Saint Makael hovered just a few inches off the ground of the mafia base. A gaggle of men had machine guns within point-blank range of his fuzzy, snouty face, just about ready to blow his precious, chiseled chin to smithereens if he floated just a few paces closer. He was in a precarious situation–so what? He'd been in these types of situations before.
He flinched. Bullets flew into his face. Orange sparks of light flew from the gangsters' machine guns. As the last bullet dropped from his feather and hit the floor, the men stood there, pure shock in their faces.
The leader of the mafia stepped forward, a crude old curmudgeon. A hermit of sorts, he pointed a rocket launcher into Saint Makael's face and pulled the trigger, a sphere of smoke filling the area.
When the smoke cleared, the archangel remained, still holding the rocket. He sent it back to the man, orange and yellow emitting from the man's skin as his entire body evaporated.
Gunshots filled the air. Saint Makael swung forward with his rapier, folding his wings against his body like he was a note and his wings were the creases of an envelope, bracing himself against the visceral gore that splattered against his wings, against the daggers that slashed against his feathers and shattered into pieces, against the bruises of his past. Gunshots sprung off the archangel, returned to senders. Like unwanted gifts: returned to senders.
And suddenly his wings ripped back out, and he whipped forward with his rapier and cut down the barrel of a machine gun, spinning around and cutting down another machine gun and bolting into the sky.
The men sighed a breath of relief, thinking the coast was clear.
Descending upon the gangsters, the archangel cocked his neck back and thrust his hip forward.
The men looked at each other with confusion, then with looks of horrified realization.
Then they burst into flames, all of them screaming in pain as their faces melted and their skin charred. Eventually, the men dissolved into the ground, their teeth falling out and rolling onto the front door of their hideout as the archangel basked in the sunlight, victorious.
Elias was falling in love with Destiny. He hated to admit it, but he was in love with Saint Makael's former girlfriend. The former king was love-struck.
What made things worse was that Destiny was in love with Hekezel (his ex girlfriend) and Hekezel loved Destiny back. What made things even worse than that was that Zacchias (Elias' brother) was confused, and he loved Destiny, Hekezel and Saint Makael. Elias also liked Saint Makael. What made things worse is that this was the worst things could get: Elias didn't know who to pick, and he wasn't sure if anyone would pick him back.
Right now, Elias was going on a date with Destiny, and he borrowed Zacchias' tailor to help him prepare, as well as to discuss the current state of political affairs.
The man worded everything so elegantly. He had long white hair and wore a white shirt, a black button-up vest with white buttons and black slacks. He slipped the aqua puffer jacket onto Elias and spoke to him in that comforting voice Elias liked to listen to, he slipped a pair of cuffs onto Elias' shoulder whilst looking at him with those wise and studious eyes and giving Elias that gaze he always liked; the tailor moved his hands up Elias' shoulder and fitted him with a pair of shoulder pads, and he sent Elias off to the dressing room with a cutesy miniskirt with white leather boots and dyed cyan hair.
Elias was a potato, but he was a handsome potato.
"Perfection," said the tailor, blowing his own work of art a sweet, succulent kiss. "As always, my work is perfection."
"Oh," Elias began to think, "why not?" He walked over to the tailor, and the tailor immediately swooned for him. Elias kissed the tailor, then pranced off in his white leather boots. He still had a date with destiny, but he needed the tailor to motivate him and make him feel confident–he reassured himself that kissing the tailor was merely a small detour in his romantic life.
-
Destiny, followed by a legion of furrians, patrolled the night skies. The air was flooded with an eerie sense of unease, and the streets were teeming with panic-stricken citizens as EMS hauled another body out in a body bag. Citizens yelled at EMS and the authorities from their high-up balconies, piled out from the grungy shops below and yelled from behind caution tape. The EMS officer–wearing a baby blue surgical mask, rolled his eyes dismissively as members from the crowd threw tomatoes and raised their fists. He took one last look at the body bag, glancing momentarily at the body inside–a mafia man that had scars running down his face, TImmy-Timmy, who owned a small stand where people bought illicit materials from him directly–and zipped the body bag back up before hopping into the ambulance.
Destiny, watching this from above, reeled in disgust as he looked at the man's charred face. "One more mysterious murder," she thought. "A mystery in a mysterious conspiracy, a cold case where all the evidence is laid out before us." Her black hair briskly flew with the wind as lightning fell behind her, crashing into the ground like a fallen angel, her milky white fur shooting forward as it hit the ground and a fire sprung up.
Another furrian–one cast in the shadows, a man with a brawny figure with a stern expression and a disgruntled face, with long black hair that was wetted by the hammering rain and drooped down her face like damp party streamers–named Sundang, slowly hovered over to Destiny's side and placed their arm around Destiny's shoulder, muttering, "It's a cold night. I think I'll go see my boyfriend Jarus all the way back at HQ, if you don't mind."
Destiny asked him, "Want to go out for a beer tomorrow?"
"No," he replied, shaking his head. "I need to report our findings to the queen back at Furrza. Maybe I'll also report our findings out in the woods."
Sundang began to fly away, but Destiny grabbed him by the feather of a wing and yanked him back to the rooftop, muttering, "Wait, what findings?" Sundang tried to free himself from her grip, but her hold only tightened. Her face darkened and her eyes narrowed in on his, her fangs pierced her bitey growl and Sundang began stumbling over his words. "Quiet," Destiny hushed, "and what woods?"
"I'm surprised the queen never told you," Sundang stammered. "But then again, I'm not surprised, 'cause she never tells anybody anything."
"Told me what, Sundang?" hissed Destiny, the other Furrians watching from afar as she pulled him closer and growled at his watery eyes, a confession slipping from his lips as foreboding crimson thunderclouds lit up bleakly in the skies above.
A memory flashed in her eyes, and the streets erupted with screams as flames sprouted from a nearby building. She let Sundang go and swooped down to assess the situation…
Panicked citizens burst out from a diner, the last one of them being the tattered business owner– a middle-aged Falstaffian man with long coal hair, twirling his mustache and hobbling out using his cane. He opened his mouth; a cigar fell out, and a wave of smoke dissipated into the burning air around him. He waved his fists, silently cursing himself out for his own mistakes as Destiny landed behind him. Stumbling away from the burning mess of an establishment, the man muttered something to himself about having to open up a new restaurant.
Caught off guard by a chunk of burning, falling debris, his cane fell out of his hand; he twirled his mustache and picked up his cane; and he gasped in horror as he turned around, Destiny's imposing figure standing above him. Destiny muttered, "Going somewhere, chief?"
"My business is my business," said the man in a grumbly fashion, drawing a pistol from his suit and pointing it at Destiny's face, "and it only concerns me."
"Your business is illegal," Destiny said, swiping through the air and cutting the man's pistol in twain, wrapping her drenched arm–textured like a scarf of milky white fur, with white furry mittens that had black hooks curving out of each finger and back in–around the man's chest and yanking him off the ground. His legs squirmed and the man–raindrops slithering down his suit as the bloody-skied night raged with thunder and was rattled by fluorescent lightning–to no response cried. "And your business is done, boss."
An arnis stick hurtled into Destiny's shoulder. Absorbing the pain, Destiny flinched. She dropped the boss and looked down at the long, narrow street as the eskrima stick recoiled, Damara catching it in her hand and running it through her short black hair, neon-maroon lightning illuminating her pale skin as she charged through the blistering rain and at Destiny.
"What's all this for?!" Destiny mumbled, shaking her head as she descended and blocked Damara's downward strike. Her right claws whisked through the air and left a gash on Damara's face; then, Destiny fluttered back as Damara pressed forward with her blades, a fluster of attacks landing not-so-neatly on her wings.
"What's this, really?" Destiny cried, letting her wings billow out and crash into the store markets on either side of her as she hollered, "What are you doing, and what do you really think you're accomplishing here?"
"You really don't know who I am?!" Damara cried, launching herself into the air and spitting down on Destiny's face, whipping her left arnis stick against Destiny's face and following up with her right. "You have main character syndrome, don't you, motherfucker?!"
"Do you think your luck's that good?" As Damara landed another attack, Destiny sliced one of her kali blades in twain, mumbling, "Do you really want to try that?"
The streets were clear of any civilian casualties at this point, so Destiny let go of any self control. She took a deep breath.
"You're really arrogant, aren't you?!" Damara cried, slamming a kali blade into Destiny's ankle and jamming another into Destiny's stomach.
Suddenly, Destiny howled into the street, whisking Damara back and into a window ledge (in front of a fashion department's store display) and putting her to sleep. She ascended, basking in the light pollution of neon billboards (whose beaming yellow, lime and pink hues mixed as they glistened onto her fur) and crimson clouds.
-
Pepperman Dave, Pepperman, Peppa Dee, Don Peppa, Pep Dave–whatever people called him, however they knew him–it didn't matter. Everyone feared big ol' PD–everyone but Cheddar Mousette, that is. Cheddar Mousette was different from the other furrians. From a faraway place known as Swazergrad, descended from a series of guerilla mouse fighters, she was no ordinary mousegirl–she was a mousette. Meaning, she was born to fight.
Cheddar Mousette was born to defy crime and defend the just and the downtrodden, despite what her rotten past might have you believe about her character. Walking through the barren, abandoned Rivalian streets of Ellerdine, she was an embattled soldier who had participated in many of Rivalo's engagements against Mastima. They were allies, after all, and her town was obligated to partake in this battle if they were to receive protection against Swazergrad's political rivals.
Of course, this town was familiar to her, the one she dragged herself through. It was the home of one of her greatest political rivals, and one of Swazergrad's most wanted foes: Pepperman Dave. That's why she was here–she was called down to Rivalo in order to carry out an arrest against Pepperman Dave. She didn't know all of the details, but she vaguely recalled petty theft, mugging and fraud as some of the reasons for the arrest. None of his worst crimes were on the list–Pepperman Dave knew that for sure.
His hideout wasn't too far from where she was now; the gang boss lived in a rusty tavern, one that was–"Wait," she thought. "Is that gunshots?"
Several loud bangs erupted from the tavern, a dusty, short establishment that lived between the piles of luxurious steel frames with brick interiors.
Cheddar Mousette–dressed in an all black combat uniform, rushed to the scene. Her long, violet hair blew in the wind. Her breath sped up and her eyes narrowed as she reached the tavern, where Pepperman sat in one corner, a gaggle of women lying in front of him and covered in blood.
"What the hell went down here?" Cheddar Mousette muttered, removing a flashlight from her black bulletproof puffer jacket and switching it on, a circular beam of light blasting across the room and hitting another creature of white fur.
"What do you think?" Destiny shot back, walking into the light and absorbing its brightness as she approached. She rashly swiped at Pepperman with her claw–cutting the wind near his cheek into fragments of thin, brisk air, her only intent was to further scare the already frightened gang boss–and swung her arm back to her side, offering the tall, slender mousette a handshake with her other paw. "Looks like someone got to Pepperman o'er here, and now look! He's frightened in the corner."
"Like a little puppy," Cheddar said sarcastically, coughing up a ball of spit and hurtling it at his face. "Like a scared little puppy."
"Anyway," said Destiny, shaking Cheddar's hand. "Pleased to meet you. I've heard a lot about you, but I've never met you in person." Destiny kicked Pepperman between the legs, a wave of pain running up his spine and distress filling his face and tightly shut eyes. With the pleasantries out of the way and having collected the evidence they needed, the two furrians exited the tavern, but were promptly confronted by a gang of thieving bandits.
"You're some of them furrians," said the leader of the bandits, a man wearing a white bandana said, one wearing a cowboy hat and some of those fancy leather boots Destiny always wanted. "My name's Cheapo, but you missies can call me–"
"Shut the fuck up," Cheddar spat, Destiny looking at her with a bewildered face. The other gang members–dressed in similar (but more gray and muted) apparel joined the leader–surrounding Cheddar and Destiny, all carrying revolvers and riding mustangs, frowning. "You think you scare me," Cheddar continued, "but you don't, so all of you: shut the fuck up."
"Is this a challenge?" one of the other gangsters spat.
"Why don't you pull the trigger and find out?" Destiny retorted, holding her claws against her face and putting one leg out.
"A challenge it is," the leader said, quickly drawing his revolver.
Destiny shot into the sky and zipped back down, disarming the leader.
Cheddar jumped at the leader and tackled him off his horse, his wild pony speeding off into the distance as Cheddar pinned him to the ground.
Destiny flew over Cheddar's head and whirled another gangster off his mustang, the grumbly man's deep voice suddenly squealing in a gurgly fashion as his white hat flew off somewhere–never to be seen again–and his beard squashed against his face and he face-planted into a cactus.
One of the gangsters engaged Cheddar, catching her by surprise and punching her in the nose. She dodged the next punch, then flipkicked and backflipped against the gangster, spinning around and punching the man in the face.
More gangsters surrounded Destiny and Cheddar, arriving on horseback and tilting their cowboy hats down with a prideful smirk.
Destiny shot through one of the gangsters, bodying them and slamming them into the floor, her wings billowing out and slapping the man into the powdery road, emulsified pavement flying into her face and coating the seams of her wings in an ashy gray substance.
Cheddar jerked back as another gangster approached her, grabbed the gangster and kicked him between the legs, finishing off the last of the gangsters.
Sticking her thumbs into her belt and twitching her whiskers, Cheddar muttered, "That was it. What now?'
"Well," Destiny replied, sniffing the air. "First, you tell me why you were going here."
"No," insisted Cheddar. "You tell me first, and then I tell you." They went back and forth for a while, but eventually Cheddar explained, "I heard what was going on in the main city, so I was going to go here and bust Pepperman before anyone else could."
"Well, he's still unconscious back at the tavern, so you've certainly accomplished that," Destiny mused. "Now, you used to be a contract worker, right? I have a job for you."