Creatures of night and fog

[Conor]

The day had grown late and the sun had slowly slid behind the horizon, Wayward City slowly slipping from the illumination of daylight into the semi-gloom of its own neon glow. The sun had painted colourful stripes on the wall of Conor's workshop and once it had dissapeared and the cold air had started to sneak up the gnoll's leather jacket, he had gotten up and lowered the shutters and gates, seemingly closing up for the day. He slid under the vehicle he was working on again, and continued for a few more hours until finally all hydraulic lines had been re-fastened, the floor littered with three broken motivators.

Only then, finally, had he slid back out from under the car, reaching for a towel to wipe himself down. There was a small apartment above the workshop that nominally was part of it, but he had never slept there, the only thing he had ever used was the shower to clean himself fairly frequently. This was a luxury that did not exist in the desert.

He stepped up to his car, reaching for the tarpaulin and pulling it back so he could open the driver's door, swing himself into the worn out vinyl seat, and started groping around on the passenger seat for a half-eaten sandwich.

Time for dinner, after a long hard day of work.

His brown eyes slid over the two vehicles in his workshop and he shrugged. The money he'd make from those would definitly pay the bills.

[Moonhunter]

It had been three weeks since Moonhunter had taken his truck in for repairs, but then the mechanic had discovered a large crack in one of the drive shafts and the whole assembly needed to be fabricated from scratch and reassembled. The old wolf fully believed the damage had been there before and not inflicted by the mechanic to drive up repair costs--though the thought had crossed his mind. Moonhunter was admittedly hard on his vehicle. But then, it was built to put up with a lot of punishment. It wasn't just his home--it was his method of pursuing fugitives.

He rounded the corner, coming into view of the shop, only to notice a pair of orcs walking inside. Something felt off about that. He hadn't seen a vehicle large enough for orcs the last time he had swung by for an update. And something about the way they had looked around before stepping inside triggered Moonhunter's internal alarm. Rather than walk in himself, he slipped into the alley, creeping up to the back of the shop, so that he could eavesdrop.

[Conor]

A moment of inattentiveness had been enough. He’d gone back out into the back room, and when he had returned, the workshop was crowded with the shape of two large orcs.

The side door, it shot through his head, he had left the side door unlocked.

He was standing inbetween the two cars, the orcs inbetween him and the exit, both of them giving him a smile. They easily dwarfed him by a head, and he was already tall. Muscular, their arms rippling with strength he could not hope to match.

This was a problem.

He scowled at them “Can I help you?” he asked, his voice slightly hoarse and tinged with tension, tension that was creeping up his back. He looked at the exit like a caged animal. Of course, he could just spin around and try to make it to the rear courtyard’s wall, but they’d be upon him in a flash.

One of the orcs smirked, and took a step towards him.

“You’re pretty new here” he growled.

Conor shrugged “Got my permit two months ago. Everything’s legit. Paid my taxes and all that” He took a step to the side, towards one of the lifts. Along the stanchion of the machinery he had hidden his shotgun.

The orc that had stayed behind suddenly swept back his jacket and exposed a very large pistol, a gun of sorts. Conor stayed where he was, looking from one to the other.

“We don’t want your permit” the orc growled. “The big boss wants to make sure you know that for your protection…” he smirked, his massive forehead distorting “You gotta give us half your profits”

So this was where this was going. Conor had feared something like that when he had first seen these two figures. They smelled of violence, subtly, and dominance. Lawmen left a different taste in the air. These people ruled, not because it was given to them, but because they took it.

Conor shrugged. “I’ll give you five percent” he scowled “And that’s it.”

The orc’s eyes flashed and he took a step towards Conor, stepping inbetween him and his compatriot, and thus shielding the gnoll from the orc’s gun.

Conor leapt backwards, his deft hand quickly reaching into the car lift’s stanchion to draw the shotgun, but the lead orc was upon him in an instant. He felt the air being knocked out of him, the shotgun going off with a deafening rapport. The orc howled, and both he and Conor went down.

The other one had drawn his gun and was shouting at his comrade to get back, who was now wrestling with the gnoll for control over the gun.

It was a short fight. Conor felt his grip on the wooden stock slide and then his head was grabbed and bashed against the ground. He saw stars and tasted blood, going down on his belly, trying to roll sideways, but the orc was quicker. He had raised his boot and brought the heavy tread down hard on the gnoll’s hand. Conor howled in agony, pain exploding in his fingers as they cracked and broke.

The orc stepped back, watching the gnoll curl up in pain on the floor, his tail quivering, cradling his broken paw in his arms.

Blood was running down the side of the orc’s head from a damaged ear, an ear that was now most certainly deaf and ringing. “You stupid idiot!” he yelled at Conor and then reached for the shotgun and, with a large, audible crack, broke it in two over his knee and tossed it down at the gnoll.

“Next time you better pay up” he growled threateningly. “Or we’ll step on something much more painful.”

[Moonhunter]

Moonhunter had seen gnolls fight before. While most orcs just barreled though combat relying on brute force--and the two who walked in didn't look like they had the brains for any other strategy--most gnolls fought with a berserker fury and a fight like that could go either way. Moonhunter, despite his compulsions to fight on the side of angels, saw no reason to intervene unless it was necessary. He stood at the door listening until the first gunshot went off. Moonhunter pulled out a knife and made short work of the locked doorknob with it, slipping inside as the chaos inside grew louder. He dared not use his own firearms, not with flammable chemicals all over the garage. Both sides were fools to risk it themselves.

He emerged into the garage, both orcs' backs turned to him. They were too focused on the mechanic, lying there bleeding but alive. Soundlessly, Moonhunter slipped a monkey wrench the size of his forearm off the wall, and slithered up behind them. Moonhunter kicked the armed gnoll in the back of the knee, his heavy boot crunching into the bone. The mobster collapsed backwards, his head falling into Moonhunter's upswing with the wrench and altering the trajectory of his fall into a face-planting arc he would never get up from. Ever.

The second orc spinned, but Moonhunter was already winding up for him. The monkey wrench collided with the second orc's jaw, sending one of his tusks flying across the room. That was intentional. Moonhunter didn't kill the orc, but he had emasculated him. It would have been less cruel to castrate him, really. The orc bellowed, but now Moonhunter drew on of its guns and aimed it downwards at the orc's head just as he started to get up, blood gushing from his mouth and hate beaming from his dark eyes.

"No sudden moves," he growled. "You're gonna get up slowly, and you're gonna go crawling back to your boss, Mr. Underbite, at 1919 Inferno Street, and tell him that this garage and its owner are under the personal protection of Moonhunter. If anything happens to him or this business, I won't stop and find out who did it. I'll hold Underbite personally responsible and take off more than just his tusks. Capisce?" Even though the old stereotype of Italian mafias was long forgotten, Moonhunter still brought his index and forefinger to his thumb and did the little gesture.

[Conor]

The orc did not waste much time, and, with his eyes blazing with pain, anger and humiliation, he barged past Moonhunter and left the building, the damaged door crashing shut behind him, leaving Conor alone with the wolf-man and the blazing pain in his paw.
Lights flashing before his eyes, he pulled himself upright, leaning agianst the car, cradling his broken fingers in his paw. Almost mechanically, he started checking them. Index and middle fingers were clearly broken, but all other ones seemed just to be heavily bruised, with blood dripping from cuts and bruises along his hand.
Only then did he look back up at Moonhunter, shrugging, quietly bowing his head
"Thank you" he whispered almost inaudibly, his eyes flying from the dead mobster to the broken remains of his shotgun back to Moonhunter.

[Moonhunter]

As soon as the mobster was out the door, Moonhunter eyed the gnoll for any mortal wounds. He stooped down as Conor sat up and upholstered one of his guns. "Don't freak out," he said as he reconfigured its shape and turned on--a flashlight. He shined the light into both of Conor's eyes, checking the dilation. "No concussion. Stay here."

He stood up and spun around, marching towards the phone on the wall. Moonhunter was used to taking matters into his own hands, but he was also no fool. He called the cops. Inept at best and corrupt at worst, but Moonhunter had to keep things above-board when civilians were involved. He rapidly explained that he had an injured person as well as a dead body, and asked for an experienced officer. Moonhunter might not have given his name right away to Conor, but all the experienced officers on the force knew him--or at least, knew of him. A rookie might not, and Moonhunter was in no mood to... explain matters. He didn't have a formal arrangement with the police. But they understood that he made their job easier... well, as long as they were doing the job themselves.

He hung up the phone and returned to the body, rifling through the corpse until he found a wallet, and pulled out the cash. "Consider this a down payment for the cost of a healer," he said, offering Conor the money. Magic might be an unreliable science in this world, but some talented folks could harness what little there was to be had for simple things like healing spells. It didn't come cheap, though. "I'm going to go have a 'talk' with Mr. Underbite, and get you the rest." He and the mobs had an... understanding as well.

[Conor]

"There's no need" Conor said, biting his lips while he reached for his hand. With a strangled yelp he yanked the bones back straight, and then, opening the door of the car with one slow, painful swing, he reached inside the door card for a suprisingly clean bandage and started wrapping it around his broken fingers. "It's all..." he trailed off, the pain in his fingers blocking out any attempt to speak until he was done fixing them, silently he located painkiller pills and swallowed three before picking himself up and moving over to Moonhunter, his fingers throbbing. "It's really nice of you to come by and help" he said simply "I'm in your debt." he waved towards the truck "I'll repair it for free, you don't have to pay."

The gnoll eyed the money Moonhunter held out to him, before looking down at the dead orc, and reaching for it, pushing it into his leather jacket's pocket.
"You don't have to inconvenience yourself for my sake" he said quietly, raising his mangled and now bandaged paw "This isn't the first time this has happened, and after a few weeks it heals up just fine by itself."

He shrugged at the dead orc "So.. I guess we wait for the cops, right?"

[Moonhunter]

He stopped and watched Conor bandage his own fingers. But that wouldn't be enough and they both knew it. The man's whole livelihood depended on the functionality of his hands. A healer wouldn't just be the fastest way to get back to work, it would be the only way to be sure he could get back to work. The gnoll was trying to be brave, but Moonhunter knew it was pride, not realism, talking.

Moonhunter at this point was spoiling for a fight. Mafias... annoyed him. Killing one mobster and emasculating another wasn't enough. He knew he couldn't simply eliminate their leadership. That would just create power vacuums, which would lead to open warfare in the streets, ultimately doing more harm than good. As much as he hated to admit it, mob bosses kept things relatively orderly. So, he made sure the bosses around here shared an... understanding. Whenever a new one rose to power, he made a point to visit them and remind them of the rules. No collateral damage. No slave trafficking. No bothering any businesses that Moonhunter chose to personally patronize. And definitely no harming children. That last one made Moonhunter very, very angry. The last time Moonhunter had found children in cages, that mob boss had found his remains split up and left in the bedrooms of all his rivals, as a reminder.

"I insist," he said. "I'll make him understand if you lose business from your injuries and wind up going under, I'm going to have to make good on my threat. And he won't want that. And I will pay you. I don't expect special treatment."

[Conor]

He shrugged for a moment, clearly considering his options, his powerful jaw slightly moving, before his dark eyes turned back to Moonhunter. "I've never been at a healer" he said. "I make things work by myself. I depend on no-one, thus, there's no one who can fail me."

Again he grew quiet, looking down at his damaged paw. The wolf had a point. "A healer" he said quietly. "You can reccomend anyone?"

This wolf man seemed a decent person. Conor couldn't judge, of course, he didn't know him for long enough, and thus, his expression remained guarded, but some of the frown lines around his eyes softened. Perhaps he genuinely meant no harm.

Perhaps he was just another mob boss looking to mark his turf.

Conor didn't know, but if it got his hand fixed much quicker, then it was worth a shot.

[Moonhunter]

A healer. Funny question, though Conor didn't realize it. Moonhunter didn't need a healer. Though he supposed it would be good to know one, for others. He never stayed long in Wayward City--not unless his truck was broken, hah--but he did wind up here often. It kept him busy, a town this corrupt.

"Kid, you're talking to the original lone wolf," he said wryly. "Much as we like to try being on our own, no one can do everything. That's the whole point of society. In theory, anyway. In practice..." he gestured at the corpse.

By now the sirens were blaring. Soon the authorities and medics would be here. He grabbed Conor by the grease-stained jumpsuit and hefted him onto his feet with ease, and kept his grip on him until he was steady on his feet. "I'm sure the medics can recommend someone."