Chapter 48 - Last Fantasy on the Lot

Roulette didn’t know much about airships, but she was learning fast.

“‘The Defiant’ is our largest semi-rigid model, featuring excellent helium efficiency for its size,” the salesperson explained, indicating the handsome vessel behind him with a grand wave. “Its twin propellers are powerful enough to–”

“Do you have anythin’ smaller?” she cut in. “Say, with a metal body and a propeller at the top instead of a balloon?”

The man chuckled to himself. “Madame, I assure you that such a thing is impossible. Metal is quite heavy, you see. A vessel like that would never be able to leave the ground.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “What would you say if I told you I rode in somethin’ like that?”

“Then I would say you are lying,” he said, his tone dismissive. “I know that young ladies are prone to flights of fancy, but our engineers are more concerned with reality than fantasy. Science is a harsh and demanding mistress, and our aeronautic designs must obey her to the letter.”

“I see,” she replied. “Well, how much is it?”

“Five platslugs.”

The girl slapped her forehead in disbelief. “Five? That’s more’n I’ve ever seen in my life!”

“You cannot overcharge for true quality,” he declared. “‘The Defiant’ is our flagship product, priced appropriately for its intended customers: kings, nobles, business magnates… It does not surprise me to hear that it is out of your price range.”

“Well, why are you showin’ it to me then?” she huffed. Even if they did end up winning the big tournament, two hundred goldslugs only amounted to two platslugs in total–well short of “The Defiant”’s exorbitant price.

“We all must find ways to entertain ourselves, hmm?” he said cheerily, walking off in the direction of the next airship with his hands clasped behind his back.

She was in the middle of clenching and unclenching her fists when Morgan approached, having no doubt heard their exchange from the next lot over.

“Seems like a real piece of work.”

“He doesn’t think we can afford a single one of these,” she fumed. “He thinks we’re just window shoppers.”

“Well, in his defense, we are,” he reminded her. “We’ve been flat broke for ages now.”

Roulette knew all that, of course, but it still stung to hear it. “How’re the pants fittin’?” she joked, figuring that a round of razzing the flamboyantly-dressed older man might make her feel better.

“Pretty good, actually,” he said, shifting his legs back and forth as he looked over the state of his thighs. “You’d never know they were tailored with a lady in mind. Jacket’s a little tight, though.”

The girl was genuinely glad to hear it. She may have approached the act of dressing him up with no small measure of glee, but she wasn’t a monster; she still wanted him to be comfortable, which is why she hadn’t forced any cosmetics on him despite Mimi and Beretta’s insistence on the matter. In exchange, though, he’d had to allow them to leave a pattern of undyed stars trailing up the back of his head just above the nape of his neck. To her mind, the white stars adrift in a sea of pink hair looked cute as all hell.

His pants were no less so. Tight at the waist and wide at the ankles, their fuschia-and-lime-green plaid patterning added a lot of visual interest to his getup. The jacket was a little snug, though; high-cut by design to expose the midsection, it was fashioned from pink-hued leather with white accents. Mimi had said it was her old bowling jacket, as evidenced by the logo on the back: a sniper rifle knocking aside a bunch of pins, with her team name–”The Guttersnipers”–emblazoned across the top in emerald green.

The white shirt he wore beneath was also cut a little too high for his frame, exposing a fair bit of his lean belly, and a pair of matte white shoes brought the whole ensemble together. Like the pants, the shoes fit him well–better than Diallo’s, at least. Roulette found that surprising and had said as much, but Mimi was quick to silence her; apparently, when it came to Mimi, any insinuation that her feet were comparable in size to a man’s was completely off the table.

Roulette sighed, looking after the airshipyard’s only representative. “Suppose we’d better check out the last airship on offer just to be thorough.”

Morgan nodded and whistled for Marka, Mimi and Beretta, who were still loitering around the first vessel they’d looked at. Mimi looked up from pointing out something on the hull, having probably been in the midst of explaining the function of some boondoggle or another to her overly indulgent audience.

“And here we are at the final stop of our little tour,” the salesman exclaimed as they all drifted within earshot. “This is ‘The Skywind’, our budget model. Though it lacks the size, sophistication, and robust safety features of our other offerings, it is a surprisingly sturdy and reliable craft.”

The girl looked up at the airship with a bemused grin on her face. It was perfect. Small and plucky, just like her, with a tough-looking hull hewn of solid (but unassuming) wood. No birch or mahogany here; just practicality, craftsmanship, and a minimalistic paint job. It even looked a little scuffed and weathered, as if it had seen more than its fair share of voyages already.

“As you can see, our last remaining Skywind is a little well-loved,” he admitted. “For this reason, it is subject to a special promotion: fifty goldslugs off, lowering the grand total to the very reasonable and affordable price of… Two platslugs!”

The price was right, and Roulette found herself sorely tempted to agree to the purchase then and there. But, of course, the needed funds were still forthcoming; for the moment, she was forced to confirm the man’s suspicions about her and her ragtag group.

“Do you mind if me and my associates take a few hours to think about it?” she inquired.

“But of course,” he agreed, looking altogether too pleased with himself. “Take all the time you need. I doubt this thing is going anyw– I-I mean, do not take too terribly long. You never know when some enterprising tycoon will come around to add this… Magnificent craft to his fleet!”

She smiled thinly and turned her back on him, making her way toward the city gates with a spring in her step. The girl was thrilled to have found something so fine in their price range; all that remained was to win a tournament, and she couldn’t wait to get started.

Fortunately, the arena was nearly right inside the southern gate. As they made their way there, Morgan saw fit to ask a very pertinent question:

“So, why’s it only me who has to dress up, anyhow?” he asked. “I got arrested for conspiracy to assassinate the Czar, but it wasn’t even my idea. It was yours.”

“That’s just it, Morgan–apart from our circle, I haven’t told a soul about that. Nobody, least of all Turu’s men, should know a thing about our plans,” she said. “But, think about it: folks have been comin’ after you since back in Port Pistola. That stranger from the villa and the guy whose flyin’ machine you stole both wanted you, not me, even though I’m the one who roped you into all this.”

The man’s pink-hued brows knitted in concern. “That’s true… Must be somethin’ to do with my past.”

“I’m sure of it,” she agreed. “For some reason you’re toppin’ everyone’s list, and the army seems to think you’re after their boss when all you’ve done so far is take a trip to Sebastopol. So you’re the one who’s got to go incognito… And that pure white hair wasn’t doin’ you any favors.”

“Why’d you have to go and leave those stars in my hair undyed, then?” he sulked.

The girl shrugged.

“Looked cute.”

                                                                           —

Several minutes later, they stood before a long stone reception desk nestled in a nook between the twin entrances of Sebastopol’s great gray colosseum. The bored-looking attendant behind it was looking them over appraisingly.

“Name and ability?” the man finally asked, his droopy-lidded eyes landing on Morgan.

“Morgan,” he answered. “Gun’s named Ricochet. My bullets bounce.”

“Good for you,” the clerk replied. “Nice costume, by the way. The people love a gaudy-looking heel. Next?”

“Roulette. My gun is Lady Luck. It, uh… Fires bullets. Not very strong bullets.”

The desk jockey glanced at her over his spectacles. “Are you sure you want to enter, then? It can get pretty dangerous.”

The girl nodded emphatically. “It’ll be fine. I’m resourceful.”

“Whatever you say,” he intoned. “Next?”

“Marka,” said the big man. “I wield Voidthrower and Lifebringer. One erases matter, one brings it back.”

“Hmm. Radius?”

“...Pardon?”

“What is the radius of the matter-erasing gun, approximately?”

“Oh. Uhm… Five or six feet, perhaps?” Marka estimated.

The clerk shook his head. “Too big. You will wreck the arena. Unfortunately, you may not participate.”

Marka looked to his companions and shrugged helplessly. “Very well. I was the last one eligible,” he said. “The blonde girl is not a Gunslinger, and my daughter’s ability is not suited to combat.”

The clerk pursed his lips, looking between them and his records. “Two challengers? It is not much, but it is enough to build a bracket,” he decided. “Especially in light of our longstanding drought of major exhibitions.”

He paused to jot something down. “Congratulations,” he said at length, furnishing them with a surprisingly ominous smile. “You two are now officially contenders in Sebastopol’s Gunslinger Games.”