Apollo
Tradesman
19 | THE WOLF TO MEN III | 2,600 |
“And thank you,” Tycho said, smiling ear to ear. “A pleasure, as always, mister Wiscard.”
Cold metal filled both his hands, soothing his palms like nothing else could. Enamored by the sight, the golden and silver coins of exa stayed there a moment longer before he stashed them in his lockbox under the counter.
The aged velen across the counter closely examined the semi-automatic rifle he’d spent top dollar for. Drawing his veiny, nictitating membrane back, Wiscard scrutinized every custom feature with boundless patience: the bipod was useful for his feeble joints; the lighter barrel supplemented this as well, and the added barrel length neutralized any drop in accuracy; the chamber was refitted to a larger caliber as well. The more he continued to look, the more the skeptical edge in his green eyes thickened.
“This is fine work,” Wiscard commented.
Tycho might’ve noticed by the way that was delivered that it wasn’t a compliment. He was too busy recounting his take for the twentieth time today.
“Thank you, thank you,” Tycho said, having yet to return eye contact with his customer. “Always the best for you, mister Wiscard.”
Despite his concentration, Wiscard took note of his obliviousness and overall infantility. He was the closest thing the junior entrepreneur had to a return customer, yet it still somehow further inflated the proprietor’s hollow self-esteem. At almost eighty years of age, the old velen was not far from his doddering days. However, having traded with the boy’s father for decades, Wiscard still knew the grandmaster gunsmith’s work when he saw it.
He came to T.S.G. as a favor to his old friend, but journeying fully across the metropolis for a sham was a bit much.
“You didn’t even notice it, did ya, kid?” Wiscard said.
That somehow managed to break Tycho from his hypnosis.
“E-Excuse me?”
Tycho looked up and found piercing wide saucers looking right through him. The odd placement of the gun in the velen’s hands drew his eyes to it. The buttstock faced him, and an unwanted pang of déjà vu jolted the greenhorn. The faint protrusion edging the leather wrapping gave away what was inscribed on the wood underneath. The location of the inscription was familiar to them both.
And it definitely didn’t spell out “Tycho.”
Wiscard smirked shallowly, and Tycho gave a forced and nervous chuckle, shrugging.
“How’s about a few extra cartridges for old time’s sake?” the velen offered, flipping the rifle over and stowing it in his long satchel. “Think I’ll pop by the range on the way home.”
Tycho fumbled with a few words but gave up quickly. Wiscard watched him scurry to the other side of the store where there was ammunition. He grabbed an armful of 8-millimeter boxes, nearly dropping them on the way back. Helping the old gaffer stuff them into his satchel, Tycho quickly ushered him to the door to rid himself of the lingering awkwardness.
“Tell the old man I said ‘hi’,” Tycho said.
Wiscard strode through the threshold without a fuss. “I will, son.”
Neither of them seemed concerned about the old velen venturing out into Lupanar at such an hour. Wiscard could certainly handle himself, though, and it was a short walk to Dioecesis from here. The other was more concerned with closing up shop for the night and heading home. With a wave of the hand, his last customer of the day disappeared in the night.
The proprietor breathed a sigh of relief, closed the door, and locked Terminus Sporting Goods up. Flipping the OPEN sign over on the front door, Tycho clicked off all lights except one and grabbed his lockbox from behind the front counter. The weight of it felt good in his hands. The piles of gold, silver and bronze exa neatly organized inside flashed in his head as he whisked to and through the backdoor.
It’d be the twenty-first instance of tallying his profits for the day, but this was still his favorite part of the d–
“Put it down.”
The voice startled him. In an instant, Tycho shuddered, froze, and his stomach filled to the brim with swarming butterflies. Very slowly pivoting to the voice’s origin, Tycho eventually found the tall and slender figure nestled in the workshop corner between two shelves. The low-hanging workroom light left deep shadows cast above his hips.
Below the waist, the black revolver in his gloved hand shimmered.
“On the table,” the intruder calmly demanded. “Now.”
His words grew more and more impatient, which only served to glaciate Tycho even more. The proprietor, however, not wanting to project any resistance, shook himself free of his stupor and tossed the lockbox on the long worktable between them. Both hands reflexively rose up, harmlessly.
“Y-You,” he started, stammering. “Y-You don’t have to …” His eyes shifted rapidly between the thief and the lockbox. “It’s … It’s all I got, man, I–”
“No, it ain’t,” the man interjected, harshly.
Tycho’s mouth hung open, but he said nothing. Did he know who his father was? Did he know about the safe inside the workroom? He stopped himself from looking in that direction and giving it away. More importantly though, that time, the figure’s accent and articulation stood out, sounding somewhat familiar. Tycho couldn’t place a name or face to the voice immediately.
The figure walked closer, and Tycho backed up against the wall.
“You don’t wanna touch that door …”
Both eyes widened to their extents.
“Wh–”
Crossing the shadow’s edge, the man’s face was concealed behind long mask that bowed out around the crown.
“What the … What the fuck, man …!”
He reached up and removed it. Cold, amber eyes finally greeted Tycho. The skittish novice’s temper rose in kind.
“What in the fuck are you doing, dude?” Tycho barked, both hands curling into fists. “What the f–”
He caught the rest of his words in his throat at the sound of the revolver hammering clicking. Apollo reached into his coat, pulled out and dawned his teashades. Covering his eyes did little to temper his icy grimace. Tycho remained motionless, torn beneath anxiety and anger. Apollo stood abeam the other end of the table, beside the lockbox, and nodded to it.
“Open it.”
Tycho raised a curious brow. “What are you–”
The adept smith stood taller, leering down on his mark through a heavy tint, and brought his free hand to the other wrist, not repeating himself. Tycho gained a bit of courage then. It began to show through his eyes, and his furrowed brow. Both hands fell to his sides.
“What’s with the mask?” Tycho asked. “I knew it was you before you even–”
“It wasn’t for you,” Apollo answered immediately.
Raising his still-wrinkled brow, Tycho asked, “What’re you talking about?” He was given no verbal answer, instead being allowed to find his way to it. The T.S.G. proprietor frowned. “Witnesses?”
Apollo dropped his chin, his eyes hiding just underneath the crest of his teashades. It was as close to an affirmation that his mark would get.
“What the fuck are you doing, dude?” Tycho repeated. “I know who you are. I know exactly where your shop is.” He jutted a bony finger at the man. “And I know your name isn’t fucking Artano, Apollo.” Apollo didn’t budge at the revelation. “I knew it was you from the day you came into my–”
“No, you didn’t,” Apollo spat through his low baritone. Tycho meant to press on with his façade, but gave it up. The adept motioned with Hebenus to the door behind his target. “Or you never would’ve let me through that door.” Tycho remembered how he thought that mistake would never come back to bite him, cursing under his breath. “You came through my shop, didn’t you?”
He hesitated to reply, but eventually did. “Yeah, and?”
Apollo hummed, and reached into his rear pocket. He pulled out a compact revolver that was immediately familiar to the both of them and tossed on the table. Tycho watched it deflect off the lockbox and spin to a stop on the table in front of him. The two of them let the silence that followed swell. Tycho didn’t bother trying to beguile the man cross from him or delude himself into thinking he was the innocent one any longer. Having his duplicity shoved in his face only made him push back.
“Do you have any idea who my father is?” he growled.
Apollo wrinkled his brow, befuddled. “I don’t give a fuck who your daddy is.” He gestured with Hebenus to the other revolver. “How much of my shit did you sell?”
Apollo saw his jaw muscle contract. The nerve of him to be mad made his blood boil, but the adept kept his temper down to a low simmer. Tycho shrugged, unable to place an exact figure on just how much he’d sold of his plagiarized work.
“I don’t …”
“You don’t know?” Apollo asked. “Good.” He leveled Hebenus on the kid’s center mass, and Tycho flinched. “You left- or right-handed?” Completely outside himself, he muttered a few words before Apollo enunciated, “Are you left-hand or are you right-handed?”
“R-Right han–”
“Gimme your keys,” Apollo ordered. Tycho moved his right hand down to his trousers, and Apollo stepped in closer. His mark could practically see the bullet primed inside the indexed chamber. “Your other hand.”
The novice corrected himself and Apollo carefully watched him retrieve the small key ring from his pocket. There were fewer keys threaded through it than on Apollo’s. They jingled in his hand as he held them out. Dropping them into the thief’s palm, Tycho stepped back and brought his hands up again.
“Which one is it?”
Tycho looked at the lockbox, remembering how much money was in it. His bottom lip quivered as if he were on the verge of tears, but what little fortitude remained within him stayed them. Before he could beg or try to negotiate, the adept floored him.
Apollo immediately reared back and slammed four knuckles into the bridge of the boy’s nose. Tycho stumbled backward, hitting his head on the wall before collapsing on his rear end. Holding his nose, he grumbled on the floor, coddling his hemorrhaging nose. Water swelled into his tear ducts and the pain in his face aggregated in his sinuses.
Apollo checked his glove to make sure none of the boy’s blood got on it. He’d need to burn them if so, and these were his favorite pair.
“Which one is it?” he demanded again.
Tycho whined through his hands, “The small one! It has a ‘2’ on it!”
Locking the hammer back in place, Apollo put Hebenus back into his waist, looked around the room then knelt over his still-writhing culprit. He searched his pleated vest and waistline for a gun. Tycho tried to swat his hand away, but Apollo viciously slapped them back and made to clock him again. He relented, and pointed a gloved finger at the boy.
“Don’t ever in your life,” Apollo snarled through his teeth. “Put your fuckin’ hands on me.” Tycho laid there, frozen, until he felt blood trickling down into his mustache. “Sit up.”
Not bothering to wait for him to do so, Apollo yanked him up by his collared shirt. The boy’s gums were bleeding, too. Perhaps he’d forgotten his own strength … or simply let more of his anger vent than he thought.
“Since you don’t know,” Apollo began, clasping both hands together. “Exactly how much of my shit you sold, we’re going to call it even …” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the lockbox. “with that. It’ll be that simple and stay that simple unless you wanna complicate shit.”
Tycho erupted internally, but didn’t allow his impudence to get him punched again. Respiring through his gritted teeth, he finally capitulated. Tycho nodded, and Apollo returned it.
“You don’t wanna complicate shit,” Apollo warned, and patted his breast pocket. “I found the blueprints, too.” Tycho heard the folded papers inside crinkle. “I didn’t put out any bulk orders for those, so I realized you weren’t just sellin’ the ones you stole from me. Somehow, your little dumbass made copies.” The man across from him didn’t refute any of it, and was too embarrassed to look Apollo in the eyes. “Only problem is what’s up there.”
Tycho backed away from the man’s hand as he brought it up. Apollo made a finger gun with his thumb, index and ring fingers. The ‘barrel’ hovered just off the skin of the novice’s perspiring forehead.
“Y-You wouldn’t,” Tycho said, trembling. “You w–”
Apollo pressed the ‘barrel’ into his forehead, pushing his head into the wall.
“I wouldn’t?” he asked. Tycho couldn’t truly tell. “If I feel the need to, ya dad’ll never find you.” The novice glanced at his waist and the gloved hand in front of his face. It was late at night and the streets were empty. Nobody would hear or bother with the commotion. “I’ll take every gun and bullet outta here, and burn this bitch to the ground. Matter of fact, I’m forgettin’ why I’m not doing that in the first place.”
Tycho shook his head, eyes wide. “N-N …”
Apollo removed his hand from the boy’s face, pulled his sleeve back, checked his watch and scoffed. He let himself get distracted, toying with him. This was supposed to be an in-and-out job. He needed to leave.
“Like I said,” Apollo said. “This’ll only be as complicated as you make it.” He reached behind his back again, holding the black revolver there in his grip. Tycho opened his mouth to beg again, but Apollo continued first. “Don’t come to my shop again. Don’t come near my shop again. Don’t even step a foot on my fuckin’ street again. You do – and shit is going to get complicated, understood?”
The novice wiped the drying blood from his lips, and nodded.
Apollo stood up, right hand still hidden behind him, and retrieved the lockbox from the table. He motioned for Tycho stand up and gestured to the rear door leading to the narrow alleyway out back. Begrudgingly, the proprietor guided him there. There wasn’t a firearm or weapon on the beeline to the door, but Apollo observed the kid carefully as he followed behind him.
Tycho turned the door handle, noticing it was still unlocked, and laughed to himself.
“I asked you if you knew who my father was,” he said, managing to smile through the pain. “You really don’t know, do you?”
Apollo slipped his mask on again before moving to the door. He had the boy step back into the room so he could walk unfettered into the night.
“Things are gonna get real complicated for you, Apollo …”
Dismissing the boy’s barbs, the adept scanned his surroundings for law enforcement or onlookers, checking the surrounding tenements. It was clear. Tycho stepped up to the threshold, and Apollo brought his hand back to Hebenus, backpedaling down the alley.
“You’ll know who he is soon enough,” Tycho said. “Just you fucking wait …” Apollo pivoted and picked up his pace as the boy got louder. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with!” Tycho’s deep scowl followed his beloved lockbox as it gained distance from him. He could hear it pinging around inside. “You think you can fuck me over and just walk the fuck away? This’ll be the last fucking mistake you ever make in your life, you motherfucker!”
Apollo slipped around the corner at speed without a word.
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