Time passed.
It wasn't fast nor slow but simply unhurried.
Muho gradually grasped the feeling of being able to move his body. A dull pain leisurely sprawled all over his nerves, the lessened fervor enough for him to accustom his body to the sensation of activity once more.
Though it wasn't enough to assuage his poor gullet. The feeling of wanting to vomit stuck to the back of his throat as if a heavy weight had settled on the lowest bit of his tongue.
His digits stirred first, strength clamping down on the ends of his flesh. Then, power crawled down, gingerly alleviating his frailty enough for him to push himself up, his arms bearing most of his weight.
Pulling his face off the ground, he noticed that his arms were a little less burly. Muho worried that he had lost a lot of poundage due to all the excessive activity. Coupled with losing an undoubtedly substantial amount of blood, he raised his head and inspected the rest of his body.
Expectedly, he had lost a lot of mass. Though there was something strange, no, perplexing. He didn't feel any weaker, and his body had maintained his overall shape; healthy, high muscularity befitting a bull, and rife with vigor.
His frame had just become a tad bit austere, taking his monstrous physique and trimming it down a bit. Like a blade to a whetstone, he even felt a little stronger, sharper, and more acute!
Even the slight breeze couldn't hide from his ears. While this was entirely normal air, his senses had already surpassed the average person's.
He stumbled up to his feet, his legs protesting as he did so. Muho gritted his teeth and leaned against the closest wall, using it to support his unsteady progression.
With lurching steps, he shambled, a hand fixed on the bricks at all times. The filtered blue light sifted past the rooftops and wires overlooking the alley as the injured young man had already passed the highway overpass.
(I don't think I can climb up those stairs...and I can't let Edna see me like this. She'll ask what happened and lecture me as I bleed out...ugh...)
Muho deliberated on whether or not he should ask for help. If so, where could he go? Of course, knowing Caes Patrick almost intimately, he could tell where he should absolutely NOT go under any circumstances...but that was all.
There was no clinic in the district, and the best he could get would either be some fraudulent or greedy practitioner's half-assed consultation. He could go to the small market 4 Spade and search for the pharmaceutical aisle, but he didn't bring any lapins with him...
(You know, this is the first time I've actually despised being in this trashfire of a district. Most of my hate for this place is satire since I know it's the best we can do right now. Hell, I'd probably have to sell my liver to get some healing in the normal city.)
With these thoughts, Muho diligently progressed, his face pale and fevered. He could sense that if he were to stop moving, he would collapse and sleep. Although he was safe earlier, being vulnerable in the backstreets wasn't any more appealing than it had ever been.
Which was to say that it wasn't appealing at all! Abhorrent would be a much more apt descriptor. Muho's face scrunched as his lips tightened just thinking about it, his muscles straining with newfound gusto.
An agonizing half an hour later, Muho was back on the up-and-up side of the city. Well, as upright and respectable as Caes Patrick could be. If it hadn't stuck in yet, this place's notoriety was well warranted as shadowed outlines lugged pipes lined with concrete and rebar as they swaggered into the alleyways.
(A gang war? Or are they just Factotums...shit, I don't have time to be curious! Just avoid them and find somewhere secluded...just have to do that.)
Muho turned his nose and forced his body to stand upright. Then, walking past the buildings with confident strides, one of the obscured figures glanced over and saw him.
"Shit...all that blood, and he seems damn healthy?! Better not fuck with him...he already has a reputation."
"Who're you talking about, man. Too many fellas here have a reputation."
"You know, that scruffy Matador or whatever. Remember how he broke ol' Clark's arm? That and some of our other guys...we wanted revenge but then he went and broke some more limbs!"
"Whatever man. Yesterday's news. We're off to see the rumors about the scavenged copy of Everything is Bury, so get your mind straight. Or do you want that guy to put you in a splint? Maybe if you complain long enough he'll be gentle? Since you're such a frail and petty man..."
"You're an ass, Riley."
"Tough shit. Hard enough being a human as it is. I'm not coddling you."
And just like that, Muho successfully escaped danger. Maybe his luck was turning for the better after having dealt with a massive setback?
(And on that note, I better hustle. Nothing good comes from high luck...that's like asking for a dollar and receiving a stolen briefcase...)
Keeping his grips bundled between firm lips, he blearily looked for something that would get him out of his current predicament. Anything. Muho wasn't the kind of man who would turn his nose up at clutching at straws...provided, that was if he had no other answers to his current situation.
Like a raft in the middle of an expansive sea, salvation arrived in the form of bundled-together wood and glue. Sticky notes were strewn about the small sidewalk sign in no particular order, but the area around it was neat and tidy as if it had been freshly maintained.
The wooden doors held transparent glass that made up much of their bodies, allowing Muho to see the insides of the building. A sign that had the same appearance as a destination sign.
It read: "Drunk Dead, Don't Die."
On an upraised platform, a man sat in a booth while arranging something at his side. Muho couldn't tell what it was, but he looked at the sticky notes closely to determine whether this was a conspicuous area or not.
Instead of a sign, there were simply the words "Closed until 2 PM today. Sorry."
Right...Muho reached for his Repressor Pin as it glowed with light blue flares. The Clock Module was his best bet at telling the time right now since he had no doubt that the mess of sharp bits in his left pocket was the remains of his departed phone.
He silently recited a funeral rite, almost seeing the ghost of phone time past float up into the heavens.
*********
Clock Module Ver 1.28 (needs update).
Current Area: Metro Celtia (Stationary)
Scheduling...
...
...
Current Time: 12:26 PM
*********
"...You've been putting that off for a while, huh?"
Muho suddenly jumped, the man that was once inside propping open the door with a single arm, his other hand occupied with peeling an apple.
"Well, no need for all that. No need to be a stranger; I can tell you need help, kid."
The man calmly explained and showed that the knife in his hand was quite dull. That didn't make anything better in Muho's eyes, though, since dull knives were statistically more dangerous than sharp ones. Also, he lived in the glorified badlands, basically the boonies, as it were.
"Suit yourself. You can either receive help from me or bleed out, alright? I have to clean up my spot, so please take your body to the nearest waste receptacle. Let's not make Kuaemac's job any harder, hm?"
The man gave a casual shrug and slunk back into the bar as if the words he said had absolutely nothing to do with him.
Muho propped open the door before glancing all around his surroundings and then back at his body. He felt his flesh, sticky and pasty from the drying blood and the slick wetness of the clothing that stuck to his back.
He felt slimy and gross. And most importantly, he realized he was out of options...
He stepped on the freshly polished wood planks and surveyed the place that served as both a restaurant and bar. The counter was lined with suds and a washrag, tables were scattered around, and there were plenty of nicknacks, adornments, and even posters of a few indie bands, not to mention the popular ones.
All in all, it had a very homely, if not a little rugged, appeal.
"Yo. I thought you would have let a couple of flies in before you actually went inside."
The man, who seemed to be in the earliest of his twenties, whistled, drawing Muhi's immediate attention. Now that he was out of the frying pan...he realized that the man had quite a heavy Boston accent.
He stood at 6"3, his body looking toned and well proportioned with a strong back, arms, shoulders, and calves. The muscularity of his body didn't offset the shagginess of his overall appearance, though.
He was suitably handsome, though a little unruly and rugged in appearance. He had a group of thin, prickly, yet prominent hair strands that barely qualified as a mustache and beard. His hair was a shaggy mess that was black in color, the bangs sloppily falling over his forehead, and layers of hair feathered up at the ends, billowing out to the sides and even the back of his head.
He had solid eyebrows and short eyelashes, all veiling eyes with iridescent irises. He had a prim nose, sideburns that trailed off, and downturned lips, and his visible hands and arms lacked any hair yet were pockmarked with old bullet wounds.
He wore a white shirt with a clover design tapered at the collarbone. The shirt was tucked inside a pair of black dress pants, both of his wrists donning broken watches, and a green floral apron that only fell level to the midpoint of his quadriceps, as well as mismatched socks and sanitized slippers.
As he turned around to place down the knife, Muho saw the pattern on the back of his shirt. It was the icon for the bar, the words wreathing around a pleasant-looking leprechaun swigging a mug of ale.
"Well don't just stare! Take a seat and lemme see what's wrong with you, alright? You must be Muho, me and Kuaemac chat about you from time to time. Least stressing tenant, ey? I wonder if that position would be shooken if you dragged a blood trail onto his carpet, haha."
Muho realized who the man was after these words.
Young Beckham, or that's what people called him half of the time. He didn't know the reason for the other name, and Muho didn't really want to indulge himself in rumors.
The only snippet of information that reached his ears other than his name was some excerpts about his personality. He was described as a kind man with a big heart, though he was a bit insane, as were most of the people living in Caes Patrick. He seemed to be quite the understanding guy and often bonded with his clientele, giving some major discounts even if they incurred a loss.
Just judging by the state of the place, it was easy to glean that he was quite passionate about his restaurant. Everything was pleasantly kept and well-buffed, though a little cluttered. A pleasant smell wafted from each and every corner, and there were no unsightly stains.
Muho sat on a high chair at the bar, as bade by Young Beckham.
The tall man looked Muho straight in the eyes, his posture bent over the counter and washcloth in hand, making gentle sweeping arcs as he maintained his silence. Then, as long seconds passed without concert, he finally spoke up.
"So, what happened to you? You look like a train missed everything but you."
His lips parted to form a soft smile, his gaze compassionate and his ears keen. Muho shifted in his seat, an uncomfortable look portrayed by his pursing lips.
It wasn't as if Young Beckham could see the rest of his face since his hair adhered onto most of it, sticky with congealed crimson liquid. With only faint cues to go on, he made a guess and decided to drop the subject, instead prompting a new one.
"All that blood can't possibly be good for you. I can figure out to help, but that's only if you're okay with me using my Particularity on ya."
"...Can't do much else, right? It's an emergency."
Muho's head hung low, his eyes staring at the burnished black countertop.