The Last Whisperer

3 | A Random Exchange of Greetings~

Atticus Feathers, the pirate, got himself kicked in the face.

He absolutely got no clue on what was happening, or why a foot collided with his shin. All he knew at the moment was that he was getting his ass beat, and it was humiliating as hell.

He stumbled backwards like a drunken sailor and crashed into a sea of tables, where a couple of men customers drank their beer. They, too, were stoked on what was happening. Nobody had a clue on why the fight started in the first place, but one thing was for sure; it was entertaining to watch.

Atticus wiped off the blood from his nose. "What the—"

The collar on the back of his neck was seized by a hand, and then he was shoved to the other side of the tavern. This time, he broke a chair from the impact.

All of the men cheered on. They cheered on this random man who just suddenly attacked poor old Atticus Feathers when he was just trying to get a sip of his favorite rum. There was only one rule that every person that walked into a tavern followed: if people were fighting, absolutely do nothing about it. Just drink on and see whoever was man enough to win.

The stranger pulled out a gun and all the cheering went silent when they heard the click. Atticus' eyes went big and at the same time, he dodged the bullet as it fired.

"So you have a deathwish, huh?" Atticus pulled out his own gun and aimed it at the stranger.

He fired but missed. "Shit." His arm was unstable, thanks to this bastard crushing it. He fired a couple more times but the stranger was insanely good at dodging. "Son of a gun!"

At this point, everyone was leaving the place in a mad hurry. It may have started as entertaining at first until guns were pulled out of pockets. Soon, the place was deserted except for the two of them.

"I don't even know who you are!" Atticus yelled. He tried to recognize the stranger, but he did not ring any bells. It was a young lad that had sleek black hair. His face gave away no emotion, as if he did not care if he was shot or who shot who. He looked like an emotionless statue, and that was what scared him the most.

"Who are you, for fuck's sake!" He fired the gun, but the stranger hid behind a wooden pole that supported the inner balcony.

His heart started beating louder in his ears. "Hey," he said, voice reaching to be calm. "I don't know who you are, but if this is some sort of revenge, let's talk about it, yeah?"

He heard the stranger say something, but it seemed like he was talking to himself.

Atticus asked him, "What?" Did he say something?

The stranger spoke again, this time it was a bit louder.

"Six minutes till nine o'clock."

Atticus became really confused.

Then he became really furious. "You little rascal." He aimed his gun properly this time. The stranger was not even trying to dodge anymore. He was going to kill this brat for trying to mess with him.

He fired the shot—but then the stranger was gone. What?! Where did he go?

A sack covered his head and the stranger smacked his head down on a hard surface, most likely another table. Before he could react, he went into oblivion.

•••

Eith was walking down the streets of Crimson City as he looked through the pastries that the bakery he passed by displayed.

The smell of bread was really divine. His sisters had always gifted him with all kinds of bread and he grew up loving them. Some might even consider him as a bread fanatic.

He was just fishing out his coins out of his pocket when someone bumped into his shoulder.

"Oh, sorry about that," Eith said. He bent down to retrieve the coins he dropped. When he looked up, he met a pair of empty eyes.

The person nodded in apology. He was carrying a rather large bag on his shoulder, big enough to fit a person inside.

If I were to kidnap someone, I'd put them in there, Eith thought, but then he discarded the thought. Why am I even thinking about that?

When he saw that Eith was fine, he nodded again and went on to continue his way.

Odd, Eith thought. But whatever. He turned back to the baker and asked for two cream-filled butter breads.

"Oi," said a voice from behind. "We're on a mission. Now's not the time to be munching on delicacies."

His head turned to see Micah. Regardless, he took the bread from the baker with thanks.

"I couldn't help it, sir."

"Told you not to call me that."

"Sorry, sir."

~Support the story~
by voting!