Chapter 33: Pick Up

Nathaniel and Santina darted through the bustling streets of the West Coast, and their figures blended into the throng of people as they ran. The air buzzed with the aftermath of chaos. There were shouts, and the clatter of carts echoed from the execution square they'd left behind.

Their boots pounded the cobblestones, weaving past vendors and cutting sharp corners. Their eyes were trained on the distant rooftop where the sniper's bullet had flashed. Nathaniel's blue hair glinted under the sun, which was a reckless signal in the muted crowd, but he didn't care. They had to reach Arwyn.

"Is this even the right way?" Santina's voice cut through the noise, low and edged with doubt as she kept pace beside him. She'd never set foot beyond the South Coast, as that was her home turf as a bounty hunter, and this sprawling labyrinth of alleys and towering structures was foreign ground.

Nathaniel didn't reply immediately, his focus locked ahead. He had no map, no certainty. Just a hunch born from centuries of dodging death and the faint memory of that rooftop glint. "Just… trust my gut," he muttered, half to her, half to himself. His instincts were all he had, and they'd carried him this far.

The crowd began to thin as they neared the district's edge, revealing a narrow, weathered building squeezed between two sagging structures. 

Emman's house. Its crooked shutters and faded door looked like relics of a forgotten age. Nathaniel slowed, his chest heaving, and Santina pulled up beside him.

"Is this it?" she asked, brushing sweat from her forehead.

"It better be," Nathaniel said, scanning the rooftop. He strode forward and banged on the door, the sound slicing through the quiet. For a moment… nothing. Then a shuffle, a gruff curse, and the door creaked open.

Emman loomed in the doorway, his wiry frame taut with irritation. "What? Aren't you the… uh… the Blue-Hair dude?" he snarled, glaring at Nathaniel and Santina like they'd tracked mud into his life.

"Yeah. We're here for the kid on your roof," Nathaniel said, his tone flat but firm.

Emman's scowl deepened, his gaze flicking upward. "Oh. The sniper? He's up there, probably out cold. Burned himself dry with those shots. That your kid?"

"Get him down," Santina snapped, stepping closer, her patience razor-thin. "Now, please."

Emman grunted, reluctantly stepping aside. "Fine. But keep it quick. I don't want them guards up in my house."

They climbed the rickety stairs to the top floor, the air growing stale and heavy. A ladder led to a trapdoor, and Nathaniel shoved it open, sunlight spilling in as he pulled himself onto the roof. 

There, slumped against the parapet, was Arwyn, with his sniper rifle beside him, barrel still warm, and his sketchbook dangling from his hand. His face was pale, slick with sweat, his breathing shallow from the strain of sketching the weapon and firing.

His katana rested as well, half-open. The two books in his pocket faintly glowed with a mix of yellow and purple.

"Arwyn," Nathaniel said, dropping to one knee. "Get up, kid."

Arwyn's eyes cracked open, hazy and weak. "Nate…? You saw?"

"Well, we saw you save our asses," Nathaniel said, a grin tugging at his lips. "Good aim."

A faint laugh escaped Arwyn as he struggled to sit up. "Barely… that rifle's a monster. I'm telling you."

Nathaniel picked up the rifle beside him and inspected it. Scope, barrels, bullets, it was definitely powerful, though it'd take a toll on his Passion Energy to make something this strong and efficient.

Santina knelt beside them, her usual sharpness easing. "You're a damn hero today."

They hoisted him up, supporting his wobbly frame as he muttered, "I need rest… Passion's gone." His energy flickered, a candle on its last wick.

"We'll find a spot," Nathaniel assured him, guiding him back to the ladder. They descended past Emman, who muttered something about trouble and waved them off as they hit the street.

But before they could settle off somewhere, a voice cracked just meters away. "Hoy! Arwyn!"

Arwyn looked back, one hand resting on Nathaniel's shoulder. "What is it, old man?"

"It's a pleasure meeting you! I got a story now!" Flavin chuckled, despite the ongoing havoc in the region. "Emman told me that he really liked the soda you made."

Arwyn tugged a tiring smile on his face. "Really? Tell him to go to Earth. Many sodas there."

"Hah! You know how he is!" Flavin exclaimed, then he waved them off, his unusual smile softening.

The West Coast had settled into an uneasy hush, and they stuck to the shadows, pausing in a small courtyard under a twisted tree. 

Santina's expression tightened, her shoulders stiffening. "I'm out," she said suddenly, her gaze shifting between them. "Got my own mess to untangle. I have debts, old scores. You don't need me dragging you down."

Nathaniel's brow creased. "Are you sure? Well, we're stronger together."

She shook her head, a wry smile flickering. "Not this time. You've got your road, I've got mine. You should stay sharp." She gripped their hands. Nathaniel's, then Arwyn's, before turning and vanishing into the alley, her steps swallowed by the city.

Nathaniel exhaled, a weight settling in his gut, but he nudged Arwyn forward. "Let's move. We need cover."

They roamed the winding streets of the West Coast until they stumbled on The Rusty Nail, a grimy inn wedged between a forge and a pawn shop. The sign was peeling, the door groaning as Nathaniel pushed it open. Inside, the common room was dim, and the innkeeper, who was a broad, sour-faced man with eyes like flint, looked up from the counter.

"Rooms are full," he barked, barely glancing at them.

Nathaniel's temper, frayed to its limit, flared. He leaned across the counter, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "We've had a hell of a day, old man. We need a room, and you're gonna give it to us." He paused, his grin turning feral. "And if you dare snitch about us sleeping here, you'll find out what happens next."

Arwyn, propped against the wall, chimed in with a tired smirk. "Well, he's not kidding, man. Don't test him."

The innkeeper's bravado crumbled, his throat bobbing as he fumbled for keys. "Alright, alright! Take the room, please. No charge, free room service. Just… keep it quiet."

"Thank you." Nathaniel said, easing back. "Lead the way."

The man shuffled them up a creaking staircase to a cramped room with two beds and a grimy window. It smelled of dust and neglect, but the lock worked. Arwyn flopped onto a mattress, groaning. "I'm dead..."

"A couple hours will do," Nathaniel said, kicking off his boots and claiming the other bed. "Rest up. Your energy'll creep back."

Arwyn mumbled a thanks, his eyes fluttering shut as his breathing steadied. Nathaniel stared at the ceiling, exhaustion pulling him under. The world could wait. For now, they'd earned this scrap of peace, and Arwyn's Passion Energy began its slow, quiet recovery in the stillness.

"You know, kid," Nathaniel muttered, voice loud enough for Arwyn to hear. "You should learn how to conceal your aura. Erasures come and go, not just humans. Give me that Diary first. I'll read an excerpt for you."

Arwyn squinted at him, sprawled across the bed, too tired to argue. He fumbled in his jacket, pulling out the Delacroix Diary—a battered thing, leather cracked, pages yellowed and curling at the edges. It smelled of dust and old secrets, a relic of his bloodline he barely understood. He tossed it to Nathaniel, who caught it with a grunt and flipped it open, fingers tracing the faded ink until he landed on a passage that felt right.

"Here," Nathaniel said, clearing his throat, his voice dropping low and steady. "Listen up."

"Entry 47: The Mark of the Sketcher

Penned by Lirien Delacroix, Third of the Line, Year of the Shattered Veil

We aren't just humans with tricks. That's what they'll tell you, the fools who don't see the fire in our bones. The Sketcher's mark runs deeper than blood; it's like a beacon, a curse if you don't learn to choke it down. Every line you draw, every scrap you breathe life into, it hums. You feel it, don't you? That buzz in your gut, the heat under your skin. It's Passion Energy, sure, but it's too loud.

Out there, beyond the cities and the coasts, the Erasures roam. Not men, not beasts, but something worse. These hungry things that sniff out the glow of a Sketcher's soul. They don't care about your name or your fight. They'll eat your spark and leave your husk for the crows. I've seen it, you know? I watched my brother, Toren, bleed out under a gray sky, his aura blazing like a torch until one of them tore it loose. Took his hands first, then his life.

Concealment is not cowardice; it's survival. It took me years to master it. Years of running, of hiding in ditches while those things prowled. You gotta pull it in, bury it deep, let it simmer until it's a whisper. Start small: focus on your breath, picture the energy folding into itself, sinking like a stone in mud. It'll fight you, Passion Energy always does, but you fight harder. Because if you don't, you're a walking target, and this world doesn't forgive the careless.

We are Delacroix. We draw the impossible, bend the rules, but we pay for it. Every gift's got a shadow. Learn to hide yours, future Delacroix, or the shadows will find you first."

Nathaniel closed the book with a soft thud, letting the words hang heavy in the room. He tossed it back to Arwyn, who caught it against his chest, staring at the cover like it'd just bitten him. "That's your family talking," Nathaniel said, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed. "Lirien knew the game, and I witnessed his prowess. You'd better start playing it."

Arwyn's jaw tightened, fingers brushing the worn leather. The buzz Lirien wrote about, he felt it now, faint but real, stirring after the sniper shots.