Chapter Text
The brooding ocean storm soon gave way to the dark, cold, and silent night of the Great Sea, the tranquility only disturbed by the continuous lapping of waves sliding across the shores. Wemmbu and the sentinel troops were surrounded by black and black alone; without rain and only the sole light of the shallow moon, the sand they stood upon was the only land in sight. The only thing that allowed grounding was the small speckles of the stars hung high above in the sky. Wemmbu cast his gaze down low from the watchtower he was stationed on, dozens of dirty hands reached up to the noir, measuring the reliable constellations and gawking.
Wemmbu turned his gaze, gawking alongside the soldiers.
Deputy Ace sat quietly on a bench adjacent to the standing demon in the wooden overlook. A sharp slit of noise obstructed the silence as the commander flicked out his pocket knife, beginning to whittle away at a lump of wood.
Wemmbu found himself momentarily distracted, his attention drifting toward the other man as he worked. Time slipped by as the steady scrape of blade against wood filled the air. Nearly an hour passed before Ace finally glanced up, catching Wemmbu’s lingering stare.
The rough chunk of oak had been transformed into something smooth and artisan-shaped beneath Ace’s careful hands. Just as Wemmbu began to look away, Ace flicked his wrist and tossed the finished carving toward him. The object struck Wemmbu’s chest lightly, and his hands snapped up on instinct to catch it before it could fall.
“Blow,” Ace instructed simply, dipping his chin toward the item.
Wemmbu lifted the item upward, turning the carved wood beneath the pale wash of moonlight, studying it with interest. The craftsmanship was unmistakable; it was a whistle.
He lifted it to his lips and exhaled experimentally. A clear, high trill spilled into the night air, sharp yet strangely sweet, cutting cleanly through the surrounding silence. Wemmbu pulled away to observe the piece once more.
He tossed it back into Ace’s lap.
“Impressive,” Wemmbu commented.
Ace nodded, “Got to find something more pleasing to do than watch over these knuckleheads.”
Wemmbu glanced down from the tower, eyes landing on a pair of soldiers, their boots discarded on the shoreline, trousers yanked up to their knees, as they waded in the sea, kicking water at each other playfully. Clamour erupted as the boots left unattended were promptly swiped from the sand, floating away; the culprit: an unruly wave.
Wemmbu let out an amused chuckle at the scene as Ace pushed himself off the bench and rose, stepping behind Wemmbu to see what the racket was. He frowned in disapproval, but the two soldiers were too far to shout at.
Ace resigned to shaking his head with a sigh.
He turned and picked up the whistle once more, rolling it in his palm before flinging it out far into the dark. A light splash was heard as the whistle collided with the waters, slipping under the currents to be whisked away.
Wemmbu squinted his eyes in an attempt to watch the ripples ring out from the impact zone in the black.
The first shift of nightwatch bled quietly to its end. The moon had climbed to its throne at the center of the sky, nestling itself into a cradle of slowly drifting grey clouds. With watch concluded, Wemmbu and Deputy Ace descended from the tower. They dropped the final stretch together, boots striking the damp sand below with a muted, heavy thump.
Ace wasted no time; the deputy made a beeline straight toward his tent, moving at a fast pace, pausing only long enough to instruct Wemmbu to remain outside. Wemmbu obeyed without protest, planting himself where ordered. The mere thought of impulsively bolting, of testing the limits of his captivity, was immediately smothered by the ever-present weight of the collar cinched around his throat.
Escape crossed his mind regardless.
The idea arrived in frequent, finite passes of fleeting resolve, swelling with brief, reckless determination before breaking apart beneath the undertow of reason. He mapped the possibilities out of habit, dissecting them from every angle, only to arrive at the same dead end each time. There was no viable, let alone plausible, scenario. He stood marooned on an island teeming with lawmen, anchored beneath Ace’s suffocating supervision, and ringed by the everlasting waters of the Great Sea.
The Dolphin Highway had surfaced in his thoughts previously, glimmering with false promise. But that route would land him straight in the epicenter of Capital City. Which was arguably a fate worse than testing his luck in the open water. The capital was also overrun by Law officers; the city practically suffocated under Lettuce’s surveillance.
Every route twisted back into failure.
A low swell of hushed voices carried through the damp night air, accompanied by faint flickers of warm, orange light that trembled against the silhouettes of the camp’s structures. Wemmbu narrowed his eyes, tilting his head as he strained his eyes. What began as a scattered shimmer gradually bloomed into a steady beacon of invitation.
Against his better judgment, he moved, drawn toward the firelight like an insect.
The smell reached him first: burning timber layered with the sharp, bitter punch of tobacco smoke.
Rounding the corner of a storage building, the source revealed itself.
A loose cluster of first-session nightwatch troopers, retired for the night, had gathered around the budding fire, its flames as young as the men, but lively nevertheless, snapping softly as they licked along stacked kindling and sun-bleached driftwood.
The soldiers passed around rations in easy exchanges, some bargaining, hands trading tins and wrapped portions. Several cigarettes glowed between fingers, their embers flaring whenever someone drew in a breath. Smoke rose in thin, coiling ribbons, tangling with the thicker plumes of the fire until both merged into a hazy veil that hovered overhead before dispersing.
Wemmbu recognized a sample of faces from his eavesdropping, hours earlier.
The tall, composed soldier sat slightly apart from the others, posture upright even in rest, watching the flames with a quiet attentiveness. The smallest soldier sat cross-legged near the fire’s warmth, shoulders bumping against the loud blond beside him as they shared something from a dented saucer.
The blond was one of two boys smoking, purposefully blowing it into the smallest soldier's face solely to garner complaints.
Across from them, the dark-skinned boy reclined comfortably on his elbows, boots stretched toward the fire, while the weak brunette, holding the second cigarette, sat beside, occasionally leaning forward to stir the burning wood with a charred stick.
There were others present; appearances unfamiliar to Wemmbu, but they blended naturally into the circle’s relaxed rhythm.
For a moment, he simply watched them. The laughter was subdued, conversation soft and unguarded, as soldiers allowed themselves only when they believed command had turned its gaze elsewhere.
Then Wemmbu stepped forward, the firelight catching against the metal of his armor as he bridged the separating gap.
Oddly, the boys did nothing more than glance up as he approached, not a word said in welcome or protest. Surely, they knew who he was, why he was here; they must, yet no trepidation was exhibited.
Wemmbu halted at the tallest boy’s side, looking down, prompting: “Mind?”
The tallest boy shook his head; Wemmbu plopped himself beside the other, leaning back on his arms, holding up his torso.
The demon observed the youth, figures illuminated in the orange warmth of the flame, contrasting with the black cold that encircled. It was increasingly apparent that Wemmbu was jaded compared to these boys, mere scanty teenagers. While still nimble and spry, he was coming up on his mid-twenties; only a singular man amongst them looked comparable in age.
Wemmbu turned his head, attention shifting to the tall boy on his right, proceeding to examine the boy’s profile. The tallest boy’s aquiline nose was too large for his face, much like his body; for he had not yet grown into any of his distinctive features, leaving him with a noticeably awkward presence. A prominent Adam’s apple bobbed in the center of the boy’s throat as he mulled the inside of his cheek, simultaneously tugging at his sleeve.
However, only one attribute of the boy caught the demon’s breath; pausing, he could not abstain from leaning closer, boldly encroaching on the boy’s proxemics. He had the same sunken and sad eyes as the late redheaded guard from the prison. But they lacked the sympathy that ultimately led to the lawman's demise. Luckily, that was enough for Wemmbu to dismiss the comparison and cede, pulling away. The tall boy’s eyes were too sullen, too detached.
“Why’d ya’ join?” Wemmbu asked casually.
The tall boy disregarded the demon for a handful of moments before finally turning, answering with just a breathy: “Huh?”
“The Law,” said Wemmbu. “Why’d you join the army?” he repeated.
The tallest boy barely shifted back, the firelight painting long shadows across his steady expression. He shrugged, gaze lingering on the flames.
“Nothin’ much else to do,” he muttered.
The answer landed unexpectedly blunt. Wemmbu blinked once, faintly taken aback by the simplicity of it. He had anticipated honour or patriotism, but before he could press further, the question rippled outward, unintentionally making its way to the ears of the other young men.
“Mouse joined ‘cuz his lady left him,” the dark-skinned boy chimed suddenly from Wemmbu’s left, jerking a thumb toward the smallest soldier seated near the blaze. His grin stretched wide with mischief, eyes glinting in the orange light.
Wemmbu turned his attention toward the accused, inclining his head. Now that the name had been spoken, he studied the boy more carefully. The nickname fit almost too perfectly. The soldier had oversized ears that poked through damp, caramel-colored hair that curled in shaggy disarray around his temples. His face was round and plump with youth; he must be the youngest here.
A quiet, amused smile tugged at Wemmbu’s mouth.
“I did not!” Mouse cried, voice cracking with mortified urgency as his face flushed with embarrassment.
“Why’d you?” Wemmbu asked, shifting his gaze toward the instigator, curiosity genuine rather than taunting.
The dark-skinned boy scratched at the back of his neck, his grin fading into something more sheepish.
“I ain’t good at much,” he admitted with a loose, vague gesture of both hands. “Family could use the money, y’know.”
The admission settled over the circle with a brief, sober weight, but it did not linger. The moment passed quickly, swallowed by the easy momentum of the youth’s energetic conversation.
“I joined ‘cuz it’s what a man oughta do,” the blond declared suddenly with arms folded proudly across his chest, chin tipped upward as though presenting his prowess.
Again, Wemmbu felt a sting at the word “man”.
“Plus,” the blond continued, his tone sharpening. He tossed the butt of his cigarette into the fire before he lifted an accusing finger toward Wemmbu, “People like you oughta be stopped.”
Wemmbu raised his wrists slightly in a gesture of mock surrender and disgruntled placation, the metal around his collar caught the firelight as he moved. His expression flattened into something carefully neutral.
“I’m doing my time,” he replied, forcing it out with casual indifference; resentment buried in nonchalance.
“Good,” the blond nodded with firm satisfaction, as if personally approving Wemmbu’s words. “‘S how it should be.”
“Lay off,” the quiet, meager brunette interjected softly. His voice lacked force, but it carried a gentle sincerity that contrasted with the blond. The brunette passed his cigarette to the dark-skinned boy.
The blond only hummed in response, stretching backward and bracing himself on his palms, dismissing the comment entirely.
Wemmbu’s gaze drifted once more toward the tallest soldier. The boy sat exactly as before, hands loosely clasped, posture straight but relaxed, eyes fixed somewhere between the flames and the black.
The detachment unsettled him more than the blond’s open judgment.
The night began to slip away.
Another soldier, one-eyed, tan-skinned, and seemingly close in age to Wemmbu, produced a harmonica from his coat pocket. The metal glinted faintly before he raised it to his lips. The first note spilled out low and trembling, quickly followed by a wandering melody that curled through the night as the smoke did.
The conversation dwindled naturally beneath the music. One by one, voices joined the tune.
They sang softly, their words wove together unevenly, accents folding into one another as different languages surfaced and faded like the tides. Wemmbu caught fragments he recognized: French lyrics drifting in smooth, romantic melancholy cadence; Spanish rising warm and rhythmic; scattered murmurs of Italian sliding through the harmony in flourish.
The voices clashed at times, mismatched syllables overlapping imperfectly, yet somehow they fused into something strangely synthesized. The fire crackled in accompaniment, sparks leaping skyward before dying in the damp night air.
Wemmbu leaned back slightly, locating a rock to lie against, tilting his head toward the cloud-smeared sky. He allowed his eyes to close.
For a moment, he let the layered voices wash over him; the laughter hidden between song and jest, the uneven breathing of boys, unaware.
The night air cooled the exposed edges of his face.
And for the first time in this immeasurable stretch of captivity, Wemmbu fully relaxed.
That was until he took notice of a shadow looming over his face.
Wemmbu cracked an eye open and was met with Deputy Ace’s tucked chin staring down at the lounging demon.
The rest of the boys snapped upright on sight, boots grinding into the damp sand as they straightened into salute. Heel-clicks rang sharp through the shuffling.
“Commander!”
Wemmbu remained sprawled against the cooling ground, unmoving, and looking up. He had already decided to simply accept whatever punishment would follow for his disobedient wandering.
The commander’s stare rested on Wemmbu’s reclined form for only one moment more before it drifted past him.
“At ease,” Ace said calmly. “You all need to be resting. Get to your tents. Go on.”
“Yes, sir!”
Relief broke their stiffness. The boys scrambled to extinguish the fire, kicking sand over the flames until they sputtered and choked beneath the grains. The orange glow faded into dull embers before disappearing entirely. Rations were gathered, cigarettes crushed, and the group scattered toward the tent rows, their voices softening into distant murmurs swallowed by the night.
Wemmbu brushed sand from his arms and pushed himself upright.
“What are you doing?” Ace asked.
“Uh…” Wemmbu stalled. He had assumed the order excluded him. “I—”
Ace lifted a hand, silencing him before the excuse could form.
“You too.”
Wemmbu hesitated, then turned toward the direction the others had gone.
“No,” Ace corrected, already stepping past him. “This way.”
Wemmbu followed.
They walked in silence through the dim encampment. Lanterns swayed along wooden posts, casting figures across stacked crates and supply wagons. Passing guards offered brief nods to Ace, sparing Wemmbu only quick glances.
They stopped beside the reinforced holding rig attached to a transport wagon. A stationed guard straightened and hurried to unlock the barred door. Metal scraped and groaned before the gate swung open.
Wemmbu stepped forward, pausing briefly to glance toward the distant shoreline. The sea was invisible in the dark, but its steady breathing still rolled across the camp.
“Inside,” Ace said.
Wemmbu obeyed without resistance.
The gate slammed shut behind him. The lock snapped into place with a clean, final click.
He lowered himself onto the narrow cot, leaning back against the cold metal frame. Outside, Ace’s footsteps faded into the rhythm of the camp settling for the night.
Wemmbu folded his arm behind his head and closed his eyes.
—-
The next morning, the cold was killed tragically by the sun, blazing and intense in its heat. The humidity, as well, offered no comfort, for the salty, wet air wavered and bent in the blasting rays. During their breaks, the midday temperature had soldiers stripping down to their underwear in order to dive into the cool, blue waters. Wemmbu was guilty of the action himself, uncharacteristically horsing around, undressed with the accompanying boys.
It had been the most humane he’s felt in years, grueling. It was fun; he was having fun.
This was not the violence he had ascribed to the Law, nor was it the scum he thought to be the only capability of Lettuce. It was a harsh and dual realization that Wemmbu was requisite to broach; the turmoil of the two realities clashed.
The first: his sanguinary experiences inside the heart and soul of the Law, Lettuce’s chamber of suffering. The second: the kindness, sincerity, and true vigor of the men and women carrying the Law.
He was stalemated, half-consciously reconsidering his beastial image of Lettuce he had erected in his mind.
It was too jarring, Wemmbu forced himself to abstain from the pressing subject.
Soon, the elation had to end, as most blessings in the world did. The sun dipped silently, hiding behind the wall of ocean, chased far away; the fault of the moon and her entrancingly ghastly, ill-lit beauty.
This marked the completion of Wemmbu’s minuscule deployment. The night slipped away faster than the sideral epoch had. Two days were all that was allotted to him, and the morning after, waking, still clothed by the uniform he’d laid his head to rest in. The dread of return set deep inside his stomach, viciously present.
Ace shifted charge of the post to a qualified lieutenant in whispered breath.
And then Wemmbu was gone.
Removed entirely, travelling back to the capital in dead, uninterrupted quiet.
When they arrived at Capital City, it was nothing like Wemmbu remembered. It was absolutely disarrayed.
He had expected occupation; he knew the Law had tightened its grip, but the reality was overwhelming. Infantry flooded the streets in endless amounts, officers stationed ahead, supply carts rattling over stone, boots striking pavement. The city felt less like a capital and more like a preening military base.
Ace moved through it without hesitation, as though the chaos were perfectly ordinary. Wemmbu, however, couldn’t stop staring.
Wemmbu had been handcuffed and stripped of his armor before leaving the island, reduced to his uniform and numbered tag printed boldly across his breast. Ace dragged him along through the crowded streets.
Eventually, they passed beyond the densest part of the city, where the noise thinned into the steady churn of military traffic heading north. Trucks rumbled by in long convoys, engines growling, each painted in the olive drab of the Law’s growing industry.
Ace lifted a hand, flagging down a passing vehicle. The large, green GMC CCKW shuddered to a halt beside them, and the engine coughed under its own weight. Wemmbu tilted his head, watching it with quiet curiosity. Lettuce wasn’t building an army anymore; he was fabricating infrastructure; this was militarized industrialization.
When had it gotten this dire?
“Going anywhere?” Ace asked casually, voice raised just enough to cut through the engine’s rumble.
The driver snapped into a quick salute. “Heading to the Northern Council, sir!”
“Gorgeous,” Ace said with a short nod, already stepping forward to board.
A hand suddenly seized the deputy’s arm.
It wasn’t Wemmbu’s.
The abrupt contact startled the demon; his head jerked toward the interruption. A man stood there, breathless and shaking; a doctor. A doctor whose white coat was covered in grime. Crimson soaked through it in ugly streaks, fresh and bright, blotting out the Law’s insignia stitched to his sleeve.
“Commander!” the doctor gasped, struggling to catch his breath. “I have forty men dying in the mud. Medical tents are overrun. I need transport to hospital. Now.”
Ace turned slowly. The easy calm drained from his expression, replaced by something cold and focused.
Wemmbu stared, brows tense.