Callisto

Revelation

Two friends clinked their nonexistent glasses together to toast the crisp summer evening. They had been engaged in this celebration every night for years so that by this time, the operation of their ghostly limbs ran on mere mechanical memory. They sat perched like parrots on two finely gilded chairs at a table carved with the intricate golden pattern of a thunder dragon, its vine-like body coiling around the table legs like a boa preparing to consume its hapless prey. Both regarded, for a moment, the looming TV tower that rose high above them outside, and a strange feeling of nostalgia overcame them before they drained the content of the dead air they cupped in their dark hands.

The door to their restaurant retreat suddenly swung open, but neither reacted to the odd tattooed girl that emerged, quiet and strangely fearful, nor the little yipping dog that surveyed his surroundings before ambling up to the table.

"Excuse us, lovebirds."

With that statement, the dog jumped right through one member of the shadow-wreathed couple, and her form dissipated entirely into the air. The companion, now alone, did not even look at the staring Tribal girl. He simply bowed his head and vanished, too. The passions of the dead were nothing compared to the affairs of the living in this world.

And it looked like these two had something to talk about.

Jespar placed his pack on the table and cast a surreptitious glance at Rain-Born, who still had not taken her seat.

"Geeze, do I have to ask ya to sit?"

"You promised me an explanation," she said. "No more games?"

He winked at her. "Just one more."

She frowned but sat in the chair and winced at its ornate extravagance bordering on excessive. She yearned for the simplicity of the suburban hovel she had seen before entering this city death trap. Then her mind flew back to the Chainmen and her bloodied hands as she decapitated their leader, and she remembered that there truly was nothing of the Old World that was not tainted.

Jespar rummaged in his bag full of water, looking for something, sniffing around, prodding the corners of the rucksack as only a creature like him could. It made Rain-Born chuckle, despite everything.

But his lack of urgency frightened her. Though his body was now calm, his every word seemed tinged with panic.

"You know, I was saving these," he said from within the bowels of the bag. "For some rainy day, maybe, when I could look back on our little adventure and smile and think about how much ass we kicked. You gotta admit," he said as his face appeared from the satchel with two small canisters clenched in his teeth. "We kicked some serious ass."

He set one cylindrical canister on the table and nosed the other towards her.

She caught it as it rolled towards the table's edge with ease, still looking at his terrified eyes.

"We showed the Deadlands who's boss," she agreed.

He chuckled meekly as he used his teeth to operate the small metal hook-like device at the canister's apex. "I love it when you talk like a shithead."

"I'm talking like you!"

"Exactly," he replied as he pierced the can with its metal hook and allowed the gas it produced to escape into the air with a fizz. Rain-Born wondered what kind of water was possibly contained within.

He took it in both his paws and gestured to Rain-Born's can.

"Go on! It's a present, Chief. A little something extra I picked up from ol' Venchenzo, the rascal."

She saw he wouldn't drink without her. She knew this custom in the tribe – the sacred Harma-Durr was only consumed by companions to sanctify agreements. And yet, what exactly was she agreeing to here?