Enter Pyos

Chapter 1: Enter Pyos

 

Shada’s hotel was just over two miles from his meeting, but he left early. He would show up exactly on time, dressed like this would be a meeting of legitimate businessmen, and he needed time to walk. He was leery of the local cabs; they were rare, poorly-maintained, and stank of sweat and smoke.

 

Still, Shada was comfortable with Lenka. The shopfronts sagged like they were old and tired, and were staffed by employees who looked similarly old and tired. The streets were narrow, cracked, patched unevenly; when cars passed they crunched over more potholes than pavement. A skinny dog lay in a gutter. It might have been sleeping, or dead. Lenka was a shithole. Shada was used to it. He had grown up in a Fuevok outside Lachaskan, and that damn near made him a shithole connoisseur.

 

Shada checked his watch. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, chewing a toothpick. Still twenty minutes until the meeting and he hadn’t yet eaten�"and, as luck would have it, there was a convenience store just ahead. The sign was unintelligible�"nothing but blocky Leskiy scribbles�"but it’s hard to mistake a convenience store for anything else.

 

There was a hobo sleeping on the stairs leading to the shop, a scrawny thing with lank dark hair. Shada passed him without much thought. He bought a sandwich and a bag of chips, employing the few phrases he knew of the local language.

 

On the way out, however, he paused. The hobo was still curled beside the shop door like a cat, but now he blinked sleepily at Shada. His eyes were blue. Suddenly Shada was struck by how young he was�"just a kid, with his skin stretched tight around his skull and his bones straining to escape his body.

 

Shada hesitated, then cursed. He drew the sandwich out of his bag and placed it on the step, beside the kid’s bony hand.

 

He walked away. Halfway down the sidewalk, he looked back. The kid was sitting up with the sandwich clutched in both hands. He hadn’t bitten into it yet; instead, he was staring back at Shada. His expression unreadable.

 

For one long second, Shada stared back. Then he resumed his walk. He had a meeting to attend, and a bag of chips to eat. He did not think about the kid on the stairs for the rest of the day.

 

 

�-�         �-�         �-�

 

Two days later, Shada passed the same convenience store. He thought about stepping in again, but decided against it�"three hours of negotiating with those Bratva a******s really soured his stomach. He spent the entire meeting fantasizing about punching the ringleader in the face; he couldn’t decide what was most irritating about them, their grating mother tongue or their disgusting cigars.

 

Shada drew a toothpick from his pocket and placed it between his teeth. He clenched down savagely. According to his watch he had another sixteen hours until his flight back to Lachas took off. As far as Shada was concerned, he couldn’t board the plane soon enough. The country was fine, it was the people he hated.

 

He heard a click from behind him. Then a thud and a shout.

 

Shada whirled, hand flying to the gun in his jacket. The hobo kid from the other day stood between Shada and a third man, who was screaming in Leskiy. Shada didn’t need to understand the words to understand the reason�"two fingers splayed out at an unnatural angle, cradled in the other hand. A switchblade was laying open in the street.

 

Spitting a curse, the man threw a punch with his good hand. The kid took the blow full in the face and stumbled backwards, but made no sound. He shifted his weight, retained his balance. The man drove forward again and this time the kid deflected the hit and struck. The man’s elbow gave in a splintering crack, like old wood. A moment later he was on the ground.

 

Now he was whining, a high-pitched keening in the back of his throat. The sleeve on one arm had drawn back, and stamped into the skin was a clumsy tattoo�"Bratva. The kid stood very still over him, eyes all black and blue, blood in his mouth.

 

Around them, people muttered. A woman cried for the cops. Shada reached out and grabbed the kid. His fingers reached all the way around his bicep, pressed into bone. The kid looked sideways at him and said something in Leskiy, his teeth outlined in blood.

 

“I dunno what you’re sayin’, kid,” Shada said. “Come on.” He gave a tug and began walking briskly, hauling the kid along with him. “Come on. Walk fast.”

 

The kid obliged, although it was unclear whether or not he understood any Lachan at all. He was shaking in his thin skin, pale and suddenly exhausted, stumbling as much as he walked. He gave a cough that ground in his chest like worn machinery. He allowed Shada to lead him away.