2.3 The Hobo Prince

As he waited for the chance to strike, Pluie hid behind a group of conveniently-placed sacks.

He got mugged.

Or, well, someone pressed a knife to his neck, but he'd been through this enough times to know what followed. The thief said:

"I don't have any money," interrupted Pluie. "You guys took it all... all of it..."

"What are you doing here?"

That was, arguably, scarier than the knife. Pluie couldn't bring himself to turn around, but he managed, "And w-what are you doing here? Huh?"

"Looking for organs to harvest."

Pluie had faced imminent death enough times to see what was coming. "My organs? But they're not—"

The person behind him sighed; Pluie shut up instantly. He heard, then, "Fine. Twenty zuli will do," and a series of flashbacks took over—the desert, getting literally stepped on by indifferent citizens, the restaurant, the hunger and, most importantly, the hobo.

Pluie's blood boiled. "You—" He began, but then the knife brushed against his Adam's apple; so he shut up again (instantly).

"So? What are you doing here?"

"I—"

"Never mind. I don't care. I'm taking your cape, though."

"My—"

"Cape. Hurry up."

They'd sized his money, and now they'd seize his clothes—what symbolized his status as a city guard, his identity, the meaning of his suffering. What, then, could possibly be next? His body, his dignity? Thankfully, that had already disappeared years ago. Pluie's blood boiled; it froze a second later. He said, "Okay."

"Good. Now take it off."

"I would, but you're..." The hobo removed the knife off Pluie's neck. "Thanks." So Pluie took off his cape. Given his rank, it was the same cream color as the rest of his suit. Off it went, off it went. Behind him, the hobo clutched at a spot on his left arm. Pluie asked, "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Are you sure? I have a first aid kit with me."

"I'm sure. Now give me the cape."

Pluie whipped out his first aid kit. He'd covered it with stickers, for good luck. Opening it, he inquired, "Now, tell me, what's wrong?"

"I just need the fucking cape."

"I know what you need the cape for: you want to cover the wound on your arm, right? I have bandages here. They're sterilized and have kittens on them. Show me."

"No."

"Don't be stubborn. Show me."

He'd stopped fearing for his life around the time he noticed bruise marks on the hobo prince's neck. Also, the silver earrings. They were both Raabi. This guy might have no sense of respect for tribal kinship, but Pluie was different. Besides, now that he took a better look, the hobo prince was thinner than he would've thought. It was obvious he'd been in good shape once upon a time, before his kingdom had fallen, but now he was naught but a street rat. With both of their lives lacking meaning, how could Pluie not sympathize?

What sealed this as the right decision was how, despite clearly being annoyed, the hobo prince slid the hand off his arm, revealing a... tattoo? Well, tattoos kind of counted as wounds. Pluie also had one, but he couldn't show it without being arrested. "That's me," said the hobo prince, "The most bloodthirsty killer in the region."

On anyone else, Pluie might've taken it as a joke, but neither his face nor inflection changed.

"...or so I'd say, but you seem to know it's fake."

"The tattoo? Yeah. But to someone without training, it might seem like the real deal, so it makes sense that you'd try to, um. To cover it." After the fall of the Sand Wraiths, it had been a trend to paint a ghostberry branch on one's upper arm, since that's what their upper echelon members had used to distinguish themselves, but the sheer amount of fake reports had led to such a tattoo getting banned. Getting untattooed hurt, so Pluie could understand those who didn't want to do it. It made perfect sense. He took out a roll of bandages from his first aid kit, then handed them to the hobo prince. "Here. Use these instead of my cape."

The hobo prince did. The kitten bandages looked surreal on him, but he didn't seem to care. "Well," he said. "That makes things easier. See that shop with a broken window? A group of foreigners are holding the shopkeeper hostage, plus two other people."

"A group of foreigners plus two other people are holding the shopkeeper hostage?"

"Yes. No. The..." The hobo prince trailed off. "Just follow me."

***

Two-Rabbit wondered why Mish and Snail's rude guardian they were taking so long.

"Should I go check?" Asked Snail.

Akiha shook his head. "It'll be worse the more the group disperses. Mish said she was good at tracking people, so that's why she went after him..."

Half-beast hearing wasn't as good as that of a beastman, but it certainly bested a human's tiny ears. The three of them sat on a bench below a palm tree. It was a very big bench. Two-Rabbit wanted more falafels. "I thought this was an urgent matter," he said. Akiha and Snail glanced at him, dumbfounded, so he elaborated: "The thing with the evil wizard."

"Ah. Yes." That was Akiha.

"Then, instead of wasting time, we should start purchasing supplies."

"Yes."

But they didn't budge. Two-Rabbit had heard blades clashing a while ago, glass shattering, but he didn't feel like acknowledging such obvious red flags, because it'd mean having to intervene. He was a pacifist. He said, "There's a convenience store down the street. I'll get some portable baths." And more falafels.

As he left, he heard Akiha tell Snail, "So much for the group not dispersing, huh?" Either she didn't reply or she nodded. "While the rest are gone, do you think we should...? Or maybe not. I don't even know anymore."

"Give out letters?"

"Yes. Thank you. Please."

Two-Rabbit also gave pamphlets out upon returning with supplies. Nobody joined. The world was plagued with indifference.

***

As they sneaked behind one conveniently-placed sack after another, Pluie pretended he was one of those monsters that hid under the sand until they found an unsuspecting victim to eat. (Pluie had been an unsuspecting victim a few times.) Their name was... something with sand. Everything here had a name related to it. Sand flies. Sand Wraiths. Sandwiches. "What's your name?" Pluie asked the hobo prince, who wasn't a prince after all, come to think of it.

"Snail."

"That's not true. Snail is the name of your... vassal...?"

The hobo glanced at him from the corners of his eyes. He smiled. It was chilling. The last time Pluie had seen an expression like that was when he'd been ambushed by a group of bandits after their leader asked, 'Any last words?' and Pluie replied, 'You're under arrest' because bandits were illegal. "I knew it," said the hobo. "You're the one who's been following us."

So he really had noticed. The heroes got more and more impressive the more Pluie learned about them.

"Cérise."

"Huh—oh, your name. I'm Pluie. By the way, I'm also..."

"I noticed." Cérise tapped his own earrings before looking ahead. They'd reached the last of the conveniently-placed sacks, and now, across the street, was the shop. They'd sneaked away from it, and then... back? What for? If he asked Pluie might annoy Cérise, so he didn't. Ask. "Now, you'll be the one to distract them."

How? What for? "O-okay."

"Once you see the bomb, don't panic."

"...the WHA—AH!" Cérise shoved him out of the aisle, their hideout, and into the battlefield. Staggering, Pluie reached the shop. This was it. His ultimate test. This was it. If he rescued the girl, he'd be let into the group. For sure. Pluie placed his hand on the door, took a deep breath, and proclaimed, "By the order of the city of—!"

As the door opened, it slapped his face. He collapsed. But he didn't pass out or anything. "Oh, dear!" Exclaimed the person who'd so rudely caused this to happen. "I'm so sor... I'm... Svart? The guards are finally here, but..."

Someone inside yelled, "Finally! Tell them what's going on."

Slowly, Pluie's eyes opened. The person who'd just hit him was a foreigner—one of the bad guys. Female, too. Her hair was as light as her eyes were dark, with a few strands framing her face, having broken off her braid. Below the neck, she hid behind heavy armor. She crouched next to him. "...hello? Can you hear me?"

Pluie's nose bled.

"A-are you dead? Please say something."

But Pluie refused to say anything to these villains.

"Svart? Help?"

With a grunt, the second villain approached. He was also clad in armor, also blond, far, far less amicable. "What the... why is he on the floor?"

"I was just..." The foreigner girl gestured at the door. "He... I just opened the door and..."

"Amazing. Where are the other guards?"

"I don't see anyone else..."

"There's no way they sent one guard for this," grumbled Svart, which meant he hadn't been in the region for long to know how it worked. No wonder he'd mistaken Cérise's tattoo with the real deal. He looked around, to no avail. In a different language, he told the girl to... something... someone... pointed inside, then at Pluie's bleeding nose. Nodding, the girl picked Pluie up. He held back the urge to scream. Svart walked along with them, spewing gibberish again.

A small, round, bag-like structure rolled into the shop. Without thinking, Pluie glanced at it, which caused the villains to turn to it, too, but it was too late then; Svart barely managed an, "Oh shi—" before it exploded.

The villains wheezed. Pluie wheezed. Calmly, with a piece of fabric from his torn cloak covering his nose and mouth, Cérise walked into the shop. A thin, glowing white powder spread through the shop—paralyzing gas. It sure worked on Pluie, but it dazed the villains at best. "Who's..." The foreigner girl trailed off. "There's someone... wait, he's back!"

Cérise sucked his teeth, hastening his pace. He vanished into the mist. When he emerged, moments later, he carried a thrashing Mish over his shoulder.

If Pluie had been able to, he would've screamed. Cérise must've known this somehow, because he paused at the door, for an instant, to glance at Pluie's direction.

Then he left.