The Old City

0.28: The Fifth Member

Disappointment dripped off them like sweat, mingling acridly with the smell of vomit no amount of cleaning could erase from the Mermaid's Wing. It was late enough that some musicians had started playing a bouncy jig in the corner of the bar.

A long day of walking Soran's crumbling streets had worn out their heels and tested their spirits. None of Angelica's contacts wanted anything to do with them.

"Are you surprised nobody wants to work with us?" Marcus sighed.

"It seems to me that nobody wants to work with you. And nobody wants to die for a cause that has already been lost."

"The Enforcers are idiots. When have their searches ever found anything? Now everyone is so scared they're runnin' to the gangs for protection."

Marcus stared into the deep of his drink, a pale, foul smelling concoction called Javan's Horseshoe. Nobody else drank it, but Anya had instilled in him a taste for it many years ago.

"I heard that you are lookin' for someone to fight."

Marcus looked at the scrawny boy through hazy eyes. The lad lacked any muscle to speak of. His cherubic face was not marked with the weary lines of age, but by small pockets of acne. He carried a small lyre that he'd been playing with the other musicians. Passion raged in his eyes, furiously seeking – what, Marcus did not know.

"You're no fighter."

I have other skills.

The glass slipped out of Marcus's grasp, shattering into incongruous pieces on the floor. He tried to speak back into this man's mind, but found the path blocked.

"How did you do that?" Marcus demanded.

Don't be so conspicuous. For a revolutionary, you are not very conspicuous. If you want to talk, let's do it elsewhere.

Marcus tapped Angelica on the shoulder and motioned for her to follow him. Confused, Angelica tossed a coin to the bartender and joined them upstairs in his room.

"How did you do that?" Marcus repeated. "How did you touch my mind then cut me off from your own?"

"It is my gift. I was not blessed with much, but my Communications Magic has always allowed me to do things like that. I can touch minds even when they have defenses up, and I can keep my own thoughts private." He shot out a hand. "The name's Banjo."

"Well, Banjo. You've told me the 'How.' Now tell me 'Why.' Why would a kid like you corner us at the bar?"

"I want to join your gang."

"You're a bit young to fight this battle."

"It is every son of Soran's duty to fight for this city."

"You've got heart, kid. But in this fight, you're gonna need more than just heart. You need brains and power and most importantly, you need to keep your head straight when the shit starts rainin' down.

"Let me guess. You're an impassioned son of Soran like your dad before you, yeah? I bet he went off to war and never came back. He died fightin' for the free Soran that was promised and now that you're almost grown up you want to fight for it too. You want to avenge old dad and seize that ideal he'd strived for. Am I close?"

Banjo's face had twisted into defiance, wishing for an extra three inches and for his pubescent acne to disappear. He wanted to shout and make Marcus see how valuable he could be, but he'd practiced this speech before. After a quick breath, he proclaimed:

"It feels like only the bad ones returned from the battlefield. The First Ring was always broken, but recently I can't leave my house without seein' someone get mugged or stabbed or beaten. Or killed. But I saw you that day when Marek started a fight with Black Phoenix. I saw how you and the other one stopped them from levelin' a whole ward. You stopped the violence. I want to do that too.