Wells Town: Physiognomy of the Traitor
"Remember this. There'll be a guy who offers you coffee. That guy's the betrayer."
Trapped inside the tilted dome, I pictured Jo's face—the one who'd vanished off to fetch coffee. Thinking back on it now, his mug screamed traitor. That sullen expression, the way he'd glare at me, those lips pinched in constant complaint... yeah, all suspicious as hell in hindsight.
I don't buy into pseudosciences, fortunes, palm reading, or any of that crap. But there's one thing I do believe in: physiognomy. Its reliability's proven by every bastard who's died on my blade. The villains I cut down all had rotten faces—ugly inside and out. Even the ones with decent impressions couldn't hold back their evil thoughts forever; their skin would split from the pressure. Sure, some thick-skinned pricks wander around with normal-looking faces for a while. But give it time, look back, and bam—you realize they were rotten too. Evil bastards always show their true colors eventually. Sadly, you only spot it after they've cracked your skull from behind. Still, the result's the same: bad faces are bad. Check the traitor's mug after the fact—pure villainy. Physiognomy's mystery is that it always proves right in the end.
Anyway, that's that. Screeech!
Deep in my profound musings on physiognomy, a grating noise shattered the silence. I was in some warehouse jury-rigged from a fallen water tank, and the acoustics were so damn good, you could host a concert here. My arms were bound tight to the chair with rope, so I couldn't even plug my ears. All I could do was stare straight ahead as the metal door creaked open amid the racket.
Screeeeech!!
A mismatched door hacked from part of the wall—ill-fitting as a demon's grin—screamed like a metalhead fresh from hell. Five goons piled in through the gap. Three I'd seen before, one was the coffee-fetching rat Jo, and the last was a new freak—the ugliest of the bunch.
Excluding the snitch Jo, the rest had some phobia of human eyes, each socket crammed with garish cyberware. But this last guy? He took the cake: a fist-sized single eye dominating half his face from the bridge of his nose to his forehead. And it flashed red, so bright it hurt to look straight at.
"Headlight?"
The guy just stared blankly, his expression impossible to read with half his face hijacked by what looked like a motorcycle headlamp.
"You the merc Lena hired?"
"...So that Jo bastard really was the snitch?"
Thwack! Clang-crash!
No sooner had I asked about the sullen traitor glaring from the doorway than I went flying backward with the chair—our bond now cozy as old pals.
"Set him up."
Two lackeys hauled the fallen chair—and me—back upright before the boss. Unwillingly fused to the damn thing, I got delivered right to his feet.
"Answer the question, punk."
"Cough... legs are tingling."
Lucky the chair slid; if it'd been bolted down, my bones would've snapped. Looked like a casual kick, but it hit like a truck. Bet those filthy cargo pants hid some thick, heavy meat down there.
"So who the hell are you? Really the merc that bitch hired?"
"...They call me No. 23. Was I a merc?"
Thwack! Crash!
...Kwang!
......Waaang...!
This time I soared farther, slamming into the wall. The stellar sound design turned the metal dome into a booming echo chamber. Me? Felt like a drum inside and out.
"Set him up."
The goons delivered chair and cargo back to the boss. As he wound up for another boot, something caught his eye. He shoved his face in mine, then yanked my hair, peering close.
"Holy shit, check this punk! Arms and legs got shitty old cyberware, but his eyes? High-Class III!"
Staring at my peepers, he spat excitedly—right in my face. Made me wanna puke. And yeah, dwelling on my junk limbs just doubled the nausea.
"That's good stuff?"
"Good?! You crazy fuck! Even used, you'd have to rob corp execs for those!"
He kept spitting as he ranted. Should've clocked it from his giant eyeball implant—this dude was a cyberware nutjob.
'Puts crap in the important limbs but jams premium in his eyes...? What the hell.'
Mid my silent sigh about the mad scientist rotting in some basement, the boss sobered up.
"But."
"I said answer questions, not ask 'em!"
Clang-crash!
I flew chair-first, smacking ceiling then wall before cratering the floor. Literal flying chair stunt.
"Don't wait for me to say it—set him up, you idiots!"
The goons, faces screwed up against the ringing din, finally rushed over after their joints popped. My face had been grinding the floor, so yeah, grateful.
"......"
"Ugh, fuck. Not the face."
"...Why not the face?"
"Pretty boy's mug—sell one eye, chop off an arm or leg, make bank... You little shit! Why keep pissing me off?!"
Bracing for the hit, he surprised me—instead, he spat and yelled, then backed off with deep breaths.
"Hoo... hoo... Hey!"
"......"
"......"
"You morons!"
Headlight-eyes barked at the goons in rage-failure mode, smacking a nearby dome-skull for good measure.
Clang!
Sounded as empty as he looked—had to stifle a laugh.
"You see that punk's worth, right? Can't see shit from rage—make him answer straight, got it?!"
"...Y-yes."
"No touching the face!"
With a final bellow, he stormed out. Glancing around, snitch Jo had vanished too.
"...Phew, spit stench. Isn't it brutal?"
Pfft—someone cracked, but when I scanned the three left, they were stone-faced.
"Heard that laugh. Admit it—anyone hating that halitosis enough to quit the gang, now's your shot. I'll put in a word, one wrist for the trouble."
They didn't bite, closing in with sour mugs. Hard to tell blind, but stiff lips screamed pissed.
"...Two fingers? ...One if that's too much?"
No takers on my final offer.
An old car tore across the wasteland. The open plain let her drive on autopilot, and for Lena—sheriff of Wells Town—no day had made her appreciate that more. Her head was a goddamn mess.
"......"
Fishing out her empty pack by habit, she muttered a curse too soft to hear, crumpled it, and chucked it shotgun.
Haa...
Another sigh leaked out—one of too many lately. As Wells Town's sparse lights grew under the freakishly bright moon, her tangle of thoughts knotted tighter.
Was she doing the right thing?
Not even she knew as the car rolled into town. She parked at her single-story shack, grabbed smokes from the office side-room, and headed out.
Gangs, that crazy suspicious guy, and the woman's identity she'd half-doubted. Drive back: brain fried, no smokes. She jammed a cig in her mouth.
"Lena."
About to light up leaving the building, she turned at the voice. A nearby middle-aged lady cracked her door, beckoning.
"What's up, ma'am?"
Non-smoker, so Lena pocketed the lighter and approached. Close now, the lady whispered.
"Earlier, Jo and some stranger got dragged off by Outlaw scum."
Lena dropped her unlit cig.