The Beret with 22 Stars

The rain in Craninal doesn't wash you clean; it just makes the grime stick harder. I pulled the collar of my trench coat up, but the dampness had already settled into my bones. Or maybe that was the withdrawal.

My hand trembled as I reached for the vial. Alilberry. The miracle cure. The assassin's poison. For me, it’s breakfast. Just a fraction of a drop. Enough to numb the screaming in my joints, enough to silence the image of Lenia’s face for an hour.

I adjusted my beret. Dark green. Wool. Twenty-two silver stars stitched into the side. Lenia sewed them herself, one for every year she was alive before Glareach burned. before Aester Cloudwear decided our poverty was prime real estate.

They call it the War of Fourbournes. I call it the Great Eviction. We weren't worth saving, but our land was. Cloudwear manipulated the front lines, drew the artillery fire right onto our shanties. And when the smoke cleared, he was there with his contracts and his private security, turning the rubble into a playground for the wicked.

I was a soldier then. I should have fought back. Instead, I watched. I watched from the shadows of a crumbling wall as Cloudwear... as he took her. He laughed while he did it. A rich man's laugh, echoing in a city of slaves. He built his casinos on our bones. He made prostitution legal so he could sell our daughters, and he built towers so he could look down on the misery he created.

"One dose cures, two doses kill," I whispered, tapping the glass vial against my teeth. I’m walking the razor's edge.

The contract was heavy in my pocket. The Sultan of Butterflies. A comedian. The pay was absurd. Enough to buy enough Alilberry to forget Lenia forever. Or enough to buy the bullet that finds Cloudwear’s heart. I didn't ask who paid. I never do.

I waited by the stage door of The Laughing Stock. The applause inside died down. The crowd filtered out, smiling, laughing. Sheep.

Then she came out. Tall. Regal. Wearing grief like a cloak, just like me. She stopped to light a cigarette, her hand shaking slightly. She wasn't laughing now.

I stepped out of the shadows. The muzzle of my pistol caught the neon light.

"Sultan," I rasped.

She didn't scream. She didn't run. She just looked at me, her eyes locking onto the beret. Onto the stars.

"Twenty-two," she said softly, blowing smoke into the rain. "That's a specific number."

My finger tightened on the trigger. I needed the fix. I needed the money. But her eyes... they held the same fire that Lenia had before the end.

"Why you?" I asked, my voice cracking. "Who wants a clown dead?"

She smiled, but it was a jagged thing. "The same people who made you an addict, soldier. The same people who built Glareach."

The name hit me like a physical blow. The gun wavered.

"Make me laugh," I growled, fighting the tremors. "Tell me a joke before I send you to hell."

"The joke," she whispered, stepping closer until the gun pressed against her chest, "is that you think you're the one holding the weapon."

The world tilted. The Alilberry hunger clawed at my throat. I looked at the Sultan, then at the dark alleyway behind her.

"Damn you," I breathed.

And then, the shadows moved.