Dead Still Pays: A Project Wardens Short Story

(WARNING: This story depicts violent/graphic content that may be inappropriate for some audiences. Discretion is advised while reading. Thank you!)

From his lonely table, the collector watched the two hunters stand around the boards squabbling between themselves as their search for a new target reached its twentieth minute. Loathe as he was to fixate himself on such pettiness, today was proving to be yet another torturously slow day at Red Ridge; there was nothing else at the motely shack he was paid to watch over aside from the smell of stagnant air, the rapid thudding of autumn rain, and an abominable fluid that dared to call itself rum.

In light of such sour staples, the collector could at least respect being able to host two young mercenaries with enough sense to think. The wide barrens of Slayer’s Valley had run short on good mercenaries as the prosperity and lesser dangers of other juntas pulled away both the green and grizzled. Many of those who remained were either naïve, reckless novices quick to be effortlessly slaughtered or loyal veterans who had begun to weaken beyond competence. With such a foundation, the Valley would undoubtedly wither and succumb to a desolate fate, but every new face presented a possible means for change.

“Collector, sir, we’re ready!”

After being so used to their mumbling, the mercenaries’ coherent call jolted the collector. The first to arrive and grab his attention was Jamie, whose slim build and soft voice betrayed a cautious confidence. Behind him with bounty hand was Jones, who impressed to be the stronger and more serious of the pair.

"Sorry to keep you waiting,” said Jamie with a friendly smile, “but we have our next target.”

Jones’ blunt voice immediately followed his ally’s as he boldly slammed the paper death mark onto his table, “We’ll be setting out on our hunt immediately.”

The collector was optimistic at first, partially because they were finally done scraping his ears with a long-winded discussion, but also because he could finally get a grasp as to what kind of hunters these two were. There was always something to be gleaned about a mercenary based on who would pick for their target.

Then, he saw the crumpled paper they had plucked from the board and realized exactly which bounty it was:

ANARCH VALDER’S DECREE

WANTED ALIVE

MOTTI BLUE

For offenses against the Anarch and his agents

100,000 GILDEN REWARD

Turn in to Slayer’s Valley collector for payment

Of course they chose that one, of all bounties. That damn poster, with that damn face and that damn reward, handed to him by dozens of fine hunters before throughout a season’s time. It was clear as a heavenly day: these kids were just another set of the reckless type.

“Collector, sir?”

As Jamie looked on with concern, the collector sighed, preparing himself to meet these boys’ foolhardiness with enough honesty and sense to turn their minds.

“Listen, boys, I… suggest you go back and pick another target."

“Excuse me?” Jones’ blurted, his reaction drenched in expected aggravation.

“You’re better off not chasing Motti Blue,” the collector declared to them. “You’re not ready for him. Trust me.”

Jones rolled his eyes. “You underestimate us.”

Jamie finally stepped forward, just as wounded by the collector’s appraisal in his own… optimistic fashion.

“Collector, sir, we take on this bounty knowing the risks,” Jamie said, trying to clarify and justify Jones’ qualms. “We’ve talked it over amongst ourselves, and we’re confident we will see this job through.”

“There’s a wide gap between boisterous talk and actual action,” said the collector, “a lethal gap.”

“We aren’t new to our job, collector,” said Jones. “Don’t think we can’t take care of ourselves.”

Jones’ demeanor was chaffing quickly on the collector. “Then take care of yourselves and go find another bounty,” he demanded. “Motti Blue’s a walking massacre. Every one of the dozen hunters who took his bounty have either gone missing or turned up in pieces.”

The collector pushed away Motti’s bounty and picked himself up from his seat. “Pick a guild target, a few petty marks, anything except for this one.”

“Oh, stow it, ‘wise one,’” snapped Jones. “You mistake us for a gaggle of rabid wolverines. We’re taking the mark on this bastard and netting that reward!”

As Jones slammed the collector’s table in frustration, so too did the small cabin door crash into the wall. From behind the curtain of rain appeared the figure of a small woman soaked by the rain.

Spots of blood tinted her otherwise black overcoat and the torn shirt and pants that rested beneath it. Her axe, worn and chipped from hard work, carried the lingering scent of a slaughter. All that remained untouched by the strife of the Anarchies was her snow-pure face, crowned with wet, wild hazelnut hair and dotted with calm eyes that shined like a viridian oasis.

The collector could never forget the uncanny sight of young Violet strutting in with all the marks of a finished hunt, and if it meant an end to the hunt for Motti Blue, he was especially grateful to see it.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Violet said with a smirk, “but I got him.”

As she passed through the doorway, the room’s crowd of three awaited the entrance of a bloodied and bound Motti, to walk through the doorway, ready for delivery to the Anarch’s dungeon. Violet, however, seemed to have something else in mind.

Tossed from the girl’s left hand, a ragged sack drenched soaked with the blood of its cargo dropped with a fleshy thud. It was natural for him to assume that this would be for some other bounty— that perhaps she gave up on the Anarch’s bounty for her own sake and made good on a deathmark instead. Sadly, a quick peek inside the bag revealed a pale, glazed visage of who else but Motti Blue.

The collector immediately turned back to Violet. While he could only gaze at her in confusion, there was not a single crack in her smug expression.

“What happened?” he asked, desperate to understand.

“I did my job,” she answered. “Now I’m back to collect.”

“The Anarch’s orders were clear, Violet: He was wanted alive.”

Violet scoffed shamelessly. “Dead still pays.”

She then grabbed the late Motti’s poster, eager to point out the tiny line below the listed reward:

Significantly reduced reward for proof of death

While the collector was stuck trying to wrap his head around the circumstance, Jones and Jamie poked their head into the hunter’s bloody bag of spoils. Jamie grimaced and turned the moment he recognized the nature—and the stench—of its contents, but Jones simply stared unimpressed at Violet.

“So he’s dead? So much for that big reward.” Jones mumbled.

Catching the hunter’s dissatisfaction, Violet couldn’t help but chuckle. “What, were you two thinking of taking my prize from me?”

“Oh, no! Of course not! You did, er, catch him yourself, after all,” Jamie reassured. It’s just that… you’re the one who killed him, and after so many tried and failed! How’d you do it?”

Violet simply stared, puzzled at Jamie’s question. “I swung until his head came off.”

“Th-that’s it?”

Violet shrugged innocently.

“Were you forced to kill him?” Jones asked.

“No, it was my choice, plain and simple,” Violet answered matter-of-factly. “Why is it so difficult for you people to understand that I just, you know… killed him?”

“How long have you been hunting?” Jones asked.

“Ah, I get it: you’re one of those interrogating types, aren’t you?” Violet asked in return. “Well, the answer to your question depends on your definition of ‘hunting.’”

“If you can find the fine print that says he could be brought in dead for payment, you probably saw the giant, six-digit reward, too. I need to know what kind of fool would willingly forfeit a fortune. Either you’re bluffing to act tough, or you’re a psychopath.”

Violet crossed her arms and glared at Jones in response to his hypotheses. “Alright then. How long have YOU been hunting?”

“Four years,” Jones’ answered sternly

Violet turned her attention to Jamie. “And you?”

“A couple years,” Jamie replied, more kindly than his fellow.

Violet scoffed, her countenance and posture sharpening like a blade on a grindstone.

“Then both of you squirts better listen for your own good: if over a hundred men get reduced to red slime trying to take one troublemaker alive, then the only sane bet is to deal with him the old-fashioned way. The payout’s smaller, for sure, but by day’s end, you’ll have the glory of the kill and more money than the dead who came before you. Besides, who knows? You might just have technically saved a grubber or two from getting themselves killed.”

Jones was instantly enflamed by Violet’s raking words. “Who are you calling grubbers!?”

Violet simply chuckled once more. “The grubbers, of course. Not up to me if that label applies to you, too.”

Jones’ face bent in fury, his breath heavy from the weight of Violet’s implied insults. Beside him, Jamie could only look on like a child fresh from a parent’s scolding.

“To tell the truth, I don’t blame either of you for acting on a massive fortune; it’s just natural instinct,” Violet continued, ever so slightly softer. “If the Anarch were a smart man, he’d be sending his Champion to take care of these kinds of troubles and getting them done on his terms, not dangling them like bait over our heads.”

Having reached her limit for heated chatter, Violet took a deep breath. “But I’m getting political now, aren’t I? My mistake. Didn’t mean to spoil anyone’s day.”

Violet turned to the collector. “Is my money ready or am I gonna have to wait all day?”

The collector had just finished tying the small pouch of golden flakes for her. “Five-hundred Gilden. Best I can do, given the circumstances.”

“All fair,” Violet said, happily pocketing her reward. “Tell old Valder to send for Violet if he needs a good killer.”

“Believe me: if you wanted to catch his eye, you probably did a good job of it today.”

Violet nodded knowingly as she walked back towards the cabin door, but stopped herself just short of the door before she then turned to the pair of mercenaries for one last inquiry.

“Y’know, I heard you screaming up something about rabid… somethings. Wolves? Voles? What was the creature?”

“W-wolverines, I think… right?” Jamie answered, looking to Jones for confirmation of what were his words.

“Wolverine…” Violet repeated, her voice glazed by curiosity. “No clue what that is, but it’s got a nice ring to it.”

Entranced by this newly discovered word, Violet repeated the word quietly to herself as she stepped back into the rainstorm, off to wherever work would take her next.