"Goodbye Curly Head"

"Everything In Its Right Place"

Ah, graceful merc lines.

The last stand of humanity in this ocean of savagery and anarchy, proving an understanding can be achieved even between the most conflicted. 

Ah, great merc lines.

With your timetables so loose and delays so frequent, you always bring unimaginable joy to those in need whenever a beast of iron approaches its stop.

Ah, merc lines so kind, what would anyone ever do without you?

With an army of gentle beasts at your disposal, you protect and transport, blind to any influences, any bribes and deaf to sweet, deceptive whispers. You serve the people of Kazdel, both good and bad, without asking why or when, simply giving a condition and getting the job done.

Andy felt a sense of warmth envelop him as the crudely put together armored bus stopped in front of him, bearing a plethora of colorful personalities within. The young and old, the bright and dim, armed and unarmed, dead and alive. Clinging to their seats, laying down in the miniscule hallway in between, hanging from the ceiling, everyone had their own little place within the beast’s belly. Everyone was welcome to come and taste peace.

The boy hastily purchased a ticket from the driver and heard the heavy, metallic door close behind him. The iron colossus came to life with a mighty roar of its engine and shot forward, nearly knocking Andy off his feet. He dusted himself off and took a seat.

Such loud and lively was his company. A group of old sarkaz men slouched by a portable table, moving rooks over their chess boards and mumbling about them “Good ‘ol days” took a decent portion of the bus’ back area. Right by them, scattered around the back exits sat two completely opposite mercenary groups, both fit with a banner bearer of their respective clan. Seemingly bored, cleaning their gear, engaging in small talk with one another, knowing they would be jumping at their throats the second they reach their destination. Two rough figures sat side by side among the groups, both leaders of their posse’s. One, a short, one-eyed banshee. The other, a towering goliath of a devil. Laughing gleefully and gossiping the lazy morning away, differences were put aside in favor of some quality time away from the horrors of war. Such were the merc lines. So much more than just a mere means of public transport - a testament to the genuine worth and importance of merc solidarity. When all other gods and deities have failed, these divine temples of calm and peace remained unchanging and all so reliable. It wasn’t written down anywhere, nor was it ever said out loud, but the importance and holiness of these buses as a symbol of humanity remained untouched by the volatile nature of Kazdel. Each and every merc out there, with even a mere ounce of self respect knew that preying on these iron beasts was the absolute lowest of low blows - far, far below the belt. 

Andy took a look to his other side - seeing the futureless youth of Kazdel, children turned to street performers, newspaper merchants or petty thieves, traveling from town to town without a ticket. An old man with a sickly sniffling young boy sat far away from anyone else, surrounded by absolute emptiness. The kid had prominent shards of originium sticking out of his face and limbs - piercing his left eye, leaving it completely covered by the black mass. A trail of crystals ran down his entire body, from the very base of his sarkaz horns all the way down to his torn trousers. Andy couldn’t help but stare shamelessly, clutching his rifle close. He’s never seen someone this deep into oripathy already. Lone cases, merciless casters here and there, sure, but never such a young child, never this far gone. He shuddered at the mere thought of his own body ever sprouting such cancerous rocks and succumbing to the killing disease. As far as he knew, there was no cure. No way out other than death, no remedy. He knew how it affected one’s mental capabilities, enhancing arts efficacy and turning people crazy. That’s all they taught at school back in Laterano, anyway.