This is a short story I wrote for a friend based on their Pathfinder character's father. I wrote it as a form of "Art Fight" swap, and got her permission to publish it here. It's set in the Pathfinder setting, in the steampunk western city of Alkenstar. Enjoy!

A train blew its whistle, screeching into the hot, stagnant air of the East Skyside Station, sending pigeons on its roof into harried flight. The horrible sound sliced through a sheer lace curtain and bounced around the room beyond. Quite suddenly, from the beauty of sleep, dream, and peace, Kroweth was painfully, horribly awake.

He groaned, shaken from blessed dreams of ballrooms and warfare, his long, oh-so-sensitive ears shaking from the torture. The woman beside him blinked awake, unbothered, and stretched.

“What in—” His words died in his throat as the whistle screamed again. He did the only sensible thing and slammed the pillow over his head, hoping all sound in the world would take the hint.

But the world and all its sound carried on uncaring of his miserable morning and delicate head. People chattered, and horses clomped, and pangolins shuffled, and constructs ground and groaned. He let go of his delusions of peace and poked his head up from the pillow, the fur against his head sticking out in all directions.

The room was muggy, as always, and smelled of smoke. But he realized quickly that was because of the naked half-elf beside him who had already lit a cigarillo, sweet smoke pouring from her sultry lips, smeared with last night’s lipstick.

“Mm,” he groaned, reaching for the blessed tobacco, and she leaned away.

“Get yer own!” she giggled, reaching for the box to pass one over. He took it gladly, and fumbled out of bed. “Wanna light?”

 “I got it.” He stumbled about the room, somehow even more sensitive to the horrific noise. With a groan and a thump to his knees, he rifled in his pants cast over the red velvet chair in the corner, and pulled forth his lucky lighter. Designed it himself some seven years ago or so. Brass with silver inlay of a rearing pangolin, its long, winding tongue cast in ruby-red crimsirin. As he flicked the top open, the flame igniting with the rolling flint, his thumb rubbed the pangolin’s snout, the same way it always did. It was shiny and sleek because of it, while the rest had tarnished over the years from the omnipresent smoke of Alkenstar.

“Sorry for the rude awakening,” the woman he knew as Ellie sighed, smoke falling from her mouth like the falls outside. “Don’t normally see you Wealday nights.”

“And?” He let his own cloud release, and felt his muscles relax, his ears less rigid already.

“Oathday mornings, Arlin Brothers’ weekly shipment, first thing in the morning.”

“Ungodly hour,” he shook his head and walked to the curtain. The city of Alkenstar stretched out before him, the colorful Skyside to his left, the walled-off nobility to his right, and the ever-blackened Smokeside across the river stretching his entire view.

Kroweth stretched tall, took in a deep breath, then took another drag of his cigarillo. As he did his own personal form of morning meditation, he focused his ears on the river, willing the people and beasts and constructs and godsforsaken noise out of his ears. Slowly, the dull roar of the river came in, the splashing of the spray, the whining groans of the drakes, the angry rush of Alken Falls off to his right. All he could see of it was the rocks at the edge and the mist rising from it.

A lewd whistle broke his reverie, and he looked down to a group of catfolk women walked by in sun dresses and wide-brim hats, giggling to themselves as they looked up. He rolled his eyes, turning around to see the redheaded half-elf fixing her stockings, the rest of her on full display.

She set his bronze pocketwatch on the dresser at the foot of the bed, and smiled warmly. “It's early yet.”

“Mm.” He slowly drug his feet inside, looking for his clothes.

“Felt like showing off to the world today?”

“Don’t feel like anything. ‘Cept fuckin’ pain. Can’t help cluckin’ hens.”

“Could put on pants,” she mused.

“Can’t even see anything,” he motioned to his furry body. One could, in fact, see anything. In fact, one could see most things. But he figured it was more important to stand by his argument than be correct. “I mean, look.”

“Whatever you say, hon.” She laughed, grabbing her dress off the floor. “Back at work, then?”

“Yeah,” he looked back at the window, wincing, and reached for his leather pants.

“Not that I don’t like seein’ you,” she came over, rubbing his bicep, “but I don’t usually see you on worknights over here.”

“Long day,” he shrugged her hand off, fastening his belt, checking that his revolver was where it belonged. “Needed’a let some steam off.”

“Well, you sure did. Damn near steamed me flat!”

“Don’ be crass,” he rolled his eyes.

“What, can’t talk about how you fucked me the morning after the fucking?”

“Can we not?”

“Krow,” she shook her head and sighed. “This hot & cold shit is getting real fuckin’ old, you know that?”

“I shouldn’t be—”

“You shouldn’t be fuckin’ skinnies, yeah, I know. You got all the hangups from your mom about only banging other kitties. But guess what, hon? Ya do. A lot. You’re gonna just have to accept that you like ‘my kind’ eventually.”

“No, I don’t.”

She sighed, anger in her throat. It was fine. She was right to be mad. He was being a dick, and he knew it. But his head hurt too damn much to be anything else.

“Right. I’ll see you on Starday for our usual ‘slow-fuck, cry, hard-fuck, and pretend it never happened.’ Sunset good for you?”

“Fuck off,” he put his shirt on as she stomped to the door. “Hey,” he called out, stopping her halfway through. She looked at him, her bright yellow eyes shining in the ambient sunlight, her skimpy blue dress barely covering her chest in places, her flaming red hair an utter mess. His loins twitched, his head ached, his stomach flexed and leapt, and his mind rebuked him for all of the above.

“What, Krow?”

“Get a drink after work?”

“No! I’m mad at you, fuck off.” She shut the door hard, but without a slam, and walked off to her room, her long, human feet plat plat plating as she went. He looked around the room, sighed, and slipped on his boots.

He checked his belt again, feeling the ivory grip of the revolver he made by hand, piece by piece. The belt had spare bullets, and held the piece as gentle-yet-firm as a good brassiere.

Almost instinctually, he pulled it out, and admired the bronze work of it. Tooled with vines and leaves wrapping the body and barrel, perfect sights, rifled barrel, and an eight-shot cylinder. The grip was painted ivory, a gift from a previous buyer of his. He'd commissioned a local artist to paint a naked dancing girl with well-placed feather-fans on it, and it had held up over the years beautifully.

He admired his own skill for a moment. “A true master of firearms,” he'd been called, and for good reason. No one made them like him. “Supreme Crafter of Machines of Death,” his office plaque read. A gift from his twin sister. He fought daily between whether to be proud or disgusted by it.

Somewhere along this mental trip, he realized he'd been staring at the gun for entirely too long, and his hand was starting to wander upward. The brief fantasy of a bullet racing through his skull and out his pointy ears danced in his head. Wondering if he did it on the balcony, how his body would fall. Maybe he'd land on a cart and fuck up traffic for a few hours.

Instead, he put the gun back in its holster, and shook the thought from his mind. As he walked to the door, he took his hat from the rack, and slipped it on, poking his ears through the holes, and carefully resting it sloping back on his head, so the front of the brim would rest on his small black horns.

The Ivory Tower was aptly named. A higher-end bordello, it had rooms, partners for hire, drinks, and ambiance,  all in abundance. A great crystal chandelier hung in the center, floating gently up and down as if in water, and he made his way to the stairs, walking down the spiral of them all six flights down.

By the time he made it to the bottom, he nearly made it out before he heard his name in shrill tones behind him. He sighed, turned around, and looked up. A dark-skinned human woman leaned over a railing, her breasts nearly falling out of the corset as she did so.

“Good morning, Eriden.”

“Ellie’s throwing things again. What the fuck’d you say to her?”

“Nothing, she’s jus’ emotional.”

“Don’t start with me, you furry bastard. She only does this shit when you're an asshole to her.”

“Can't help what she does.”

“She actually likes you, you know, unlike the rest of us?”

“I know,” he rolled his eyes, and caught sight of the orcish bartender motioning him to the bar. He started stepping that way. “Gotta remind her why she shouldn’t sometimes.”

“I swear to Lymnieris, I should stop taking your money, make you go somewhere else.”

“Can’t do that,” he smiled a fanged grin at her, “Ellie’d be heartbroken.”

“She already is, cheeky cunt,” she muttered, walking off to another room. Kroweth turned to the bartender, already pouring a rich red pulpy drink.

“I didn’t—”

“Drink it,” she pushed it forward.

“What is it?”

“Drink it,” she repeated, looking him in the eyes. Her blood red pupils seeped into him, and shook his nerves enough to look back at the drink. He took a sip, and recoiled immediately.

“Fucking shit, that is awful.”

“Helps, though. Drink it.”

“Helps what? Kill the pigeons?”

“Kill that weasel gnawing at your head.”

“Oh, yeah, that.” He took another sip, resisting the recoil. It tasted of vegetables, fish, and so, so, so much spice. His mouth felt like it was on fire, but it washed away as soon as he swallowed. He hated to admit it, but his head was already feeling a little less gnawed-on.

“Told ya.”

“Do I have to drink the whole thing?”

“Do you have to work?”

“Yeah.”

“Then yeah.”

“What’re you, my mom?”

“You wish,” she laughed.

“Green’s not my type,” he sipped again, almost liking it. Almost.

“No, but freckles and red hair are.”

He looked at her.

“Just stop being a fucking dick to her.”

“Et tu, Relka?”

“Yeah, et me too. Ellie’s a sweet thing. Keep fucking with her like this, and she’s gonna put a bullet in your mouth or her own.”

“Gods,” he choked on his drink. “Bit dramatic.”

“She don’t cry much. She gets mad. She’s broken a buncha tables, chairs, beds. Eriden’s gonna start charging you for the damage.”

“Not my fault she’s a nutcase.”

“She’s not! You are, you cunt.” She prodded a thick orcish finger into the amber chest fur poking out of his shirt. “Come here begging for her, then treat her like shit after. You know who does that?”

“Cunts?”

“Aristocrats.”

“Ouch,” he curled his lip. He was being sarcastic, but… no, actually, it did ouch.

“Get your shit together.”

“I’ve got one of the best paying labor jobs in town, and you’re a whorehouse bartender. I think you’ve got more shit needs collecting.”

“I’ve got two wives to go home to, a wealth of friends, and several hobbies. You’ve got an asshole family, a drinking problem, a purse that might as well funnel straight into our coffers… and a well paying job. You sure you wanna throw stones, bud?”

“Hey, my asshole family could—”

“What, we doing threats now?” She crossed her arms, actual anger dancing at the edges of her eyes. “‘Cause guess what? I could fold those pretty little arms of yours’ backwards before your asshole family could do shit.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, oh then enlighten me, what did you mean?”

He breathed deeply, staring at her, then at the drink. “Fuck, I dunno. Forget I said anything.”

“Gonna be real hard when you’ll just be in here in two days saying the same stupid shit again.”

“Then maybe don’t let me in, so you don’t have to deal with my shit.”

“And let you empty that coinpurse elsewhere? Fuck no. You gonna go somewhere with worse drinks, worse pussy, and a bartender that don’t respect you enough to call you out?”

“No. No, I am not.”

“You’d be sucking down whiskey in a soggy alley is what you’d be doing.”

“Been there,” he pointed, slamming back the rest of the drink. It was a horrible mistake. He turned to the side just in time for the rich tomato-red vomit to spew all over the nice leather barstool beside him, just missing the sleeping human just past it.

“Cayden’s sake, Krow! What the fuck was that?”

“Sorry,” he coughed, heaved, and let another blast through.

“I’m not cleaning that up.”

“Yes you are!” A voice from above called out.

“Make him do it!”

“Pay what he does in gold weekly, and I will. ‘Til then, get on your knees like all the other good little girls.”

“Fuck you,” she muttered under her breath, grabbing a bucket, a mop, and walking to the back door.

Kroweth sat there, trying his best to recover what remained of his composure, and managed to sit up and lay eyes on the glass of water already sitting there. He took three long gulps, washing the bile from his mouth, then used the rest to clean the chunks from the fur around his mouth. By then, Relka was back, soapy bucket and mop in hand, cleaning the floor.

“Sorry,” he grimaced. “Didn’t mean to.”

“No one means to puke. Now get out.”

“I can help—”

“If you’re still here by the time I’m done, I’m pretty sure I’m gonna throttle you. For numerous reasons. So get to work, kitty cat.”

“I take umbrage to that,” he pointed as he started walking out.

“Take umbrage to this,” she lifted a finger to him as she scrubbed.

“I will! Doing it right now!” He pushed through the doors and into the city proper.

The air was still, empty, humid from the river and arid from the desert all at the same time. The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air, even in Skyside, and he replaced it with his own. He drew a cigar out from his case, clipped it, lit it with his lighter rubbing his thumb along the head of the pangolin. Its snout shone bright in the sun.

Smoke filled his mouth, overwhelming his senses, and as he breathed it out, all felt better. Smoother head, less stink, less to focus on. He walked through the streets of Skyside, only feeling slightly out of place among the sundresses and suits and fashion and flashy accessories in his grungy workshop clothes. But he was used to it by now.

He stopped at a small booth selling dwarven bubble tea, and got the darkest black tea they had. As the woman with impressive sideburns made his drink and boiled the tapioca pearls, he scratched the giant pangolin strapped to her cart, getting it right at the base of the chin where they all liked it.

When he finally had his tea, he slowly, casually, padded along through the streets, down to the twin bridges, and walked across, like he did every week. A black pearl shot up his pasta-straw and bounced into his mouth as he chewed it beside the dark, bitter, angry black tea that caffeinated him into functionality.

About halfway through, he stopped, looking over the side while sipping the tea. The river rushed some seventy feet below, crashing over rocks, and he listened to the angry blue drakes argue amongst each other over territory and food. He stared out at the river bend, pushing it toward the falls, and thought about just what it would be like to finally jump off the damn thing and feed the drakes.

It was a nice little fantasy, as it always was, but a nonsensical one. He had work to do. He had a good job, good friends. Or… friend. Maybe. His family would be furious. And what would he have to look forward to? Pharasma judging him for the trash he is and tossing his soul in the nearest algae puddle for eternity?

No, death was no rest. Not today anyway. So he walked on, sucking down the last of the tea and throwing the cup into the street. The clay cup shattered in the gutter, and the pasta straw cracked, laying in the gutter waiting for a seagull to find it. It took four seconds before five of them were fighting over the straw and snapping at the leftover pearls. He smiled at the stupid birds, and marched onward.

The walk to the family shop wasn’t far. Just a few blocks into Smokeside. Aptly named, especially today. The air was especially choking. He tried to drown out the acrid taste in his mouth with a spiced meat pie from some kashrishi he passed, and despite its best efforts, everything still tasted like smoke.

Kroweth strolled up to the towering factory, and through the open doors under the glowing sign reading “Catseye Firearms Factory.” The sounds of hammers and gears filled his ears as he did, and he almost missed the deep groan of disgust from the doorman.

“Fuck, Kroweth.”

“Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re not late. You’re an hour and a half early.”

“That’s not right.” He patted his pockets, and felt the distinct lack of pocketwatch in his right pocket. Well. Guess I’ll have to drag that drink out of Ellie after all. “Really?”

“I’m as surprised as you,” the dwarf laughed, checking his parchment again. “Go home, you reek.”

“I just bathed last night!”

“Take a real bath, not the whore-y kind. You smell like degreaser.”

“Fuck off.”

“Krow!” A voice cut through the machinery, and he winced.

The dwarf laughed. “Well. You’re fucked now.”

A catfolk nearly identical to him leapt from the balcony, landing on her wide, fluffy paws. Her speckled fur of browns, blacks, and whites decorated her perfectly coiffed head, along with two little black horns right at the top of her forehead. Her bright green eyes shone, meeting his own amber eyes judgingly as she rose from her landing.

Toriye was like a mirror of him, save for their eyes, and his horns. No one knew why their shared abyssal heritage gave them all green eyes but him horns. But Aunt Karyda had horns, so did their grandfather Bushka. Mysteries of lineage.

They also clashed thanks to her silk suit. He could tell it was new, as it was somehow stain-free, for now. Perfectly fitted, slim blue tie, fashionable red velvet waistcoat.

She eyed him up and down.

“You look chewed up and shit out.”

“Wish I could say the same for you. Why the new suit?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Lost track of time. In the wrong direction, it appears.”

“No, I mean… What are you doing here?”

“I… work today?”

“You’ve been with your whores,” she recoiled, suddenly smelling him. “No wonder. On a Wealday night?”

“It was a long day, needed—”

“I don’t want to know. Clean yourself up and get home. Gothih wants to talk to you.”

“My home, or home home?”

“Your home, for once. And…” She sneered, “bathe and change first. You’ll thank me later.”

“What could Gothih possibly have to say to me that I need to bathe and change for first?”

“Just do it, you little shit. Fuck, you smell like a pig’s ass.”

“You would know,” he laughed.

“Get out before you embarrass me.” She shooed him away and started walking toward the nearest workers to take her anger out on. Krow turned to the doorman, and sighed. The dwarf shrugged.

“I’ve smelled pig’s asses that smelled better than you.”

“Yeah, I bet you have,” Krow sneered, stalking off into the street.

He followed the street to the right, around the bend, and took another down to the Smokeside Baths. With a quick pick through the market nearby, he grabbed a new outfit, as simple as his current one, though clean, new, and slightly more fashionable, and made his way into the baths proper. A tall tan elf greeted him, his smile stretching from cheek to slick, defined, cut cheekbone.

“Hello, my friend. Here early today, aren’t you?”

“Just a bath, Xyrlie.”

“Not your usual? But Sylvie will be so sad!”

“I have a meeting. Just drank too long last night, need to clean up.”

“You know Sylvie is great at cleaning you up. Paw-scrubs are her specialty, you know that.”

“Yeah, but if I get her, I’m not gonna wanna leave.”

“Well, if you wanna disappoint Sylvie, be my guest,” he turned back his podium, clearly trying to prove a point.

“It’s dishonest business practice to guilt your customers,” he plunked several gold coins down on the counter, and the elf smiled.

“Yeah, but it works.” He slid him a token with the image of a woman washing a person’s feet burned into it, and he casually flipped it as he walked in.

“You are a devil,” Kroweth laughed as the elf beside him giggled. Her night-black hair spread out over the pillow in long, silken strands, and her chest jiggled as she tittered. “I was supposed to be here for a wash.”

“What’s a wash without a massage?”

“Massages work more than one part of the body.”

“I massage the important parts,” she smiled. “Besides, now you’re in a better mood for your meeting.”

“Yeah, yeah. Alright, we square?”

“Of course, Krow-y. See you next time!”

“Yeah,” he slid on his underwear, and the new pants, testing the fit. They were a little short, but it wasn’t the end of the world. “See ya.”

“I’ll be thinking of you!”

“Sure.”

He pushed his way through the doors as he fiddled with his belt, getting it laced into the new pants, moving his gun to the right position. Hastily wrangling his boots on, he squirmed into the shirt as he walked out through the lobby. It was a nicer shirt than he was used to, silk, gray, with a nice floral pattern. He did up the lacing a few strands, then stopped to let his chest fur puff out, and sauntered out of the bathhouse.

“Was Sylvie satisfactory, my friend?”

“Too satisfactory, like you knew she’d be.”

“I somehow had a feeling. Ten more gold, please.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He put the coin in a stack on the counter, and walked away without a word. The sun was high over the streets now, and the heat of the day was starting to kick in. He’d be late for his shift, he knew that, hell, he might be already. But it sounded like his sister had something more important to tell him. Unless Toriye was fucking with him. She liked to do that, but then again, so did he.

He bought another meatpie, this time from a dwarf woman with a beard that put most men's to shame, and he devoured it as he went, shoving it into his mouth as quickly as possible.

Within two buildings of his home, he finished the pastry, and hastily combed the crumbs from his chin-fluff. A sigh both in his throat and heart, he climbed the metal stairs up the adobe building tothe seventh floor, pushed through the half-doors, and down to his door, 712.

He took out the keys, and the door opened immediately. One of his brothers, Purum, was staring at him. His fur almost matched his own, but was darker, with patches of orange. Rings lined his ears up to the tufts at the top, and his bright green eyes searched Kroweth’s as he sniffed the air.

“Did you… stop at the bathhouse on the way here?”

“Toriye told me to.”

“Where have you been?”

“Ivory Tower.”

“On a Wealday night?”

“Had a long day.”

“Don’t—” he held up a hand, disgust on his lips. “Ugh.” Purum was dressed to the nines, in an impeccably fashionable suit of brilliant golds, blacks, and oranges, chains draping over it in intersecting patterns. He looked utterly bizarre in this worn-down adobe apartment.

“What you you doing at my flat?”

“Covering for you. You…” He started laughing, and had to breathe in deep to restrain it. Even as he did, the laugh threatened the edges of his mouth the entire time. “You don’t even know what you missed. It’s gold. Oh, get in. Get in. Gothih! Krow’s here!”

“About fuckin’ time!” His older sister’s voice ripped through from the other room. Like nails on a chalkboard. He felt his ears dip down in self-defense. “Get in, you stupid cocksucker.”

He made his way into the main room of the apartment, a large living room with two couches, a table, and a side-table with a built-in chess board, all of which took up only half the room. Various feats of engineering lined the walls, mostly guns, but also a clock, a few inert bombs, a few steam-swords, and other items of interest. His in-progress projects sat in piles around the room, particularly around the workbench area that took up the other half of the room.

His sister sat on one of the couches, wearing the same outfit as she was wearing the day before, bags under her eyes, and a tired resentment burning within her emerald pupils.

“Good mo—”

He stopped. Something was wrong. Horribly wrong. She was holding something. Something… small. Round. Wrapped in cloth. Swaddled. Swaddled? What’s swaddled? Something is swaddled. Small things, living things. And those are… ears. Tufted ears.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. Here, take it.”

“No, nope. Nope. Nope.”

“Fucking take it, Krow.”

“That’s not mine.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“You can’t prove it.”

“Krow, look at it.”

“No.”

“Krow—”

“No, it’s not—” His mind was spinning. Panic. Absolute blind panic. It couldn’t be his. There’s no way. That’s why he sleeps with skinnies. Can’t knock them up. He doesn’t even sleep with—

He suddenly remembered. Oliphris, nearly nine months back.

And shit, Lunya, ten months back.

And Garros, about nine months.

And Telsi, about eight.

“Who was it?”

“Didn’t say.”

“What’d they look like?”

“Didn’t. Just left in a basket at your door.”

“What, no note, nothing?”

“Nope, nothing.”

“How do you know it’s mine?”

“Fucking look at it.” She held the baby out, and he nervously, carefully, reluctantly took the bundle of cloth. It was lighter than he expected. Fresh. The kid didn’t even have its eyes open yet. Tiny patterns of fur danced across its head, black and brown, with little black tufts at the tip of the ears. Its mouth was white fur, just like his own, and it rolled about, grumbling.

And at the crest of its skull, at the top of the forehead, sat two symmetrical black horns. Just like his own. Exactly like his own, down to the tiny spur in the front.

“All that whoring finally caught up with you,” his sister started to laugh. “Finally, finally, one of us has a kid, and it’s you. Because of course it is.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, looking at the infant.

“Because who else would it be, but the man who can’t keep his dick out of anyone’s holes for longer than twelve hours?”

“I said shut up.”

“Mom’s gonna laugh her fucking ass off at this one! She’s not gonna believe it.”

His jaw tightened, and the baby’s right eye opened just a tiny bit. He saw the smallest hint of an amber pupil beneath. Just like his. Not like any of his siblings. Like his.

“So come on, we all know where this is going. We’ve got a betting pool already.”

Kroweth’s eyes shot up to look at Gothih, a sick, smug smile on her face, her eyes drinking in every ounce of his anguish.

“I’ve got money that it’s going in the river, but Purum thinks the junk—”

“Shut the fuck up, Gothih. Shut your fucking mouth for once in your godsforsaken life. Shut. Your fucking. Face hole.” The child started to wriggle and complain, and a cry of indignation escaped its tiny mouth, tiny needle-like teeth baring to the air.

Gothih stared at him, her face unchanged, but clearly unsure of what was happening, the confusion clear in her eyes.

“You think this is all some funny fucking… joke. Hilarious. Kroweth gets saddled with a kid, end to his days of whoring and drinking. Hilarious. Let’s all gamble on how he’s going to murder his offspring.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re going to keep the thing.”

“It’s not a thing, Gothih! There’s a heart in there, and blood, and eyes, and a mind. My eyes, my blood. He’s not just a fucking thing, you colossal fucking cunt.”

“Oh, it’s a he now?”

“Just because you’re disposable to the family don’t mean he is.”

“Oh!” She laughed, and stepped back, her eyebrows raised. “Oh, really? That’s where this is going? Okay, how ‘bout you think about that for one fucking second.”

“Everyone knows Dad wants Kare to run the business. The only reason you’re running an ounce of it is he’s waiting to see if Kare gets back.”

“I’m the one running the business because I’m the one that’s qualified, unlike your drunk ass!”

“He don’t give a fuck about you and you know it.”

She tightened her jaw, fury back in her eyes.

“The second Kare’s back, he’ll never talk to you again if you can help it.”

“You got a spicy fucking mouth for someone no one even gives a shit about. You could drown in the river and no one would even notice. You think Dad gives a shit about you? He wrote you off ages ago! At least I contribute something to the family! All you do is soak up our money in booze and ass so you don’t have to think about what a waste of fucking space you are!”

She was right. But that wasn’t going to stop him. He snarled as words left his lips before he even realized what they were.

“You’d still be in a whorehouse if Kare hadn’t left.”

She slashed at him, claws out and across his face. He nearly tumbled over, but caught himself, keeping the baby upright, and felt blood start dripping down his face.

“You think Dad’s gonna care that you made some little rat pop out of a whore’s cunt? You think it’ll make you special? You think Mom isn’t going to make you throw it in the river herself?”

“She wouldn’t.” She would. He knew it. She would in a heartbeat. He looked into the baby’s barely-open eye, and saw the brilliant amber looking back at him blearily, unsure of what the world even was. Whatever came to pass, he couldn’t let that happen. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” she laughed. “I can’t fucking wait to see you try to tell Mom that.”

“Get the fuck out of my house, you bitch.”

“I pay for this house, I can be where I want.”

“No, I pay for this house.”

“And I pay you, so it’s my money anyway.”

“I will throw you out the window, I swear to the fucking stars.”

She laughed, and rolled her eyes. “Fine, but you’ll have to tell mom eventually. I ain't gonna tell her. It’ll be funnier to see you do it.”

She strolled out, pushing past their brother, and out the door. Kroweth bounced the baby a little until he calmed down, and looked back up to see Puruh still standing in the hallway. They locked eyes, and Puruh looked away, shaking his head.

“You’re a stupid motherfucker, Krow.”

“I told you to fucking leave.”

“The longer you wait, the more likely she’ll hear it from someone else.” He looked up past his brow, a sly smirk on his face. “And you don’t want that.”

“Don’t you have a city to manage?”

“I do, but this is more fun.” He cocked his head. “You gonna name it before Mom makes you—”

“I will shoot you, motherfucker.”

“Alright, alright,” Puruh rose his hands, laughing. “See you when I see you, Krowball.”

His brother sashayed out of the room, shutting the door with his tail, and leaving Kroweth and the baby alone. His baby. His baby. The gods only knew who the mother was.

But it didn’t matter. Not really. The kid was his. His. He made something with his own flesh and blood.

Kroweth looked up at the wall, at the rows and rows of guns, and at the piles of half-built guns, flamethrowers, cannons, and other implements of destruction. Then looked at his child.

He made this with his hands. Something pure, morally empty, a vessel to fill. He made something that wasn’t a tool of destruction, a machine of death. Something new. Something clean.

Tears were blinding his vision before he knew what was happening, mixing with the blood from the clawmarks, and he choked back sobs while hugging the child, trying not to hug as tightly as he wanted to, scared it would squish the poor thing to death.

Minutes went by before he finally looked up and out the window at the dingy, smoky, godforsaken city before him. The city of thieves. The city of death. The city of smoke and whores and bedlam and capitalistic supremacy.

“You don’t belong here,” he muttered. “Fuck, you grow up here, you’ll just be another me.”

He shook his head, fighting back another tear.

“This world doesn’t even need one of me, let alone two.”

He paced, cradling the child, until he finally went to a dresser, and pulled out an old scratched-up map of the city. He unfolded it on the table, and searched Skyside until he found it. Orgar’s Zeppelins. He had enough money squirreled away to get a ride somewhere. Somewhere far. Somewhere no one would find him.

But where?

Who fucking cares? Anywhere is better than here. Better than this.

He looked down into his baby’s eyes as the second eye started to open, and he could see light finally enter those brilliant, shining amber eyes. He yawned, his tiny needle-like teeth baring out with a squeak, and Kroweth fought back another tear, gently bouncing him in his arms.

Anywhere is better than here.