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White Collar, Black Chain

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Summary:

A lamb and a cat meet twice, and a couple deals are made while tusks are broken.

Chapter Text

To say Lambert was stressed was an overstatement. Slightly cautious, maybe. Vaguely expectant. A bit mindful, even. Or… ugh.

 

Okay, fine. They were a little stressed.

 

Friday’s shift at the daycare draws to a close, and the lamb waits at their desk to wave off kids as they leave. The day has been mostly calm, except for the morning sermon where they had to explain that Mari would not be returning to class. It was hard to navigate the questions with a smile.

 

Why was she leaving? Well, her family had a better opportunity outside the city. Would she ever visit? Maybe, but she might be busy or far away. Why didn’t she tell anyone? It’s possible she didn’t know, and it’s not really our business.

 

The bee girl waves at the lamb, who offers a smile as she exits with her mother. A glance at the phone. 4:58. Was Aym and Baal’s guardian even going to show? They shouldn’t have taken him at his word, but they had been running late. Damn it. Nothing to be done about it now but hope.

 

Aym and Baal are sitting at the side of the room. Baal is making some slightly lopsided origami thing out of pink construction paper, and Aym occasionally points and signs.

 

It’s 4:59 now. Lambert watches as Baal makes one more fold before lifting his creation onto his palm. It is nearly flat, so they can’t tell what the origami is. Aym and Baal seem to be satisfied with it, though.

 

Both look up at the clock over the office door and stand in unison to head for the front door, grabbing their things as they go. There’s that, Lambert supposes. They always show up at exactly six and leave at exactly five. Not sure what it proves or tells them, though.

 

The clock hits five. The door opens.

 

Aym and Baal stand on one side of the open entrance. Their guardian stands on the other. Hmm. Maybe punctuality is a family thing.

 

He’s a lot taller than he seemed in the car, and even in the light of the day, his fur is completely black. He’s in a suit, too, an expensive-looking one, with a dark red tie over the white button-up underneath. It only adds to the air of intimidation around him.

 

The guardian kneels down in front of the kits. It’s hard to see any of the cats’ expressions, and Lambert can’t hear them at all. They hope the boys aren’t getting scolded about something.

 

After a minute, the man stands back up as Aym and Baal move around him and out of the daycare. By the time he looks up, Lambert has positioned themself in his way.

 

“You came,” Lambert says, and it’s slightly accusing. As intended.

 

Three eyes narrow. He says nothing. Oh, well.

 

“…Well, come in,” the lamb sighs. As they step back, they habitually gesture at the sign hanging in the window. “Obviously, no firearms in the daycare. We can-”

 

They cut themself off as the man’s hand twitches in the direction of his belt at the comment. Lambert stops and stares at him. Usually, they only say the bit about firearms customarily. No one has ever actually tried to smuggle a weapon through the door before.

 

“Do you have a gun?” Lambert hisses. The way the cat’s ears crane back is a clear answer. “Why are you bringing a gun into a daycare?”

 

To his credit, he doesn’t even try to deny it. “It’s on safety.”

 

“Don’t care.” Lambert holds out a hand and moves back into his way. The cat eyes their hand with open contempt. “Come on. I’ll give it right back after. Even if there aren’t any kids right now, I don’t let guns in my daycare.”

 

A snarl curls his mouth back. A clawed hand slowly shifts and draws a black and gold handgun. The lamb, for the first time, considers that they’re about to get shot.

 

They aren’t. Instead, the magazine is removed from the pistol grip and dropped into their waiting hand. Red eyes don’t leave their face as the gun is put back in his belt.

 

The lamb doesn’t doubt he has more ammo on him. Still, good enough. They pocket the magazine and turn to head to their office. “We can chat in my office. Come with me.”

 

Lambert turns and walks across the daycare to the door in the back. They don’t hear him following, but he’s there when they check. It’s not reassuring that he walks so silently.

 

They unlock the door and push it open, holding it for the man and following him in. The lamb gets in their desk chair and spins it to face the table. As they open a drawer to find a blank form, they say, “So, Aym and Baal are your kids, then?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Great.” They find a form, stick it onto a clipboard, and grab a pen from the cup on their desk. The chair is pivoted back to face the man as they cross a leg over the other and lay the board on their lap. “Okay, let’s do this paper. I’ll just ask you stuff. It’ll be filled out in no time.”

 

His hand moves in an unmistakable ‘hurry up’ gesture. Lambert bottles their annoyance and manages to keep their smile on.

 

“So obviously you’re going on as the emergency contact. First name?”

 

It’s the least personal question they could possibly ask, but it seems to annoy him anyway. “Narinder.”

 

“Relation to the kids? Father?”

 

“Adoptive.”

 

Lambert’s pen pauses from where it had just finished jotting down his name. “Oh.” Another second. “Uh, last name? I noticed you didn’t register with one.”

 

“It’s not applicable.”

 

They glance up at him, and he gives absolutely no indication of being joking. “You don’t have a last name?” Silence. The lamb sighs. “Okay. Uh…”

 

So they don’t get a last name. If they end up having to get this bitch arrested, they can’t find a relative to leave the kits with. Unless…

 

“Do you have family?” Lambert asks.

 

Narinder’s fur lifts slightly. “Pardon?”

 

“Family,” Lambert repeats. “Like, say… siblings. Do you have siblings?”

 

They think they see one of his eyes actually twitch. “This is on the form?”

 

“Yep.” For a minute, they think he’s about to ask to see the form. Luckily, he doesn’t.

 

The expression on his face is downright hateful, though. Lambert is grateful they disarmed him before letting him in. “We are… estranged,” he answers carefully.

 

Hmm. So he does have siblings, and just because they were estranged didn’t mean they might not take Aym and Baal in. Hell, maybe they were estranged because they hated that this guy was an abuser. That would be great. “Names?”

 

“That’s not on the form. Don’t waste my time.”

 

Damn. Lambert doesn’t spend time trying to refute it since he was right. Still, his attitude was incredibly aggravating. They huff a sigh. “Fine.” The lamb decides to ask another question that wasn’t on the form but tries to phrase it more professionally. “…Occupation?”

 

His ear flicks and the lamb is sure he’s about to call them out for lying again. Instead, he answers. “…Chief executive officer.”

 

Lambert’s eyebrows go up. “CEO? Of what?” Sharp teeth appear at the question, and they backtrack. “Uh, never mind. How long have you had Aym and Baal under your care?”

 

Narinder’s expression shifts slightly at that. His ears tilt upward, and his lashing tail lowers momentarily. “A little under six years.”

 

Hm. So nearly since their births, then. They keep trying to look for any signs that he’s abusing them, but he is completely impossible to read outside the constant irritation. His posture is perfect, his face settled into an even frown. Still, he doesn’t strike them as a particularly loving parent type.

 

They flip the form to the blank side and write down a few bullet points, like: -siblings?? -CEO of something?? and -No last name given.

 

“So, I noticed they…” Lambert considers their phrasing for a second, then decides to go for it bluntly. “Aym has a scar, Baal has something with his hearing.”

 

A dark tail shifts in front of the doorframe as Narinder waits in silence with crossed arms. After it becomes clear the lamb isn’t going to say anything else, he replies, “That’s not a question.”

 

“I mean, I’d just like some clarification. Is Aym blind in his injured eye?”

 

“Partially. He can manage it.”

 

Manage it. Does this guy seriously not give a single shit about trying to accommodate his for his kids? Lambert physically has to bite back a response. “…Right. And Baal-”

 

“Total deafness,” Narinder cuts them off. “It is not your concern.”

 

More dismissal of his kids’ needs? Lambert is honestly down to throw hands at this point. They refrain, instead just making another two bullet points about the boys’ disabilities. Eugh, they keep forgetting to learn sign language. Can they ask this guy a good place to be taught it?

 

Nah. He probably doesn’t even know much himself. They doubt he’d put in anything more than minimal effort. Doesn’t seem like the type.

 

The lamb tries to think of another question they could feasibly ask. They come up empty, which annoys them because they know they’ll probably never get a chance to talk to him again. It was a miracle he’d showed up today even, they think as they flip the form back over. Sighing, they hold out the pen and clipboard. “I just need your phone number, email, and signature, and you’re done.”

 

Narinder’s third eye rolls as he leans forward to take the form from their hands. The sound of the pen against the paper carries on for what feels like longer than the task should take. A short click as the pen is closed before both items are handed back.

 

Lambert looks over the form as they take the clipboard and pen. His handwriting is ever so slightly wobbly, not that they would dare to comment on it. “Thank you,” they say. “I’ll get these put into the system. You’re free to go.”

 

Narinder doesn’t move, crossing his arms. Red eyes burn straight into Lambert’s skin. For a second, they’re confused (and a little terrified), until gears click in their head. “Oh, yeah,” they say, reaching into their pocket and pulling the magazine out. “Here.”

 

He pulls the handgun out again and removes a new magazine from the grip (…when did he put that one in?). Tucking it out of sight in his suit, Narinder takes the magazine from Lambert’s hand and reloads his weapon. They watch as he takes the gun off safety mode and immediately back on. Checking it, maybe.

 

Returning their attention to the form, Lambert wonders if he’s put on his actual phone number. Maybe not, which means if they have any burning questions about Aym and Baal, they should ask them now. Unfortunately, nothing that can be phrased diplomatically comes to mind. They stand up to see him off.

 

“Well… thanks again for your time. And for showing up at all.” They know the barb is not missed when they see black claws slide out from his fingers. “Sorry for keeping you from your important business, so…” Lambert waves at the door. “You’re free to go.”

 

A sound that might be a growl comes from his throat, but he doesn’t even dignify them with a response. Instead, Narinder turns and leaves their office, his swishing tail slipping through the gap of the door and disappearing.

 

Lambert glares after him, dropping their smile. Definitely an abuser. Too many boxes ticked. Injuries on the boys, their aversion to loud sounds and violence, his dismissing Lambert’s attempts to help them, and his weird detachment from the situation.

 

That’s it. From now on, their number one goal is to get him to jail.

 

———

 

“Dad!” Aym says as he leaves the daycare to meet up with them. “What were you doing? I thought you said we were going to visit Mom.”

 

Narinder drags a hand down his face. His fur is still prickled from the teacher who appears to have some sort of unjustified personal vendetta against him. “We are going. Dad just had something to do, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Aym answers. Narinder starts walking, and both his kids move to pace on either side of him. “Oh! Baal, show him what we made.”

 

He glances at his other kit, who proudly holds up a pink origami flower in the palm of one hand while he signs with the other. “What do you think?” Baal asks. “It’s for Mom.”

 

Narinder looks it over. It’s pretty and five-petaled, the edge of each petal pulled to curve upwards. He raises his hands and does his best to sign correctly. “Impressive. Did you two make this all by yourselves?”

 

“Mhm!” Baal nods enthusiastically. Narinder is just relieved that his hand signs are understandable. “Remember you told us about pink flowers on the trees in Darkwood? Does this look like those?”

 

“It’s close.” Narinder points a claw against the tip of a petal and gestures downwards. “Cherry blossoms have a notch on each petal. Or, the ones in Darkwood do. Some don’t. And some have more than five petals.”

 

“I don’t think we had enough paper for that,” Aym replies matter-of-factly. “Do you think she’ll still like it?”

 

“Absolutely.” They reach the car parked around the corner. Narinder gets his keys out of his pocket to unlock the car and gets into the driver’s seat. He hears his kits getting into the backseat. When he doesn’t catch the tell-tale click, he prompts, “Seatbelts?”

 

A huffed sigh, followed by the sound of two seatbelts clicking into place. Narinder allows himself a half-smile as he puts his own seatbelt on. “What’s that?” Baal asks, pointing at the passenger seat, where a white plastic bag sits.

 

Narinder lightly slaps Aym’s hand when he leans forward to grab it. “Nothing for you two.”

 

“Is it more drugs?”

 

“Yes,” Narinder lies. It’s worth it when Aym’s hand recoils and he sits back. A good reaction.

 

His cousin lives downtown about half an hour away, which gives him time to try and get some work done. But first, more important things.

 

“How was your day?” Narinder asks, letting go of the wheel with a hand so he can sign. “Did anything happen?”

 

Baal shifts forward a little bit. “Not really. Some girl moved out of the city, though. Her name was Mari.”

 

“Out of the city?” Narinder asks. That’s not very common- though the city was awful, getting out was hard and usually not worth the risk. Must have been something bad, then. “Do you know why?”

 

“Are you telling us to eavesdrop?”

 

“No.” Narinder rolls his two eyes and keeps the third on the road. “I’m just asking if you happened to know anything.”

 

Aym shrugs now. “Well, I don’t know. The lamb seemed sort of secretive about it.”

 

Narinder’s ear twitched backward. “Lamb?” he asks.

 

“The teacher,” Baal supplies. “That’s what they told us to call them.”

 

Interesting. Narinder’s mind obviously goes to the Lamb family, but he knows it can’t be them. After all, the Lambs were killed by his siblings years ago- it had been all over the news. A large family, blacklisted and Sacrificed: parents, aunts, uncles, all the many kids. Not one was spared, not even the youngest, a girl of just three years.

 

It must be a nickname, then. No way anyone’s name was Lamb Lamb, and even if it was, no surviving Lamb would go around announcing it. Right?

 

He exhales and drags the conversation back on track. “You have a theory?”

 

“Huh?” Aym responds.

 

“You noticed the teacher being secretive about it, yes? You have your own theory, and you were looking for evidence.” The downtown is still a little way up ahead, but traffic is already getting worse. “Let’s hear it.”

 

An annoyed, exaggerated sigh. “I just think maybe she got in big trouble with one of the other Bishops.”

 

Baal chimes in, voice slightly softer than his brother’s per usual. “She was talking about Anchordeep a few days ago.”

 

Hmm. Kallamar. Perhaps her family has crossed him in some way and landed on the blacklist. A pity he cannot help them continue to fuck over the Bishops.

 

Speaking of fucking over the Bishops.

 

Narinder gets out his phone and unlocks it. “I have to take a few calls. Do you two think you can be quiet for me?”

 

“Got it,” Baal replies dutifully.

 

“And don’t be concerned over anything I say. Alright?”

 

“I think I’m set,” Baal answers, tapping his ears. “Aym’s your problem. Eavesdropper.”

 

“Am not!”

 

“Boys,” Narinder scolds. “Just… behave. And tell me if I accidentally miss a turn.” Both hum in agreement, so he checks his notes for the phone numbers the eagle gave him. He’s gone through three of them already who had turned down his offer. Understandable- he wasn’t selling the camellia for cheap, after all.

 

He tries the next one with a new strategy; name the price first and the goods later. Might soften the blow. Narinder dials the number (after typing it wrong twice. Damn these hands.) and lifts the phone to his ear while it rings.

 

Several seconds, then a click as it picks up. He doesn’t say anything until he gets a gruff voice. “Who is this?”

 

“A potential business partner,” Narinder answers, stopping at a red light and tapping his claws against the wheel.

 

“How did you get this number?”

 

Narinder smiles slyly and lowers his voice. “Let’s say a little birdie told me. Now, I heard you’ve been dealing behind the God of Chaos’s back, is that right?”

 

A growl on the other side of the phone. “That damn eagle squealed, didn’t he?”

 

He physically fights back a chuckle. The other dealers he spoke to had similar reactions. “He did. I’ll leave him to you.”

 

“You gonna turn me in? Get me blacklisted?”

 

“Me? No. I have a proposition.” Narinder has to hold the phone with his shoulder as he takes a turn downtown. “I have camellia I’m willing to get rid of.”

 

A silence as the voice considers. “For how much?”

 

Well, here comes the hard part. He reminds himself to sound confident. “1.5 billion.”

 

“WHAT?” Narinder shifts the phone away from his ear, sighing. That was hardly anything to him, but he knew making a sale like this would crash the camellia market, and Darkwood would follow suit. “How much camellia do you fuckin’ have?”

 

“About two hundred liters,” he answers plainly. An extremely large amount, he knows. More than was ever on the market at one time.

 

He can feel the dealer think the offer over.

 

Ultimately, it doesn’t work out. “Hell no. I don’t know how the fuck you got your hands on that much if you’re even telling the truth, but there’s no way you’re on good terms with the God of Chaos. You blacklisted or something?”

 

What a joke. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of him.”

 

“‘Course I am. Only an idiot isn’t afraid of the Gods.”

 

Hmm. That’s flattering to hear.

 

(It’s slightly less flattering when the line suddenly goes silent as the call is cut.)

 

Narinder hisses a sigh and drops his phone onto the passenger seat next to the bag. Calm. There were still five numbers to try. Still, he grips the wheel a little tighter than he needs to.

 

“You have to turn left here,” Aym says as he nearly misses the turn lane. Narinder turns on the blinker and changes lanes, exhaling slowly.

 

“Sorry,” he says. “Thank you for telling me.”

 

“Work’s not going good?” Aym asks. It’s bizarre to hear such a normal-sounding sentence regarding drug deals.

 

Either way, Narinder doesn’t involve his kids in his work life if he can help it. “It’s not important. I’ll deal with it.” He turns and parks outside a small storefront, undoing his seatbelt. “Come on.”

 

Aym and Baal get out of the back quickly, signing excitedly at each other. Narinder takes the bag from the passenger seat and tucks his phone in his pocket before following them out.

 

“Do not jump your mother again,” he warns as he walks them to the door. Pots of marigolds decorate the window boxes. “She has enough on her plate.”

 

The bell over the door chimes when he opens it. The inside of the bookshop is warm, done up in comfy oranges and soft carpets. The smell of warm coffee and paper fills the air. A voice comes from the back. “I’ll be right with you!”

 

Forneus wheels herself out from the shelves to the front of the store. When she sees them, her face lights up into a dazzling smile. “My babies!”

 

“Mom!” Narinder sees both boys gearing up to sprint at her just in time to bring his hands down on their heads.

 

“What,” he hisses. “Did I just say?”

 

“It’s alright, cousin,” Forneus laughs. He sighs and lets them go, and they both run into her open arms and knock the wheelchair back by a couple of inches. Forneus doesn’t notice as she starts purring like a jet engine. “It’s good to see you boys!”

 

“Mom, look what I made!” Baal holds up the origami flower, and she takes it with extreme gentleness.

 

“Oh, it’s beautiful. So fair and talented are my boys,” she says, nuzzling Baal’s forehead. “How have you both been? My heart has missed you so.”

 

“Good!” Aym answers, beaming. “I missed you too!” They both hug her again, purring, and she shuts her eyes and holds them close. Narinder nearly smiles from his position by the door but manages to keep a straight face.

 

After a minute, Forneus moves them off her lap. “There’s a tray of cookies in the back room. Could you bring them up here, please?”

 

Aym and Baal nod enthusiastically and run off into the shop. Forneus gives a contented sigh and lifts her head to face Narinder. “Good to see you, cousin.”

 

“Likewise.” Narinder lifts the bag to bring her attention to it before placing it on the counter. “Milk pudding. You mentioned you liked it.”

 

“For me?” she asks, eyebrows going up. “You’re too kind.”

 

“Now there’s a phrase I don’t hear every day,” Narinder chuckles, crossing his arms.

 

Forneus smiles now too, a sly twinkle in her eye. “Speaking of which,” she says, moving a little closer. “How goes the boring, 9 to 5 office job?”

 

His eyes narrow, his tail moving low against the floor. “Have you considered going into stand-up comedy?”

 

“Sit-down comedy?” she snarks back.

 

“Exhibit A,” he says, stepping forward and leaning down. Per usual, she puts her arms around his neck the best she can manage with his height. “How have you been?”

 

She lets him go and smiles as he stands back up. “I’m well. Business as usual. Book sales went up a bit. Some college students needed a copy of Snakespeare for a class, and of course, I had enough in stock.”

 

“That’s good,” Narinder hums. The warm air of the shop always manages to ease a tiny bit of his anxiety.

 

“How is your work going?”

 

And the anxiety is back. Narinder’s ears shift to lay against his head. “…It’s going. I’d prefer not to involve you.”

 

Forneus frowns. “My cousin is the God of Death. I’d like to know if he’s safe.”

 

“I’m afraid ‘safe’ isn’t part of my job contract,” he replies. Her frown immediately deepens. Shit. “But I do my best. So…”

 

“No, no, I understand,” she sighs. “Confidentiality and all. How are the boys? I hope they’re not giving you trouble.”

 

“They’re kids,” Narinder answers, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I think they go out of their way to be troublesome. But they seem happy. Or…” he pauses. “I might be reading them wrong.”

 

(He knows he’s a terrible father. He just hopes he’s okay enough.)

 

Forneus’s expression is unreadable for a minute, then breaks into a knowing smile. He’s not entirely sure what it is she knows, though. “I’m sure it’s alright.”

 

“You know they’re eating all the cookies back there, don’t you?”

 

“Of course!” she chuckles. “Who do you think I made them for?” She wheels to the counter to take the pudding he brought for her, then heads off into the back. “Follow.”

 

Narinder sighs and puts his hands into his pockets, walking behind her. She rolls herself into the kitchen behind the ‘employees only’ door. Aym and Baal are standing on chairs in front of the counter, eating chocolate chip cookies off a tray.

 

Narinder clears his throat. Both go shocked still, wide red eyes whipping to him and tails turning straight as rods. Their mouths are stuffed like chipmunks. He decides to bully them. A tiny bit. Crossing his arms and raising his chin, he says, “Explain.”

 

“Uh…” Aym swallows and slowly places down a cookie. “We…”

 

“It’s alright, boys, have as many as you want,” Forneus cuts in, waving him off.

 

“You’re spoiling them,” Narinder scolds, sighing and dropping the mafia boss image. “They still have to eat when they get home.”

 

Forneus chuckles and wheels to the fridge, opening the door. “Is that right? And here I was about to offer you something, cousin. You won’t have any, then?”

 

“I didn’t say that,” Narinder deadpans. He picks Baal up off the chair he was on, ignoring his complaints, and sits down. He places Baal down onto his lap and lightly smacks his hands when he reaches for another cookie.

 

Forneus returns with what looks like a loaf of bread with glaze on top. Getting a knife from the drawer, she cuts him a slice and pushes the plate to him. “Lemon cake. I made it a few days ago.”

 

“Thank you,” Narinder says, taking a bite. Soft. Lemony. Other ingredients, probably. His mouth tastes like ichor as always, but the cake’s sweetness manages to break through the constant bitterness of it.

 

“Can I try?” Baal asks, turning to look at him hopefully. Narinder sighs and lifts the cake to his mouth, letting him take a bite. “Mm! Ih re-eeh gooh!”

 

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth,” Narinder scolds. Aym gets off the chair he was on and crawls onto Narinder’s lap next to Baal. “Let me guess. You want some too?”

 

Aym nods with wide eyes, and Narinder just places the rest of the slice into his hand. “Didn’t you two eat an entire cheesecake already?”

 

Forneus laughs. “And you say I spoil them!”

 

“Silence,” he orders, taking another slice when she offers it. “You speak of things you cannot understand.”

 

“As you wish, my lord,” she replies sarcastically. He wonders if Aym and Baal got their attitude from her. “Do you want to take the rest of the cake?”

 

“I should be giving you things, not the other way around,” Narinder says, shaking his head. “If you don’t mind, I have work to do. Boys, play nice with your mother.” He scruffs a kit in each hand and lifts them off his lap.

 

Forneus frowns. “Why not spend some more time with us, Narinder? I understand you’re busy, but can it not wait?”

 

He wishes. By now, Leshy certainly knows that he’s stolen a good amount of his cargo. Whatever the retaliation would be, it wouldn’t be pretty.

 

“I’m afraid it can’t,” he answers, standing and taking a few steps to the door. “In any case, it would be nice for Aym and Baal to spend some time with their real family.”

 

All three of their faces fall when he says that.

 

Guess he must have said something wrong.

 

Again.

 

Narinder sighs and dials the next number on his list as he turns and exits. The phone rings in his ear as he shuts the door behind him.

 

“Hello?” a feminine voice as the phone picks up. “Who is this?”

 

He sighs softly and walks closer to the counter. Orange light from the sunset is coming in through the windows and streaking the floor like paint. He feels himself soften, then steels his voice. “… A potential business partner. Don’t bother asking how I got your number. That’s between you and that eagle.”

 

A scoff. “That dirty lowlife! What do you want?”

 

Narinder leans against the counter with one arm and smiles. “Why so hostile, darling? I only want to propose an agreement.”

 

“…What kind of an agreement?”

 

“You deal camellia. Outside of the God of Chaos’s jurisdiction.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question. “I suppose it’s a profitable enterprise.”

 

“A risky one too,” she snorts. “Make your offer, already.”

 

“1.5 billion,” he says, studying his claws. “For all the camellia I have.”

 

He hears the dealer inhale sharply. “That’s… real pricey. How much you got?”

 

“Two hundred liters,” Narinder answers. 1.5 billion is actually over double the actual worth of the drug, and he’s sure the dealer knows that. But it was so scarce on the market thanks to his brother’s regulations that right now, 1.5 billion for two hundred liters was, frankly, affordable. He just hopes she realizes that.

 

There’s a long silence, but he doesn’t mind waiting. The patience pays off.

 

“Deal,” she says.

 

Narinder is half a second away from blurting, ‘Wait, really?’. Instead, he adopts a confident tone and pretends he knew this would happen all along. “Fantastic. We will only need to meet once for our exchange.”

 

“Cool. Is that it? That simple?”

 

“Correct. As long as you stay quiet, so do I. So?”

 

She thinks this over. “Tomorrow night. There’s an underground fight ring in the downtown. You know, in the subway that closed down? It’s not hard to find if you follow the crowd. I’ll bring a van so I can pick up my goods.”

 

A fight ring? Narinder knew vaguely about it, but he’d never actually been. Might be interesting. “And you’ll bring the money. Cash or check, don’t care.”

 

Behind him is the sound of rubber as Forneus wheels into the shop behind him. Damn.

 

“Of course,” the dealer says on the phone. “I’m a blue jay. You’ll know me when you see me.”

 

“Perfect. Deal made, then.” He lowers his voice. “Until tomorrow. And come alone.”

 

He hears an affirmative hum before cutting the call. Narinder allows himself a relieved breath as he tucks his phone away and turns around.

 

“What’s the deal?” Forneus asks plainly.

 

“I’m afraid that’s classified,” he answers, reaching up to straighten the lapels on his suit jacket. He can practically feel her dissatisfaction with his answer.

 

He glances back up at Forneus as her brow furrows. “You don’t have to take that secretive tone with me, Narinder. I’m not a rival criminal, you know.”

 

“Worse; you are my cousin,” he replies drily. “If you knew what I was doing, you’d be blacklisted. I’d rather avoid that.”

 

“I think I’d be blacklisted for knowing you,” Forneus deadpans. She’s not wrong. “Is it so bad that I don’t like being in the dark about what you do?”

 

“It’s not safe. For you or my kits. End of discussion.” He watches her expression fall and softens his tone. “It’s not personal, Forneus. It’s business.”

 

“I know. I just worry. A mother’s heart cannot help it.”

 

Aym and Baal must have gotten that from her too. Narinder sighs and crosses his arms. “Did you need me for anything, or did you just want to monitor my conversation?”

 

She laughs. “The boys were asking for you. Something about wanting to know how the oven works.”

 

“Can’t they ask you?”

 

Forenus smiles and shakes her head. “They wanted you.”

 

Oh. Huh. The tip of Narinder’s tail twitches as he moves to follow her back into the kitchen. “Alright, alright, I’m coming.”

 

———

 

Despite their complaints, Narinder puts his kits to bed early the next day.

 

“Dad, who goes to sleep at nine on a Saturday night?” Baal whines as Narinder pulls the blanket up to his shoulders.

 

“You,” he answers plainly. “I have work, so unfortunately-”

 

“So you won’t be here?” Aym interrupts eagerly.

 

Narinder’s hands freeze (except for their usual shaking) as he fixes his kit with a glare. Aym immediately realizes what he said and pins his ears back. “You’re not getting out of this bed,” Narinder warns.

 

“Definitely not,” Baal agrees too readily.

 

Narinder narrows his eyes for a long moment. Eventually, he sighs. “You don’t leave the building, and you don’t go onto the roofs. Or the pools. Or my room. Understood?”

 

Aym and Baal nod enthusiastically. Narinder rolls his eyes.

 

“I won’t be gone long.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to Aym’s forehead, then Baal’s. “Behave yourselves. I want you both asleep by the time I get back.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Good night,” he says, pushing himself up to his feet. Aym and Baal watch him with wide, earnest eyes. “I love you.”

 

(Even his broken hands can sign that. It’s the very first phrase he learned for his kits.)

 

Both boys raise their hands in the same gesture. “You too, dad,” Baal says. “Stay safe, okay? Be back soon.”

 

“Of course, kitten.” He waits until they both lay their heads against their pillows before moving to the door. Narinder checks once more- both boys’ breathing has already slowed, and their eyes have shut. He doubts they’ll still be awake by the time he leaves.

 

He exhales quietly and turns off the lights, slipping out of the room and shutting the door softly behind him. The hallway is silent and warm. City lights sparkle from the windows at the end of the hall.

 

Right. He has to go.

 

Narinder heads to the elevator and gets inside once the doors slide open. His suit jacket is slung over one of the handrails, and he grabs it when he hits the button for the ground floor. He throws a cursory glance over the glass wall at the back, at the buildings that seem to rise as the elevator moves downward.

 

His siblings’ towers rise out of the skyline across the harbor, demanding attention with their blazing lights and illuminated displays. Narinder begrudgingly admits, his siblings do have style. (Learned from him, of course.)

 

He sighs and turns to the mirrors on the doors, pulling his jacket on. His shoulder and neck have mostly healed, but there is still an ache when he pulls his arm back too hard. His hands take too many tries to button down the suit. Narinder’s tail moves behind him until he gets it through and straightens his collar.

 

The elevator slowly eases to a stop as Narinder tightens the knot of the tie around his neck. The doors slide open, replacing his reflection with the view of his lobby. It’s vaguely open air, all the walls made of glass and large double doors leading to the portico where his car was parked. A warm breeze runs along Narinder’s fur as he walks across the tile. Tall palm trees line either side outside the windows.

 

It’s nearly tropical outside and slightly humid when he opens the door. His car waits at the curb, but he’s taking the van to the downtown. Not a chance in hell he was parking something this expensive in the middle of downtown, and besides, he had drugs to move.

 

Narinder gets the keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door of the van, climbing into the driver’s seat. He leans over the seat and counts all the safes in the back. Ten. Good. He turns the van on and reverses onto the street. Downtown is brightest at night; even from here, he can see the district lit up like a star.

 

The Afterlife, too, has welcomed nightlife. People walk on the sidewalks, laughing and talking and stumbling with intoxication. He can hear it muffled even through the windows of the van.

 

Narinder flips the blinker and turns onto the freeway to downtown. There’s not much traffic heading out of the Afterlife at this hour, so he’s free to step on the accelerator and completely disregard the speed limit. The normally thirty-minute drive drops to fifteen.

 

He thinks about about this fight ring the dealer told him about. Hopefully, the fighters are good. Not that he has a lot of downtime, but watching bouts might serve as entertainment.

 

Checking the mirrors, he sees the Afterlife behind him. His building is extremely distinct, the tallest thing in the district by far. It’s shaped in layers to uphold its colossal height, each tier decorated with bands of lights. It’s so tall he can barely see half of it in the rearview.

 

(He really hopes his kits are keeping their promise to stay off the balconies.)

 

Narinder takes the turn into downtown and immediately has to slow the van. It’s a busy district even normally, but especially so at night. He coasts along until he sees an entrance to the subway and pulls into the nearest parking space. The keys are pulled out and pocketed, and he checks the back to be certain it’s secure.

 

He turns away from the van and walks to the stairs that lead down to the station. As the dealer said, there is a crowd, so he follows. Sure enough, a big metal door, clearly in disuse, is pulled open and the people head inside, away from the operating subway.

 

Narinder catches the handle as it starts to close and ducks through behind them. It’s dark. Enough that he needs to stop and let his eyes adjust as the door shuts with a clang at his back. There’s a dim orange light at the end of the hall, and low, muffled cheers.

 

He squints and heads down the hall, listening to the applause grow louder. His third eye shuts for some semblance of anonymity as he steps out of the hallway.

 

A huge, bowl-shaped stadium. Stands encircle the layers, and at the bottom is a vast circular arena, with chainlink fences separating the audience from the fights. Roped rails stand near the fences, creating a buffer neither fighters nor spectators can reach through.

 

A bat that seems to be from Darkwood and a beetle from the Silk Cradle are clashing in the ring. Narinder watches the bat lunge only to be delivered a heavy blow of the beetle’s horn that sends him backward. He hits the floor hard, rolls, and lunges back at the beetle, using his wings to build speed and crash into him.

 

Hmm. Not bad, but Narinder could do better.

 

… He really could do better.

 

He shakes his head and reminds himself he has a job to do. Tearing his gaze from the fighters, he walks slowly around the wide circumference of the arena- it must have been the central station for the subway system before it closed, and now repurposed into… this.

 

As Narinder walks, he notices old closed storefronts now used as pool halls, bars, smoke shops, and betting rings. The whole station has become a community, and he’s sure that the old rail tunnels and smaller stations have had similar transformations.

 

As he walks by a bar, he spots a blue jay sitting on a stool, sipping from a glass of vodka.

 

Narinder narrows his eyes, then casually weaves through the crowd to reach them. They don’t react to his arrival, so he flatly asks, “Not watching the match?”

 

The blue jay turns quickly, meeting his eyes. Her feathers flatten back down when she notices him. “Just waiting for someone.”

 

“Mind if I join you for a drink?”

 

She gestures with her cup at the stool beside her, and Narinder sits. As soon as he does, the bartender appears with a sly smile. A moth, with four wiry arms, and a badge that says Monch. “What can I get you?”

 

“A cosmopolitan,” he answers. He waits until the bartender has moved to the back, pulling bottles from the shelves, before he talks again. “You brought the money.”

 

The blue jay winks and taps her pocket. “You brought the goods?”

 

“Of course.” A loud, loud roar from the mass of people around the arena. Narinder’s ear twitches and he asks, “How long has this been here?”

 

She seems surprised at him making conversation. “The ring? Years, I guess. It’s a good place for stuff, like, you know. Dealmaking. Everyone’s a criminal here.” He doesn’t answer, and she sticks out a hand. “My name is Lorie.”

 

“A pleasure,” Narinder answers, reaching forward and shaking her hand. Monch places a martini glass in front of him, with a pale red drink filling it. He takes a sip; sweet, with a tang from the lime.

 

“Lorie,” Monch says, tapping the table with one of her hands. “Want to run a bet on the next match?”

 

“Dunno, Monch,” Lorie answers. “I’m already losing a lot of money tonight.”

 

“Sure? I think it’ll be a pretty… predictable round.”

 

Her brows furrow, then rise. “The False Idol has a bout today?”

 

Monch grins. “Came by and told me themself!”

 

Lorie’s feathers ruffle around her neck. “I still can’t believe you know them, Monch! How are they like?”

 

The moth rocks back on his heels and crosses two of his arms. The others reach out to take Lorie’s empty glass and wipe it down. “The False Idol? About as mean as they look!”

 

Lorie laughs, obviously confused. “Monch, they don’t look mean at all.”

 

“Precisely! They’re one of the most polite sorts I’ve ever met.”

 

“Who’s the False Idol?” Narinder asks. Both immediately fall silent and stare at him, and he crosses his arms. “Well? Answer.”

 

“The False Idol’s a big deal around here,” Lorie explains. “They just sort of showed up like, six years ago and starting kicking ass. They haven’t lost a match in five years. You wouldn’t think so, either- they’re so… so…”

 

“Fluffy?” Monch supplies.

 

Lorie grins. “Exactly. They’re practically worshipped at this point, haha!”

 

That gets Narinder’s attention. The prospect of gaining fans as a fighter. He’s by no means bad at combat, and he’s sure he can build up a reputation and by proxy, a sizable following.

 

It will take time, and it admittedly feels annoying to start back from rock bottom: Prove your worth to nobodies before you can ascend to the power of godhood. He’s already a God, and he has things to offer, so it shouldn’t be as hard as the first time, thankfully. But he needs to start getting his mafia back, and this is a possible way to start.

 

Narinder is about to ask another question, but he’s interrupted when screaming erupts, drowning out the voice of some announcer.

 

“Match is up,” Monch says. “My betters will be coming in. You watching the False Idol’s round, Lorie?”

 

“Duh!” she suddenly shoots to her feet, gesturing aggressively at Narinder to get up. “Come on! I need to get back in time for this bout.”

 

Narinder is too startled by the suddenness to say no, so he tips back the rest of his cosmopolitan and places the glass down before getting up. His mind finally catches up to him, and he says, “How would you like a free van?”

 

“Huh?”

 

He gets the keys out of his pockets and hangs them on a finger in front of her. “The goods are in the black van on 44th Street. Take the whole thing and go. Just don’t let Darkwood see you have it.”

 

Lorie’s eyes light up and she makes a grab for the keys. He pulls them just out of her reach and says, “I need to see the money first.”

 

“Oh. Right.” She reaches into her pocket and produces an extremely thick envelope, holding it between them. Narinder takes it and slides a sharp claw under the flap, tearing it open in a straight line. Inside is a stack of checks. He opens his third eye a sliver to watch if she tries anything. The other two count the checks as he flips through fast enough that it fans the fur on his face.

 

1.5 billion. As agreed. He scans the check’s logo and prints for any sign that it is a counterfeit. …Nothing. She has honored their agreement- if she hadn’t he probably would have been able to tell. He used to have quite the reputation for his bullshit detector; some had taken to calling it ‘mind reading’.

 

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Narinder says, putting the money back into the envelope and storing it in his pocket. He holds the keys back out and this time lets her take them from his hand. “Enjoy your match.”

 

“Not going to stay, then?” Lorie asks, slipping the keys into her back pocket. “Come on. You strike me as the kinda guy who likes a good fight.”

 

It’s tempting. He wants to see if the False Idol is as good as they sound. And he definitely does love a good fight, though they are far more fun when he is participating.

 

(He wonders if anyone can become one of the fighters here.)

 

But Narinder’s kids are at home, alone, doing whatever the hell they want. Or one of them had a nightmare and now wants to sleep in his bed. Or they’re worried about him and won’t go to sleep until he gets back. Or-

 

“Regrettably, I have to take my leave,” he tells her. Narinder definitely plans on coming back here, at least as a spectator; he’s sure he’ll catch one of the False Idol’s fights some other time.

 

“Well, bummer,” Lorie says. He starts walking out of the bar, and she follows at his side. “I’m a regular around here, so if you come back, I might see you sometime.” Narinder sends her a side-eye as he makes his way through the crowd to the exit, and she laughs. “Or not! Didn’t mean to be pushy. …Man, look at this crowd. Everyone’s coming in to see our star fighter.”

 

It’s true; the crowds have thickened substantially. Narinder puts a protective hand over his pockets once he watches Lorie skillfully remove a watch from someone’s hand. “They must be good,” he mutters as there’s a sudden swell in the voices of the crowd up ahead.

 

“No kidding! They-” she cuts off suddenly. Narinder glances at her in the abrupt silence as the crowd gives way slightly. He feels something- someone- brush by him in a flash of red and white, but he’s still looking at Lorie. Ramrod straight, eyes locked directly forward.

 

“…What are you doing,” he says, voice flat enough that it’s not a question.

 

She’s silent for another second, up until the crowd behind them erupts into high-pitched shrieks and cheers. There’s a surge of clapping. Someone screams ‘Marry me!’ from the audience. Lorie turns around to face Narinder.

 

“That was the False Idol!” she hisses. Her blue feathers are sticking up. “We just walked right by them!”

 

What? Narinder’s ears go pin-straight as he turns to look over his shoulder at the cheering masses behind him. Some people are crying, even, as though they’ve been blessed.

 

All Narinder sees, though, is the end of a red cloak disappearing into the crowd.

 

———

 

It’s hard for Lambert to cut through the gathered audience, especially since people are literally fighting each other just to get a glimpse of them. While flattering, it’s awkward that it takes them a minute to move just thirty feet. Multiple people have shouted marriage proposals already.

 

Eventually, they do manage to take a sharp turn into Monch’s bar and lose the crowd. They lean over for a second and catch their breath in front of the door.

 

“Ah, False Idol!” Monch calls jovially. “We were just talking about you!”

 

Lambert exhales and inhales once more before steadying their breathing and straightening. “Hey, Monch. Uh…who’s ‘we’?”

 

“Had some shady characters doing business here,” Monch replies, gesturing with one hand to the bar stools. Not uncommon for deals to take place at a ring, so Lambert isn’t surprised nor frightened.

 

“I’ll admit the man had the good taste to ask for a cosmopolitan!” Monch continues when Lambert doesn’t reply immediately. “Anyone who knows their alcohol is fine in my book. Though he did seem the austere sort.”

 

“The great Monch couldn’t loosen someone up with a drink? Color me shocked.”

 

“Ha! You say that as if I’ve ever gotten you drunk before. Speaking of which, care for a glass?”

 

Lambert crosses their arms. “Are you going to drug me again?”

 

Monch gives a guilty smile and shrugs. “I told you, False Idol, I haven’t tried since years ago. Don’t hold a grudge!”

 

They sigh and roll their eyes. “A shot of bourbon. Opened and poured in front of me.”

 

“On it.” Monch turns and pulls a tall, brown bottle off the shelf. “You need to be entering the ring in ten minutes. With a crowd like that, will you make it in time?”

 

“I’ve earned the right to be a little late to things,” Lambert answers, though in reality they hate not being on time. They step closer to the counter to watch Monch open the bottle and fill the shot glass.

 

“That’s certainly true. Enjoy,” Monch says, nudging it closer to them.

 

Lambert grabs the glass and flips it bottom up, downing its contents in one gulp. Monch gives a laugh as they slam it back down on the counter. “Still, though. Gotta run. Thanks for the drink, Monch.”

 

Monch inclines his head slightly but doesn’t lower his eyes. “It’s my honor to serve our local celebrity! Speaking as a businessman, I hope you lose. Speaking as your friend, I’m sure you’ll cost me a lot of money today.”

 

“Means a lot, Monch,” Lambert says, heading back for the door and stepping out. “See you after the bout.”

 

“Looking forward to it, False Idol!”

 

They duck back into the fray, which immediately starts concentrating around them. No one ever dares to lay a hand on them, though, and they take advantage of that. Tipping their head up, they quicken their pace slightly and watch straight ahead with a practiced smile, and the crowd parts like water.

 

Lambert manages to get back to the outer ring of the stadium in record time, cutting through the mass of people to reach the door and exit. It’s much quieter, suddenly, and dimmer.

 

The darkness makes their shoulders tense slightly. This hallway is the only way down into the ring, though, where they will have to meet their competitor in a little over five minutes. Breathe. Walk.

 

Lambert runs their hand against the wall and counts the bricks as their fingers run over the grooves. One, two, three. Okay. They hear something up ahead and swallow hard. Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. Pick up the pace.

 

Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen fourteen fifteen six-

 

Lambert runs directly into something. They don’t even lose their balance until they trip over a tail, and suddenly they’re going down.

 

Hands suddenly catch the sides of their arms and stop their fall. “Watch it,” a man’s low voice hisses as they are slowly stood back up and released.

 

“Sorry,” they answer automatically. “I can’t see shit in here.”

 

“Hm.” It’s an unimpressed sound. Lambert can just barely two red eyes narrowed in the dark. They draw their fleece upward to cover half their face- they don’t know if whoever this is has night vision, and there’s always a chance to be recognized as someone on the blacklist. “…Why are you covering your face.”

 

So he can see in the dark. “Anonymity,” they answer plainly. “What are you doing back here?” This hall is only for fighters and people who are on their way out, and their opponent should be entering from the other side and nowhere near here.

 

“Leaving.” The eyes dart sideways. “…Is it off-limits?”

 

“What? No, no, you’re fine.” Lambert waves their free hand. “Does that mean you’re not staying for the next match? Lots of people are going to watch it.”

 

“I’ve been told as much,” the voice deadpans. “But I have responsibilities at home. Pardon me.”

 

He brushes by to leave, and for some reason, Lambert blurts, “You have kids?”

 

The already soft sound of steps against the cracked pavement stops. His voice is dangerously measured when he speaks. “Why do you think that?”

 

“Bah, sorry, sorry!” they say quickly. “It’s the way you phrased it that made it obvious. I don’t mean to pry, promise!” He doesn’t answer, and they say, “It’s okay. I’m a fan of kids. How old?”

 

They wonder if he’s already walked off without them hearing when it is silent. After another second, though, an answer comes. “…Six.”

 

Ah, something Lambert is experienced with. Many of their students are around a similar age. “Ha! I bet that’s a handful. Six-year-olds and impulsiveness, right?”

 

“…You have kids?”

 

“Me? None of my own, no,” they answer. “But I, uh, help out with them sometimes, you know? Sort of like a babysitter.”

 

A pause. He almost sounds confused. “Right.”

 

“Sorry, sorry, I’m rambling,” they sigh. “Kinda weird for a parent to come out to a fight club in the dead of night though, isn’t it? Is there anyone watching them at home?” Lambert can’t help going into ‘making sure kids are okay’ mode.

 

A low sound somewhere between the growl and a sigh. “They’re sleeping. Should be sleeping. …It’s unimportant.” Another pause. “I have a question.”

 

“Ask away.”

 

“This… fight ring.” Their eyes have adjusted slightly to the dark, just enough to see him gesture around the hall. “It’s open to anyone?”

 

“Yeah, I guess. Or, oh, you mean like fighters?” Lambert thinks about how they became the False Idol. “I think it is. Open to anyone, I mean. You just have to find another fighter and make your challenge. But, uh, you have to start small, you know? Can’t just call a match with anybody. But it’s a pretty easy process, you know.”

 

Silence, but they’ve come to expect he’s still there. “Oh, and you’ll need an alias. Obviously, you can’t use your real name.”

 

“I figured,” he deadpans.

 

“Well, great then.” Lambert makes sure they haven’t missed anything. “I think that should be it. Anything else…?”

 

“No, that’s all.” His voice is extremely self-assured- as if he just completed a task well. “I have been waiting for a chance to ask about it.”

 

“Waiting for your chance to become an official illegal fighter?” they jest, getting absolutely no response. “Well, live your truth!”

 

There’s a sudden muffled cheer from the other side of the walls that handily reminds the lamb they have somewhere to be.

 

“Shit- the match is about to start, I have to run. Nice to meet you…?”

 

The reply they get almost sounds amused. “Don’t think you’re getting my name.”

 

“Fair enough,” Lambert replies. “Nice to meet you, Mr. One Who Waits for his chance to become a street fighter, apparently!”

 

“Right.” In the dimness of the hall, they see him roll his eyes before turning. “Don’t miss your match.”

 

“Ha! You got it.” Lambert turns away and lets their fleece drop from their face, throwing a brief wave over their shoulder as they head for the stairs. They hurry down the steps as quickly as they can without falling, straightening their cloak and wool with one hand as they do.

 

The announcer begins to speak just as they reach the bottom of the stairway. “Entering from the left, we have a fighter with a solid track record and a skill for hitting heavy- The Crusher!”

 

Well, that’s not a terrifying name at all. Even from here, across the ring, they can hear weighty footsteps as their opponent steps into the arena. A surge of cheering seems to come from all around as the footsteps stop.

 

“And from the right…” the announcer starts. A hush immediately falls over the audience. Lambert positions themself in the entryway and inhales deeply. “The star you all came to see… our undefeated champion of five years… please welcome the False Idol!”

 

At their cue, Lambert draws the curtain aside and walks out into the ring. The roar from the crowd is absolutely deafening as they duck under the ropes and step up onto the concrete arena. They put on their most winning smile and raise a hand, wrapped in bandages to protect their knuckles from bruises. The cheering grows even louder, somehow.

 

The lamb lowers their arm and turns to face their opponent. An elephant that towers over them stands at the other entrance. One of his ears has a cut, and a tusk is broken off. Other old scars litter his body.

 

The Crusher looks baffled as the lamb comes to a stop at the other side of the ring. They suppose it makes sense- they’re small, unassuming. Their opponent’s expression shifts to something nearly relieved. And then to something smug.

 

Hm.

 

The announcer is still speaking when Lambert reaches up and rings the bell hanging around their neck. Those who hear it go silent, and the quiet spreads around the crowd until the arena is soundless.

 

Lambert speaks loud and distinct. “Knock out. One round.”

 

A promise. One they do not make often, but one their fans have come to recognize if the ear-splitting roar that follows is anything to go off of.

 

“The False Idol has made their promise!” the announcer shouts. “The Crusher will be out cold in a single round if they are to be believed! Are! You! READY?!”

 

As the audience screams in confirmation, Lambert exhales and shifts one foot back into a fighting stance. Their opponent does the same.

 

The announcer continues. “Then why keep you waiting?! Round one-!”

 

The lamb raises their hands, curling them into fists. Their bell chimes slightly as they pivot, their fleece falling back around their shoulders and brushing the ground. Inhale. Exhale.

 

Begin!”

 

The elephant charges, but his size makes him slow. Lambert barely needs to step aside for him to go barreling past. The momentum also makes him slow to turn, and by the time he’s whipped around to find the lamb, they’re gone.

 

Lambert is sprinting around his legs, looking for a way to take their opponent down. He turns and kicks, and Lambert uses their momentum to drop into a roll and escape unscathed. Each round is three minutes, and they’ve promised a knockout.

 

A punch catches them by surprise, right to the solar plexus. They get knocked back, hearing the vague sound of gasping from the spectators and the announcer’s commentary. No time. Bracing their back foot against the ground, they stop their stumble and lunge forward.

 

There’s another punch, but this time Lambert is ready. Using the elephant’s own momentum, Lambert grabs his wrist, pivots their entire body, and practically throws him straight into the ropes.

 

The so-called Crusher regains his bearings just in time for the lamb to kick him across the face. There’s an audible snap and the elephant’s other tusk clatters across the floor. There’s a brief silence, followed by cheering. The elephant’s eyes are wide and angry when they find the lamb. A line of blood trails from a cut on his lip.

 

“Dirty rat!” he shouts, lunging forward at the lamb. “Look what you’ve done!”

 

“Hey!” Lambert laughs, easily dodging his punch and delivering their own to his gut. “I happen to like rats, thank you very much!”

 

The Crusher stumbles back from their hit. He throws a sloppy kick that hardly comes anywhere near the lamb, but they take advantage of it. They jump onto his lifted leg and use it as a platform, vaulting into the air.

 

Lambert’s speed allows them to twist into an axe kick. With gravity on their side and the strength of a lamb’s legs, they already know how this match will end.

 

Sure enough, their strike hits home on their opponent’s forehead. They do a delicate backflip off him and land neatly back on the floor of the ring. A moment later, the elephant hits the ground hard.

 

“One! Two! Three!” Lambert tips their head back and listens to the announcer count the seconds. “Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! And… that does it! The False Idol has kept their promise- less than a round and their opponent is blacked out cold!”

 

The crowd surges to their feet, clapping and shouting and rattling the chainlink fence. Lambert raises their arms and slowly turns in a circle with a smile. They breathe out slowly as they briefly meet the eyes of a blue jay girl who’s smiling like it’s her birthday. They wave, and she looks like she might pass out.

 

Yeah. Definitely not the worst side hobby in the world.

 

Notes:

Come say hi and ask questions at my tumblr @bleeding-seraphic!