Chapter 19: Justice

Chapter 19: Justice

Cheers, Sebastian! You shouldn’t have!”

“Nonsense!” the lobster cultist said. “I still feel terrible about the other day, and it’s the least I can do.”

I accepted the mug, bathing in the scent flowing from it. “I couldn’t possibly say no to a free cup of coffee! Thank you, mate!”

He smiled again, wide and genuine. “You’re very welcome, Fischer.” He shot a look back toward Tropica. “I just wanted to drop that off—hope you have a morning as pleasant as you are.”

“Thanks, mate, you too!”

Sebastian waved goodbye as he turned and made his way back toward the village. I set the mug in my bucket, keen on finding a fishing spot before indulging—my hands were full, after all.

Sebastian kept taking glances back at me, and I gave him a wave. “Nice bloody bloke, that guy . . .”

When he was gone, I returned to Snips. She’d seen the encounter from her stealthy spot in the river and came to meet me where she’d dropped the rod.

“He brought me coffee!” I said to her. “Now, let’s find a nice quiet spot for some fishing . . .”

We walked until the sound of the otter’s tapping was far from earshot, finding a spot on the riverbank that was deep enough to hold fish. Snips sat beside me as I cast the line of tiny jigs out. When it hit the water, I held the rod with one hand, and reached to take a sip of my life-giving coffee with the other.

Snips was inspecting the bucket and mug within curiously, her body tilting back and forth as she smelled the brew.

“You wanna try some, Snips?” I picked it up, holding it down to her.

“I don’t know if you’ll like it, but a little caffeine couldn’t hurt . . .”

She dipped a claw in, getting a single drop on her limb, then tentatively shoved it in her mouth. Her reaction was immediate and violent.

She spewed bubbles of confusion and anger, smacking the mug. It shattered in a spray of coffee and glass, leaving me with just the handle grasped firmly in my hand.

“What the hell, Snips?” I demanded, but she was already gone. She leaped into the river.

Did I piss her off . . . ? I hope she isn’t going back to harass that otter . . .

She emerged again, running faster than I’d ever seen as she returned to me. She had something clamped in her claw, and as I squinted at it, a prompt populated.

Widow’s Vengeance

Rare

Found in the brackish waters of the Kallis Realm, the poison of this fish is harvested for use in alchemical creations of an odious nature.

She gestured at the fish with her free claw, then at the pile of broken glass and spilled coffee. Repeating this gesture, she glared at me.

“It . . . the coffee is poison?” I asked.

A devious plan occurred to her, and with a long glance at the doomed poisoner, her claw begging to snap closed, she withdrew.

She walked back out of his room, climbing the first wooden construction. She devoured each and every one of the sea snippers, going from tank to tank and scooping them up with her claws, shoving them into her devouring mouth. They had a delightful crunch. They weren’t quite as good as the food her master provided, reminding her of the time before awareness. Nonetheless, her revenge was sweet, lending a complex undertone to the feast she helped herself to.

When the last tiny morsel was eaten, she walked to the wall opposite the poisoner’s door and scratched a message. Her claw left behind decisive marks in the soft wood—an accusation, and a warning.

With the message soon to be delivered, and a belief that Sebastian would no longer pose a threat, Snips made to leave, but something caught her attention—she smelled another sea snipper somewhere in the building.

Walking to a crudely hidden portal in the floor, she lifted it, revealing a sea snipper of gigantic proportions. With a malicious glint in her eye, she lowered her powerful clacker—as the master so affectionately called it—and prepared to end the sea snipper’s existence.

With a single command, her muscles would contract and execute one of the enemy’s numbers—and yet, they didn’t. She cocked her carapace in confusion. Her brain said that the sea snipper had to die; her claw didn’t obey. Whether it was her master’s innate kindness being infectious, her reluctant admittance of the creature’s size and majesty, or some other unknown whim guiding her, every instinct told her not to kill the creature.

Another devious plan occurred to her, one that she couldn’t fully articulate, even to herself.

With a nod of approval at her own deceitfulness, she slammed her claw shut, cutting through the sea snipper with ease.

Sebastian woke with a sudden gasp, perhaps having escaped a nightmare which even now evaded him. As his brain started working, the memory of yesterday’s events returned and a wolfish grin spread over his face.

He had delivered justice. He’d not heard of anyone finding Fischer’s lifeless body yesterday, but knew it was only a matter of time before someone found the man. He’d monitored his relic the entire day, hiding in the Cult of the Leviathan’s building so as to not draw suspicion to himself. That it had remained blinking the entire day was a good thing; it meant that the death was slow, a deserving fate of anyone so blatantly going against his cult’s purpose.

He rose from the bed, stretched lazily, and strode over to his desk. The device lay there, and with a cruel smirk, he peered at it. The smirk died as he saw the light, still flashing red.

Wh—what? The poison was supposed to be slow . . . but this is too much. He should have passed by now. Did the alchemist sell me snake oil?

He threw his door open. “Gary! I need you to—” The words died in his throat as he caught sight of a word carved into the wall. His eyes drifted down, landing on an antenna that could only belong to a single creature. He ran and picked it up, panic seizing his heart.

“No . . .” Sebastian bolted for the trapdoor, throwing it open with reckless abandon. “No, no, no, no . . .”

He held the antenna with numb hands as he stared down at the empty tank. His life’s work had been slaughtered; the fifty-year-old lobster granted to him by the capital branch upon his relocation was no more.

He felt nothing, shock robbing him of all emotions. Glancing at the tanks, he hoped, prayed, but no. They were all empty, each of his lovely crickets gone.

He returned his eyes to the single word scrawled in the wall, deep and exacting.

POISONER.

His stomach dropped out, and he crawled back from the message as if physically distancing himself could take back every action of the last few days.

“Woah,” Gary said, pointing at the antenna. “Is that from Pistachio . . . ?”

“He-he lived through the poison—h-he killed Pistachio . . .”

“Who did?” Gary asked, leaning down to touch the words cut into the wall. “Nice handwriting, that.”

Sebastian’s response was filled with anger, confusion, and fear. “F-Fischer . . .”