"Get, fucking, back!"
Mark shoved a desperate woman back into the crowd. He stretched his mind and watched as the swarm slightly receded.
He stepped forward, where a radius of a few meters separated him from the retreating mass of vagrants. His face was stern and his steps were heavy.
"Listen here, scoundrels. The selection is over. Go try again elsewhere, and don't you all dare try to come back. I'll beat you into goddamned squares!"
They all looked at him. Some were stunned, some shaking in fear, others trembling in utter rage, way past trepidation yet too spineless to make a move.
The sight nearly made him smile, but he forced it down in order to keep up his image. Behind Mark, his colleagues watched in reverence and shock as the 'newcomer' singlehandedly suppressed the tide of desperate workers.
Instilling a sense of defeat, the crowd bit their lips and despaired. The incorporeal weight of hopelessness pressed down as their bodies slumped and slowed while they parted from the entrance of the dock.
His fellow Hound members eventually broke from their bewilderment and rushed toward him in utter admiration.
"Mark! How did you do that?"
"Yeah, tell us! We're sorry for doubting you back there!"
"I'll forgive you for that shoddy card game, come here!"
He found himself swarmed in elation, cheers and praises raining on him with shouts and laughter. And there was no reason to oppose it.
Mark put a lively air around himself while stretching his mind and amplifying the delight of his fellow men.
They all walked to the gate, where the dockmaster waited.
An irradiant smile adorned his avaricious face.
"Good man. What a splendid show you have conducted. I can only hope that this will be something to look forward to in the future. Would you be interested in making your stay permanent, perhaps for a penny or two more?"
Mark regarded the dockmaster with completely hidden contempt. A smile was likewise plastered on his visage to cover the disgust inside.
"Thank you, but I'm not doing this only for the money. Please give me some time to think about it."
He forced the man to be content.
"The pleasure is mine, here is the pay for the day."
A meager amount of coins was precisely handed to him, but from what Mark could see, his pay was higher than what his comrades got.
'Oh well, not like I'm coming back here ever again.'
Having engraved his name into the minds of his fellow gang members, there was no reason for him to spend any more time in the wretched place, but he still had to oversee the men laboring away at the dock.
Suppressing a sigh, he went on to go and watch over the workers, at times using fear to force them to labor away at inhuman paces. As much as he disliked what he had to do, Mark knew in the back of his mind that mercy or compassion in the wrong places could get him in trouble when operating as a part of the dredges.
Only desperation and strength allowed people to succeed. That, or simply being lucky enough to be rich, like those people in the northern district...
His thoughts died and returned him to his boorish work.
How time crawled.
...
Mark left early. The dockmaster and his fellow Hound members were fine with it as he made up a 'believable' excuse. That, and he forced them into feeling nonchalance toward his leave.
He walked along the port streets. Pleasant autumn winds blew at him at the perfect temperature.
Perhaps the ambiance could have been enjoyed if he weren't so preoccupied with surveying his surroundings.
The local government enforcement wasn't too strong. In fact, it was weak enough to allow the gangs to act nearly without restraint in the majority of the city. The spread of the slums wasn't helping either.
Yet, they somehow had the time to go and pursue him. He was spotted and chased enough for it to become an annoyance more than a fright. Luckily, every encounter simply made him better at staying hidden, his routes and timing becoming more clandestine as time passed.
Soon enough, Mark had visited nearly every Hound-affiliated business and became acquainted with everyone patrolling and the personnel back at the warehouse headquarters.
And this day at the docks marked his final destination.
He was done.
Everyone knew him, to the point where sometimes a person walking along the streets would call out to him with familiarity, which Mark eventually became used to as he responded with equivalent cordiality.
It was rougher at the start. Sometimes it took days to deepen a bond, but he learned to shorten the process to hours.
His ability was vital.
When on the job, he was able to perform excellently and gain respect. At every other time, he simply exuded an amiable and warm air- like a fireplace in the winter.
In truth, Mark simply applied what he did as a bartender but got rid of the drinking part, and instead focused on publicizing himself rather than the business.
He could now do whatever he pleased.
Yet his concerns lingered like ominous clouds.
The workers at the port were becoming restless, and even the wretches on the streets and in the slums were stirring. Who knows what would happen when even the gangs fail to keep order?
Would there be a revolt? The potential for catastrophe only increased as the war continued.
There was also the Spheks.
Mark had gotten into fights with them too. For some he used his fists, at other times he used his guns. None came close to killing him.
But the encounters became more frequent. More and more of the bloodthirsty lunatics came into the port and the hood. Tensions boiled under a lid, dreadfully building in pressure.
And he could tell. It was about to explode.
He almost smelled the bloodshed to come.
So he labored, working himself to strengthen his security within the gang. Hoping that when the time comes, he will be able to protect himself with the connections he made. Back at home, he reread the psychology books he had, and outside, not an ounce of effort was spared when trying to spread his name.
Now, he was tired.
A fine wooden bench came into his sight.
With nothing more to do, he sat.
The cloud-dampened sunlight delicately shined on his face. Waves washed behind him, sometimes smooth and on occasions turbulent. He wanted to nap, yet couldn't afford to lose vigilance, so he simply watched the surroundings with a long gaze, appreciating the serenity of what he saw.
Maybe he was tired, but his eyelids weighed down, threatening to close and refuse to open. His blinks turned into periodic drifts into the unconscious.
As much as he fought, Mark found himself unwilling to break out of the dreary reverie. It was simply too comfortable to let go of, too tantalizing to take away. So he sat in a half-daze, vigilant yet unassuming, sharp and dull while his thoughts slowed, and the orchestra of the ambient environment whispered into his ears.
"Mark."
A pleasant voice blended into the melody.
"Mark!"
He opened his eyes.
And saw nothing.
Soft hands covered his sight, covering everything except for the small cracks of gray light that peered through slim gaps.
It would have been frightening if he hadn't recognized the voice.
'Ah, C name. Quickly, quickly.'
Clasping the silky- arms that wrapped around his head, Mark pulled them into an embrace. He stretched his mind in the instinctive way he did for everyone he needed to please.
His face fell to a frown.
"Claire... what the hell are you doing here?"