#arbitrary darkness

A squeeze of the trigger should’ve sent the bolt flying into the back of the zoglin’s skull, but at the last moment, the creature shifted its head, sending the arrow through its single eye instead. It let out a squealing bellow and stumbled back, a torrent of blood bubbling at its eye. It shook its massive head in agony, spattering droplets of blood like falling berries, and charged blindly at Grian.

Grian had reacted just quickly enough, snatching an ender pearl from a pouch at his belt - but in his haste to fling it, it hit the wall behind the zoglin and he fell about five feet to the ground. The zoglin was still squealing and huffing, growing more deranged by the second as it continued to bleed profusely. Damn it all, this was supposed to be quick! Grian thought, gritting his teeth and trying to reorient himself. But the zoglin had turned at the sound of his body hitting the ground and it was charging again. He stumbled to his feet, unsheathed his knife and stepped quietly to the side. The disoriented zoglin crashed headlong into the wall. He hadn’t a moment to lose. He drove the knife into the back of its skull, as easy as topping a soft-boiled egg.

The zoglin didn’t have time to repeat its ghastly scream. At this final assault, it’s body gave in and collapsed.

Grian crouched beside it with his back against the wall, quite out of breath. “Sorry, mate,” he said to the corpse beside him with genuine remorse. Waves of heat still emanated from the body. Froth bubbled at the zoglin’s mouth and mixed indiscriminately with the blood that pulsed from its wounds, collecting in the scores of the cobbles beneath them. It wasn’t the zoglin’s fault it’d been brought into the overworld, after all.

The already damp, stale air of the narrow alleyway was growing thick with the smell of blood and the saccharine scent of rot. Grian wiped his knife on his trousers and sheathed it. He’d clean it properly later.

Looking back to the dead zoglin, he had a flash of nausea - but it wouldn’t do to waste good weapons. He braced one boot against the skull, grasped the shaft of the crossbow bolt and wrenched it out, letting free a fresh stream of blood. That too would need cleaning. He cast a final vague eye over the body, but couldn’t be bothered to harvest any part of the broken, ragged creature. Thankfully, there’s a guy for everything these days - He’d ask if Tango was interested. Dragging a few old planks over the body, he called it good and set off for home.

~

Grian sat at his desk, absently cleaning dried blood from his netherite hunting knife with a handkerchief. He couldn’t call himself the most organised person, but he prided himself in his work and made an effort to keep his tools and weapons pristine.

The same couldn’t be said for the rest of the room. It was a small space, mostly occupied by a bed, desk, and chair. An identical one housed his partner, and the shared ‘office’ joined the two, the only room other than a small kitchen and bathroom that was shared. The ‘office’ was the largest room and served as something of a front for business - it was thus the only room that was generally tidy. Grian’s desk and bed were liberally scattered with books, papers, pens, cups of forgotten tea, glass bottles, various weapons, and other bits and bobs. It was an organised mess and he knew where everything was, he protested, even when one discovered half a jar of marmite under the bed.

“Tea?” Came a shout from the other room, breaking Grian from reverie.

“Yes please,” he returned, adding, “I told you that Tango’s gonna pop in, yeah?”

There was the clink of tin and china from the kitchen, a sound which usually meant one was striving to clear the counter space necessary for a mug, a task that generally proved futile.

“Where’s the tea?” Came a plaintive call from the kitchen. Grian shook his head in disbelief.

“In the cupboard, presumably.”

“But it’s not! Where on earth do things go?”

Grian sighed and made his way to the kitchen, saying as he went, “You do realise that offering to make someone tea then proceeding to ask them to come help you make tea defeats the nice deed.”

"It's the thought that counts, Grian," chastised the other reproachfully.

The kitchen was, as predicted, a mess. Plates and mugs were stacked everywhere, several crossbow bolts were drying on the counter after being cleaned, and it seemed neither had considered the option of using the cupboards for their intended purposes, considering the almost surreal amount of things on the counter. Mumbo stood in the midst of the familiar chaos with a nonplussed expression, his immaculate suit and composure as oxymoronic as ever to the surrounding disarray.

Some god must’ve been looking down on Grian because at that moment, the doorbell rang. He fled the scene in remarkable speed, putting on his boots in record speed and moments before shutting the front door shouting, “Be a lamb and clear up the kitchen!”

The caller, naturally, was Tango. The two had known each other for a long time now - their businesses went hand in hand, after all. Grian killed monsters on commission, and Tango paid for their remains, scavenging for valuable parts to resell on the black market. He was a sharp-looking man, tall and slight as a birch switch with sharp eyes and curiously pointed canine teeth. His spiky hair was an unusual bright yellow-gold, and though it was often combed back, never quite under control. He wore dark jeans with his red shirt, and a grey vest whose pockets held an arsenal of contraband. He always wore red-tinted glasses thanks to sensitive eyes, and dark leather gloves (Grian assumed this had to do with not leaving fingerprints). About his shoulders was a dark grey capelet that reached his waist.

Grian was glad to see the sky darkening as the two made their way towards where he’d left the remains of his latest job. The cobbled streets were scarcely populated, everyone intent on getting home and into the warmth of a fire. The two traded stories as was their habit, Tango talking about his encounters with the law and customers, and Grian of his encounter with the zoglin.

They were not friends. Mumbo and Grian were friends; Tango was an ally, an acquaintance. He was charismatic, but he was not a man one could be friends with - he spent far too much time snaking his way around the law thanks to his illicit dealings, and Grian knew better than to let his guard down around him. He was a respected individual and made for enjoyable company, and that sufficed for both.

They made their way down the alley, eventually emerging into the intersection where Grian had left the body. Tall brick and stone walls hemmed in the network of alleys, sky visible far above. The place had an air of perpetual dampness and algae grew on the uncared-for walls. Spotting the heap of rubbish he’d been looking for, he hauled aside a couple of old planks to reveal the dead zoglin. Flies had congregated on its flesh and blood still stained the cobbles around it.

“Very nice!” Tango said happily, crouching to examine the huge creature and pulling up a cloth mask. Grian, who was feeling quite nauseous and wishing he’d remembered a mask of his own, was as stunned as usual at the enthusiasm in Tango’s voice upon seeing a corpse. He leant against a wall and watched as Tango took from inside his cape a few instruments. With one hand he reached into the zoglin’s mouth to pry apart the jaws, and with the other grasped a pair of pliers, intent obvious. Grian closed his eyes in distaste, but couldn’t block the sound of teeth being wrenched free of their place. Tango was humming Let’s Have Another Cup of Coffee.

Tango moved on to the tusks, prying them loose with another nasty looking instrument.

“Who the hell buys this stuff anyway?” Grian asked, watching the process.

“Oh, crooked alchemists mostly,” Tango replied airly, transferring the teeth to a small bag and tucking the tusks into an inner pocket. “Sometimes collectors.”

He seemed to consider the body for a moment more, then decisively reached once more under his cape, withdrawing a large carving knife.

He began the process of estranging one of the zoglin’s hind legs from the body, remarking as he did so, “The meat might still be good for something.”

Grian shook his head, knowing he didn’t want to ask questions.

Tango wrenched the leg away with a sickening wet ripping sound. He must’ve thought his face not visible to Grian, however, because he did something peculiar. He drew down his mask with one hand, held the bloody knife to his mouth, and licked it.

It was only a moment, but Grian had already seen - his tongue was forked. He remained still, not meaning to alert Tango, but one hand strayed casually to the flintlock at his waist.

Tango had stowed the zoglin haunch in a leather bag slung over one shoulder and straightened, wiping his bloody gloves on a cloth.

“How much for that then?” He asked cheerfully.

“You’re a demon,” Grian stated, impassively.

Tango looked mildly amused. “I- what?”

“Take off your glasses,” Grian demanded flatly, feeling anger blossom in his chest.

“No thanks,” Tango returned coldly, amusement gone, “You know I have sensitive eyes. How much do I owe you?”

“An explanation would be nice. Give me physical evidence that you’re not a demon. Should be easy enough, providing you’re not trying to lie to a professional hunter.” Grian drew his flintlock and let it weigh heavy in his hand.

“That's a pretty serious accusation to make,” Tango said softly, taking a few steps towards Grian, “If I'm a demon, you should be more careful.”

Tango was much taller than him and clearly trying to emphasize his height for intimidation. Bad idea, Grian thought. He suddenly swung a fist and knocked the glasses from Tango’s face, at which he stumbled.

Grian levelled his gun at Tango, half knelt on the ground. The gaze that rose to meet his was red; dark crimson sclera with lighter irises. As Tango got to his feet Grian fired, and Tango hissed in pain as the bullet pierced his shoulder - but he’d clearly been prepared. He tossed an ender pearl with his good arm and began to streak down the alley. Grian began to run too, then tore off his jumper to free his wings and leapt into the air. But Tango had vanished. He'd be streets away now, wherever the pearl had landed. Grian landed, knowing he couldn’t risk flying above the buildings.

Idiot. He thought bitterly, returning to his jumper, What kind of idiot is the monster hunter who regularly talks to a monster and doesn’t even know it?

He was tired, frustrated, angry. He should’ve known. It was his job to know and he didn’t. Didn’t know, and you didn’t even kill it. It ... he realised his choice of pronoun with discomfort. Tango was an acquaintance. It was right to shoot him, wasn’t it?

Yes, he decided. Demons aren’t people; they eat people. He’s just another monster to be taken care of. He’s a crook, you always knew that, and a vicious bastard.

But you're not human either, are you?

He shook his head in annoyance. That was different, of course. He didn’t hurt anyone. Grian clenched his fists, feeling his talons prick his palms even through the gloves. It would be time to file them again. He began his way home, exhausted. Perhaps he could still take up Mumbo's offer of tea.

Part II