you want. I pay for what you need." He raised his eyes to the bartender. "Has your menu changed in the last thirty or forty-odd years?"

The bartender, a young lady in a pastel blue blouse and royal blue waistcoat, eyed the gold piece. "I've not been working here for that long, sir, and couldn't say for sure. But, I don't think that anything has changed, 'cept the fish. No supply of fish gets this far inland anymore."

"Aha. Then, I'll have a Caesar salad and hot buffalo wings, with a half-pint of bourbon whiskey—" he pointed to a bottle on a shelf, "that one—and a room upstairs for a single night."

"That's a hundred proof bottle, sir," she remarked, taken mildly aback. She covered her mouth. "Sorry, sir. I'll bring everything out for you. Ah, but we can't have a minor at the bar." She looked to Alyn.

Hughes waved a hand. "She stays, and you keep the change."

The bartender hesitated, and eventually nodded. His order would have amounted to around one silver, which meant that there was around one silver change that she could keep for herself. A silver gear amounted to nearly her entire month's salary. She dropped the golden gear into a simple cash box and slipped out a silver for herself. "Just a moment, sir."

While the bartender sorted Hughes' order, Alyn took interest in the dance floor. She marveled at the figures that gracefully twirled over the manufactured wood, beneath a ring of candles on a bronze chandelier. It was a patch on the floor where there was no carpet, and the sound of heels on the floor blended rhythmically with the beats from the small orchestral band. A classical song ended, and a high-strung piece followed. Alyn's ears twitched beneath her cap, involuntarily trying to perk. She pressed her hands over her hat and fixated on the swinging musicians.

In West Haven, she had never had the privilege of experiencing music. Drunken singing from the settlement's makeshift tavern and the out-of-tune hollering of orphans singing folk tunes were the closest she'd had. Reggie Pip had a broken harmonica, once, too.

She found herself lost in the music, hypnotized by its trills and timbre, and fascinated by the few dancers and skillful motion of the musicians. Hughes was quietly baffled by her lack of experience, but cared little to name the instruments, and eventually, she ceased to ask questions on the matter. She observed silently, while Hughes—equally silent—pondered over his drink, relieved to have her distracted. They waited for their meals, oblivious to the outside eyes that stalked their backs with hunger. The Eternals drew their weapon.