Chapter Text
By the time the four-member crew parts ways, it’s nearly 2 a.m. Karlach shuffles her weary bones back to her apartment. Nestled into a five-story building in one of the humbler regions of the Lower City, the residence more than meets her needs, despite it feeling sort of haunted. Her parents managed to actually own the unit before they died, so when Karlach reappeared, she found the deed left in her name. She hates that she didn’t get to see them again after entering Gortash’s service, but the apartment feels like one last gift from them.
Honestly, what surprises her most is that no Bane Corp goons have come knocking on her door. She braces herself for the prospect, though, whispering out loud to herself as she collapses onto the couch, “Let ‘em come…”
Karlach pulls herself up, despite the aches and pains, and draws a bath. She peels the sweat and blood soaked clothes off and submerges herself in the tub. Regardless of the temperature she sets the faucet to, every bath turns into a hot tub for her, so she usually goes for cold water, so she can feel the slightest sensation of cool—even if only for a few moments. She examines her two injuries, starting with her grazed right shoulder. Despite how shallow the wound is, it’s a little grotesque because the tube connected to one of her fire vents is partially exposed. The accelerated growth hormones are still working, though, as the blood seems to be mostly caked on at this point.
Lae’zel’s suspicion was correct. Standard cloth bandages don’t really stay on her skin anymore. Due to the compounding factors of the heat, the jagged striations across most of her flesh, and her tiefling spines, adhesive or tightly wrapped objects tend to just slide off or break. It felt like a huge problem at first, but once she saw the healing tech at work, it became clear it wasn’t an issue as long as she could clean her wounds. She pulls up her left leg to check for infection in the second bullet graze. A little deeper, but it just hit flesh too. It’s still bleeding, but it won’t be for long. With her personal after action report complete, she reclines in the bath, a small pool of steam veiling her face and the one arm she has propped on the tub’s rim. She sighs and finally lets herself relax for the first time since she got the first message from Shadowheart about twelve hours ago.
Karlach briefly closes her eyes with her head resting on the hard edge. After fully dozing off, several minutes vanish. She shudders awake, lifting her other arm and knees above the water’s surface. Her fingertips have started to prune and she rubs her thumb across the pads of her pointer and middle fingers. Tieflings aren’t known for having smooth skin, but the patches of suppleness become more and more sparse after every battle. She doesn’t really care about being “beautiful”—at least not in a way that conforms to an unachievable standard. No, that’s not what bothers her about the craggy topography of her body. It’s just that she can never even pretend to be normal. One look at the scars and the vents and the fire and the non-consensual tattoos and the broken horn with Infernal carved in it and it’s undeniable that she’s an instrument of death. It’s written on every inch of her.
“Maybe I can find someone who will play pretend with me,” she muses to the bathroom ceiling. Shadowheart’s face, eyes shimmering under the streetlight, flashes into Karlach’s mind. She shakes her head, thinking, ‘No, not her.’ She boosts herself out of the tub, standing in the shin-deep water for a beat before stepping out. A towel hangs on a hook, but she rarely bothers. Between living alone and constantly emitting fire, air drying usually ends up being easier. Keeping her exhausted body upright without the support of water makes the trudge to bed difficult, but she manages to collapse onto the mattress with a thunk, losing consciousness in seconds.
A day of intermittent but persistent sleep, only rising to tend to basic needs: food, water, meds, bathroom. Sacrificing the entire day for self-care feels like an even bigger f*ck you to Gortash than literally stealing from him. “Day off,” “rest,” “vacation.” Karlach had heard of these words but never applied to her. She doesn’t want to waste a moment getting her vengeance, so she has to think of taking time for herself as an act of defiance. And it feels good.
Mid-morning the following day, her mini-tablet beeps, this time with a text from Shadowheart: Meet me at Dammon’s ASAP. Despite the full day’s rest, small traces of ache bristle through her calves and biceps. Nothing she can’t handle, though. She grabs a loose fitting tee from her childhood. She’s bulked up so much in the past ten years that the sleeves are tight around her shoulders and the bottom hem hangs just above her t-shaped belly button. Regardless of the brand new bullet hole, she still dons her leather jacket. Underwear, jeans, combat boots, and out the door. Trundling down the stairs of her complex, she walks the handful of blocks to Dammon’s clinic.
When she arrives, Shadowheart’s car is already parked out front. It stands out from the old beaters and off the lot models that frequent this neighborhood.
The clinic’s glass double doors slide open and Karlach sees Lae’zel in the waiting room accompanied by a tiefling, a half-orc, and a gnome with dark blue skin. If Dammon had any other clients, this lot probably scared them off. Lae'zel opens her mouth to speak, but Shadowheart enters from the inner door, betraying her excitement when she says, “You're here!” The leader regains a modicum of professionalism as she introduces the three new faces, “I figured it was time you met the full crew. At least the regular folks. As I said, people like Astarion are more like… contractors. These people are family, got it?”
Karlach beams at the concept: “You know I love family.”
Indicating the other tiefling, the half-orc, and the deep gnome in order, Shadowheart fills in her new recruit. “This is Nocturne. Best arms dealer in the Lower City. She and I have known each other since childhood. Z’rell. She's a veteran, like you, I suppose. And finally, Philomeen. Demo expert. You need something blown up, she’s your gal.” All three women give a small nod of recognition as they're introduced. “And this, girls, is Karlach. Don't ask about the fire. That’s why we're here.” Karlach nods back, giving a lax two-finger salute to Z’rell as a sign of both respect to a fellow GI and appreciation that that chapter of their life is over.
“It is quite the tale,” Lae’zel adds.
“Which means don’t ask unless you want to be a little angrier at the world,” Shadowheart cautions.
“Hard to imagine that,” Z’rell grunts.
“Buy me a drink and I’ll tell ya sometime,” Karlach offers with an extra layer of cheer.
“She seems awfully upbeat for it to be that bad,” Philomeen speculates.
“Or maybe I’m a master of deception,” Karlach counteroffers with a performative wave of the hands.
Shadowheart gives a slight smirk, but reclaims the reins, asserting, “Now that we’re all acquainted, care to come inside with me, Karlach?”
With a crisp nod, they both walk through the door and then a translucent curtain into Dammon’s exam room. The space is hot enough for Karlach to notice the spike in temperature, the walls covered in display panels, cabinets with supplies and common implant parts, and mount plates for the two giant multi-purpose surgery rigs he manipulates for installation, maintenance, and checkups. The doctor himself is coated in sweat so thick his silver hair, pulled back into a tight topknot, is slicked back and shiny. His slim, chiseled jaw is stern as he looks down at a table in front of him. He has a pair of adjustable goggles that allow him to examine the micro-circuits of the stolen Avernus goods they recently delivered.
Without looking up, he confides, “You’re lucky I’m familiar with this tech. It’s unlike anything made here. But if you give me some time, I think I can come up with something…”
“That’s my Dammon!” Karlach hollers.
With a start, he finally looks up, sliding up his goggles so they sit on top of his head. “Oh, Karlach. I didn't know you—I’m glad you’re here.” His face contorts into a pained smile. “I can’t promise anything yet, and I don’t see it working long term, but I think I can give you enough control so you can…”
“Touch people? Please say touch people!”
“I believe so,” he says.
“Oh, Dammon, you’re the best!” Karlach praises jubilantly. “If you pull this off, I’ll give you the biggest hug ever. Probably even a kiss. Oh, I’m going to kiss my way across this whole damned city.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” he shoots back with a smirk.
“And this will make us even, correct?” Shadowheart asks icily.
“Yes, Shadowheart,” Dammon confirms, “This will be more than enough, I'm sure of it. The key was this.” He holds up the box that Karlach pulled haphazardly from the final storage container. “I think it’s for some sort of weapon modification, to make a bullet ignite. But the smart coolant system allows for an adaptable realtime—”
Shadowheart holds up her hand, clearly not interested in the details. “It’ll work?”
He pulls himself back from the techno-jargon and nods, “Yes. Just give me a few days, a week at most.”
“A week?!” Karlach howls. “It’s been a decade. A week should be no problem.” And yet she fidgets antsily to betray how agonizing the wait will be.
“I’ll notify you the second it's ready,” Dammon assures her.
“Thanks, Dammon,” acknowledges Shadowheart before she pivots and walks right out the door to the lobby. Seconds later, the sliding door is faintly heard drifting open.
Karlach smiles sheepishly, defending her new boss, “She’s nicer than she seems.”
“I'm sure,” he deflects. “Honestly, I'm glad I had a good reason to call in this favor. I never planned to until you—well, until you came back home.”
“I can't believe you’re a doctor, Dammon,” she alights with pride. “When I left the Lower City, you were just that dweeby little kid I had a crush on. Now, look at you! You’re doing incredible.”
“A lot has changed, Karlach… but maybe some things haven’t.”
Those words hang in the air until Lae’zel pokes her head through the plastic curtain. She commands, “It is time to go, Karlach.”
“Duty calls,” Karlach says to Dammon by way of apology.
“I understand. I’ll call you,” he promises again.
Karlach follows Lae’zel, but shouts on the way out, “The millisecond it's ready!”
If Dammon replies, it’s too quiet to be heard from the lobby. When Karlach emerges, the rest of the crew has already cleared out. She looks around, a little puzzled, but when Lae’zel just keeps walking, she figures it out.
Plodding behind the apparent second-in-command, Karlach realizes that Shadowheart’s slope roofed beauty isn’t the only vehicle belonging to this crew. Z’rell has already started up a motorcycle and Philomeen is adjusting a helmet to ride with her. Nocturne is looking through the leftover Avernus tech in the car trunk to see what’s worth keeping and what to sell, their leader hovering over her shoulder in a hushed conversation.
As Lae’zel and Karlach pull up on the rest of the gang, Shadowheart perks up. Her face curls into a mischievous smile, prodding Karlach, “I think he likes you.”
Karlach rubs the shaved portion of her hair, doing her best to play it cool. “Dammon? I should be so lucky.”
“You most certainly will be that lucky when he finishes that upgrade,” Shadowheart presses.
Karlach would blush if her blood wasn't already shrouded in flame. “It’s almost hard to imagine… Well, not that hard. I've been imaging it for almost ten years.”
Shadowheart can't help but giggle, co*cking up an eyebrow. “With Dammon?”
“No! Well—I meant in general!” Karlach turns pleadingly to Lae’zel. “Is she always this catty?”
“Yes,” Lae’zel answers instantly with a low growl, eyeing her lover while continuing to speak to Karlach. “But you seem to contain a special ability that amplifies its effects.”
“It’s a rarity to find someone who reacts as evidently as you, Karlach,” Shadowheart admits. “If you didn’t wear your feelings on your sleeve, it wouldn’t be so easy.”
“It’s true,” Lae’zel backs up Shadowheart, but she turns from playful teasing to genuine critique. “You make yourself quite vulnerable to emotional manipulation.”
Karlach is about to jump to her own defense when Z’rell croaks, “You three can keep flirting, but Phil and I have places to be. Call me if there’s any work.” Philomeen has mounted the motorcycle behind the only other person even close to Karlach’s size in the crew.
“Of course,” Shadowheart confirms, “Another fight, I presume?”
“Just practice,” Philomeen interjects on Z’rell’s behalf.
“Can never over-prepare,” Z’rell adds as her bike revs and takes off onto the road.
As the motorcycle rounds a corner, all Karlach can think is, ‘I gotta get one of those!’ Then she looks quizzically at Shadowheart, asking, “Fight?”
“Z’rell is a kickboxer,” she clarifies. “Probably would be one of the best if she didn’t like this life so much. She mostly takes challenges for fun and a little spending money.” With a small start, Shadowheart shoves her hand into her pocket, producing her mini-tablet. “Oh, that reminds me.” She holds the device up in front of her, waiting for Karlach to tap her own onto it—just as they did when they traded contact info. The new recruit fumbles briefly but eventually finds it, warily bumping the two metal rectangles to one another. In an instant, her screen lights up with a notification: 1000¤ transferred to account. A thousand credits? That’s more than Karlach made lugging boxes over the two prior weeks, let alone for one night.
“I thought you said I was being paid a ‘reduced rate’ or whatever,” Karlach queries.
“You are,” Shadowheart shoots back nonchalantly. “Not every day we knock over a corporate warehouse. Not everything will be this good, so make it last.”
Karlach holds her electronic device in front of her. Could this be a life for her? Will she live long enough to find out? She says eagerly, “You got it, soldier. Is that all? I’m ready for more!”
“Well aren’t you eager,” Shadowheart evaluates with a hint of encouragement. “You’re in luck, sort of. Not a job per se, but if you’re going to be in my crew, I have to introduce you to grandmother. Get in,” she insists while closing the trunk. She turns to Nocturne, “We’ll unload all this after.”
With a bit of tremble in her voice, Nocturne advises, “I wouldn’t hold onto this stuff for too long. It’ll make you a target if anyone else finds out.”
“I regret to inform you, Karlach,” Shadowheart begins slyly, gesturing toward Nocturne and Lae’zel, “that if you’re planning to become my guardian protector, you’ll have to get in line.”
“Perhaps if you showed more wisdom, we would not voice our concerns so frequently,” Lae’zel bites back.
“I’m just doing my best to look after my friend,” Nocturne clarifies to separate herself from the clear insult.
“After all these years?” Shadowheart dismays, “Has my wisdom not proven prudent in the end?”
Lae’zel grumbles to herself, refusing to admit defeat. She gets into the driver’s seat, starting up the car. The remaining three all pile into the car, with Shadowheart taking the passenger seat, Nocturne behind her and Karlach behind the driver. Lae’zel presses a few buttons on the steering block and then grabs the two handles on each side as the vehicle glides onto the road.
After a few moments of mildly comfortable silence, Karlach remembers to ask, “Who’s ‘grandmother,’ by the way?”
“You didn’t tell her?” Nocturne accuses Shadowheart.
Shadowheart’s smile can be heard without even seeing her face. “I think I’ll learn much more from seeing her go in blind.”
Nocturne admonishes her friend and leader, “By our Lady, you are cruel.”
“Oh, are you down with the Shar, too, Nocturne?” Karlach blusters without a second thought.
Nocturne’s gentler affect hardens as she says, “I know this will sound like a jest, but if I told you too much, I might have to kill you. How Shadowheart can be so brazen with it is beyond me.”
“Maybe I interpret our Lady’s teachings differently than you,” Shadowheart jabs.
“I shudder to think what Mother Superior would say to that.”
“Is that who ‘grandmother’ is?” Karlach asks, her head starting to spin.
“Gods, no,” Shadowheart and Nocturne both say in near unison.
***
Nestled in a particularly dense neighborhood in the Lower City sits an impressive stretch of greenery, Bloomridge Park. The curving plexiglass walkways delimit an interlocking network of quadrangles. Each one is its own unique shape and contains a discreet and perfectly representative sample of the indigenous flora from different city-states or continents across Toril. Municipal touchscreen plaques surrounding each sector display the names of the plants with visual aids and information about their role in their associated regions. The Kara-Tur section is a particular favorite of tourists who have never seen the bamboo stalks and thick palms native to the region. Karlach always loved the Rasheman area with its tall evergreens and bushes so robust you could climb them.
It’s clearly a strange and wasteful vanity project from bygone efforts to “revitalize” the Lower City. But it’s the best smelling air in the city. More importantly for Karlach and the new company she’s keeping, a centrally located gazebo covers a wide spiral staircase that winds downward over five stories into a cavernous manmade hollow that extends the full length and width of the park above it. There were once elevators that could ferry people up and down, but they fell into disrepair even before Karlach was born. And as a result, what was the originally back-up method for traversing between the park and its subterranean counterpart below has become the only way down.
Despite the lengthy descent into this massive rectangle surgically extracted from the ground, the Under City, as the locals call it, is buzzing with activity. School children, families, and couples out on a silly date come here for the subsurface zoo. A majority of the animals sleep most of the day since it’s much darker than their normal climes, but there aren’t really other places to see owlbears and displacer beasts in the Lower City. Folks looking for a gift visit the shops that line the exterior walls. They sell everything that would benefit from a little healthy soil such as home garden goods, pets and pet supplies, freshly grown herbs and spices, and so on. Scientists and their staff walk up and down the five-story spiral staircase every day to work in the botanical research lab that’s opposite the zoo. They use the underground laboratory and the mini-ecosystems above to make vital discoveries in the losing battle against environmental destruction.
This visit to the Under City is Karlach’s first since her escape from Bane. As memories of coming to this place as a child flood back, Karlach cannot decide if it has changed or she has. ‘Probably both,’ she reckons. Her eyes slowly adjust to the dim natural light that trickles down from the maze of crystalline plexiglass that zig-zags through the Bloomridge surface yawning twenty-five meters above her. The simulated global ecologies hang in perfectly suspended latticework of plastic irrigation tubes and transparent soil containers. For anyone who looks up and squints hard enough, the cordoned off root systems from each quadrangle become visible. A few of the topside enclosures have temporary scaffolding affixed underneath them for maintenance, tiny dots of workers toiling away to keep these impossible pockets of vegetation alive.
As the sounds, sights, and smells of this little patch of domesticated wilderness wash over Karlach, her guesses about who this “grandmother” could be start to coalesce. Older woman… connected to the Under City. She resists the urge to stare at the caged animals and monsters to keep up with the other three who stride right through the crowd. They veer toward the outer western edge, where a particularly kitschy stretch of boutiques sell overpriced wares to New Baldur’s Gate’s visitors and undiscerning rubes. The four women begin to approach one of the units when it all falls into place for Karlach.
With a sharp gasp, she places a hand on her chest, yelling, “Ohmygods-ohmygods-ohmygods, it’s Jaheira!”
“This is a time to be a little more discreet, Karlach,” Shadowheart cautions through tight lips, “She’s supposed to be retired.”
In the loudest stage whisper possible, the fiery ruffian surmises, “But she’s really not?” Karlach not so subtly winks so that all three can see.
“And you’re sure about this, Shade?” Nocturne worries.
Shadowheart waves away the concern. “It’s just an introduction.” She pushes through the beaded curtain that (barely) serves as a door and a heady mixture of incense and homegrown aromatics fills the air. It’s just as thick as the air topside, but instead it smells untamed yet comforting, a genuine olfactory novelty in this city. The shelves are littered with tchotchkes, fiber arts, and consumable goods from well outside New Baldur’s Gate. Behind the counter stands a somewhat rare sight: a person taller and more muscular than Karlach. A bald hyper-masculine figure with a bright purple tattoo covers half his bald head with an empty spot of light skin above his right eye. Signs of aging streak across his face but are especially evident in cavernous laugh lines circ*mscribing his mouth. He’s feeding a hamster on the counter when he hears the rattle of the beads that presages the entrance of new potential customers.
The man beams with glee and bellows in a deep rounded accent, “Welcome to the Rashemen Emporium, my name is—”
“Minsc!” Karlach interjects, “You’re Minsc, oh my gods.” She gesticulates wildly to Shadowheart, pointing between her and Minsc, “That’s Minsc!” Karlach has to pace a little to process her excitement.
“Yes, I heard you the first time,” Shadowheart drawls at the giant giddy child bounding back and forth. She then turns to the other giant child in the room, saying evenly, “We’re here to see her.”
“But I did not get to introduce Boo,” he whimpers while pointing to the hamster.
“I believe you just did,” Shadowheart observes.
“Oh-ho, you are always with the craftiness, Shadowheart. May I interest you in a treasure from my homeland?”
“Minsc,” Shadowheart chirps in a ‘kill them with kindness’ kind of way, “I need you to focus, all right? Go and tell your boss that I am here.”
“Boss?” Minsc balks. “No, I am her protector. She looks to Minsc for the making safe and the selling of things… So, it is Minsc who works for Jaheira.”
On the razor’s edge of losing her patience, she starts to correct him, “That is what boss means, you—Never mind. Can you inform your protectee that we are here?”
He released a belly laugh, grinning from ear to ear, booming, “Yes, of course, my angry friend, of course!” He then turns to the hamster, coming to attention in front of the cage, “Boo, I leave the store in your capable paws.” The giant clomps through the empty door frame toward the rear of the store and by the sound of his footsteps down a flight of stairs.
Karlach pretends to browse politely for half a minute before waking up to Boo’s enclosure, leaning in and waving a hand in front of the cage. She talks to the white and tan coated creature in a soft, high-pitched voice, “Hey, Boo. The mean lady wouldn’t stop for the zoo animals, so I’ll look at you. Is that all right?” The hamster squeaks as if responding, but there’s absolutely no indication that he ever stops squeaking. “Aren’t you a cute little fella? Incredible. So you’re Minsc's, huh?”
“If you asked him, he would say he is Boo’s,” a voice with a similar accent to Minsc’s cuts in from the rear of the storefront. Despite showing a bit more age, Karlach immediately knows it's Jaheira.
The ability to speak escapes Karlach at first. Despite the wrinkles, Jaheira’s infamously imposing presence hasn’t lost a beat. She’s barely taller than Shadowheart yet she seems to take up more of the room than Karlach. What perhaps stands out about her the most is that she has no tech on her body. Her eyes look 100% organic, she has no steel plates on her skin for bone support, and the telltale circuits on her ears for aural implants are absent. Jaheira appears like a woman out of time and yet she’s so fully aware of her surroundings that she puts Karlach’s people reading skills to shame. Poking out from her v-neck tunic and her elbow length sleeves are elaborate tattoos of green and brown vines that weave over her only slightly sagging skin. If Karlach could see Jaheira’s back, she’d be stunned by the black panther tattoo that covers almost the entire surface—from just below her neck to the base of her spine.
Jaheira’s eyes narrow, flicking them from Karlach to Shadowheart, querying, “Is this the girl?”
“Yes, Jaheira,” the mercenary leader replies.
“Come in, cub,” the older woman invites, “Let an old crone get to know you a bit, eh?”
Karlach blinks for a moment and then shoots up, recoiling at how foolish she must have looked talking to a hamster. “Yes! Are you…” She turns to Shadowheart. “Is she ‘grandmother’?”
“Is that what they call me?” Jaheira cuts in. “A woman survives long enough and suddenly she is grandmother!”
“Most of us are wise enough not to call her that to her face,” Shadowheart pushes through gritted teeth.
“Oh no, I’ve messed it up already,” Karlach moans. “I never was very good at tests, unless they were combat tests—those I tended to be good at.” Karlach strikes a faux boxing pose with her fists up. The chrome plates on her hands glint slightly against the old-fashioned halogen lights.
Jaheira pivots on the door frame, outstretching an arm toward the shop’s backroom to bid Karlach to follow her in, “I did not enjoy many tests myself. Now, come. Just think of this as a little talk between you and your… grandmother.” At the last word, she daggers Shadowheart with her eyes.
“Right, yeah. Here I go… to talk to Jaheira. The Jaheira. Alone?” Karlach asks, looking around at the three women accompanying her.
“Alone,” Jaheira certifies with an air of finality.
Shadowheart gives Karlach an encouraging nod, communicating non-verbally, “Go, it’ll be alright.”
The new recruit shrugs her shoulders up slightly, inhales, dropping them on the exhale. She moves toward the door frame, Jaheira leading the way past storage closets, cardboard cartons, full glass jars, rolls of fabric wrapped in plastic, and so on. Minsc stands in a sea of open or empty boxes, beseeching his handler, “Do you need me as well, Jaheira? Should I make with the intimidating?”
Jaheira speaks clearly to him, doing her best to leave no room for ambiguity: “That will not be necessary, Minsc. Just mind the store.”
“Mind the store?” he processes, “Minsc’s body is much sharper than his mind, so I will body the store!”
Jaheira can’t help but smile, “You do that.” At the back of the store room is a proper door, lock and all, that leads to a narrow flight of downward stairs. Karlach trails behind Jaheira, barely small enough to not knock her shoulders on the walls that flank the steps. At the bottom, a small platform lets out into a well-lit office. It has no other doors or even windows as it extends below the primary deck of the Under City.
As Karlach looks around at the sun-lamp-lit plants and old-fashioned computer consoles, she can’t help but feel as if she’s descended into the bowels of Toril, of the planet itself. The room is dense but tidy with ample room for Jaheira to sashay back to the chair behind her desk. She sits and motions to a wooden chair opposite her, “Sit.”
“Yes, ma’am—Jaheira,” Karlach stammers out. Obediently placing herself on the seat, she tests that the arrangement of rods and planks will hold her weight. It seems sturdy enough, though.
Jaheira co*cks her head to the side, jabbing, “Ma’am? Are you here looking for orders, girl?”
“No, ma—No. It’s just… You’re a legend!” As Karlach jabbers on, her pace quickens: “Like, is it true you took down the Bhaal Syndicate with an actual child of its kingpin?! Or what about the time you defended the entire Lower City from marauding gangs? The cops, useless—as always—but you and yours? Kept my family safe! I might not be here now if not for you.”
“My role in those stories is overblown, I assure you,” Jaheira deflects, “Maybe none of it’s true and I am but a simple shopkeeper, eh? Could I interest you in some tea?”
“I’m more of a coffee gal, but how could I say no?”
“Glad to hear it,” she says while pulling open a drawer and dropping the lever on an electric kettle already filled with water. As it rises to a boil, Jaheira walks over to some of the plants on a shelf, pulling two of them off and placing them on her desk. One seems perfectly ripe, and Jaheira plucks some of the leaves off and puts them into a mortar, the weathered pestle rod laying beside it. The second plant, however, seems weeks away from being ready for consumption, its little limbs shrunken and curled downward. Jaheira inhales sharply, setting her severe gaze on the plant, and as she mutters a few words in a language Karlach could never understand, bright green strands issue out of Jaheira's fingertips. The small plant matures instantly, erecting itself fully upright with small yellow-brown petals.
Karlach shoots up with a fright, internally screaming, ‘How the f*ck did she do that?!’
Gently tugging off the newly-formed petals and letting them float down into the mortar, Jaheira chuckles at Karlach’s shock. She assures the young woman, “You have nothing to fear, child. You’ve never seen someone use magic, have you?”
“Only in stories of swashbuckling adventurers. Never in real life…”
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Jaheira sighs. “The corporations and governments made sure you could only access magic using their technology. But Faerûn—all of Toril—is made of magic, and some of us old codgers still hold onto the old ways.” She winks and a small stir of arousal instinctively streams in Karlach’s belly. Even the older generations still adhere to the merc-equals-sexy rule. Perhaps incorrectly assessing Karlach’s reaction as discomfort, Jaheira clarifies, “This isn't a job interview, cub. I just like to know when someone plans to work in my city, yes?”
“Fair enough,” Karlach accepts. “Truth be told, I probably won’t be working very long, so there ain’t much to know. Not that I won’t—”
Jaheira latches onto the stated brevity of Karlach’s sojourn in mercenary life, lifting an eyebrow. She grinds up the fresh leaves and assembles loose leaf sachets when she inquires, “Oh? Planning an early retirement? Want to change professions before you’re wrinkled and gray like old Jaheira?”
“No, no! And you’re not—You look great, Jaheira. Could probably show me a thing or two,” Karlach defers to one of her idols.
“Perhaps, but you seem more than capable.” The kettle clicks into the off position as a cloud of steam rises from the mouth. Jaheira drops the sachets into two mugs, pouring the boiling water in. She pushes one of the ceramic cups forward to the far edge of her desk, gesturing toward it for Karlach to take it. “Drink.”
Without hesitation, the younger woman gulps the piping hot liquid. It barely registers as particularly scalding and the mixture of flavors is almost enough to make her a tea convert. “Mmmm,” she moans, still processing the fact that one of the most hallowed names on her city’s streets just brewed her tea. All of the little names—“cub,” “girl,” “child”—don’t bother her coming from Jaheira. They feel like signals of acceptance.
“Now, young Karlach,” the city matriarch begins, “why don’t you tell me what led you to this meeting. The glowing heart alone must be quite the tale. The exaggerated yarns from my heyday must pale in comparison.”
“No way,” Karlach balks. But without thinking, the entire story starts spilling out of her. Pulled off the Lower City streets at fourteen, four years of corporate military indoctrination, the heart replacement, three years of protecting Gortash, five years overseas fighting for Avernus, and then back with Gortash who was not the least bit apologetic for leaving her with literal devils.
“It was then,” she continues, “that I realized all of it, the whole f*cking deal, was built on a f*cking load of nothing. I felt like an idiot for not seeing it sooner. The whole time in Avernus, I convinced myself it was just a mistake—some sort of admin error or something. And then when I got back, he just pretended like I just popped out for a quick study abroad. All of the ‘research’ into finding a way for me to touch people without hurting them, it didn’t exist. Why would they? I was their perfect killing machine.”
During the entire regaling, Jaheira just listened. Nodding along, occasionally offering a small “hm” of recognition. She didn’t seem uncomfortable or unsettled by any of it like Shadowheart and Lae’zel were. It was honestly a massive relief for Karlach to just get it all out in the open. Finally, the elder does speak up only to ask, “How did you escape?”
“Funny story, that. So Mr. CEO had a meeting with some emissary from Avernus and I was meant to be there not only for protection but as some sort of symbol, like a show piece of the ‘grand ambitions of their cooperation’ or some other sh*te. But someone from catering messed up their food. It might surprise you to know that spinagon devils, very particular about their victuals. So the whole floor they’re staying on is thrown into f*cking bedlam. Practically burned it down. And old Karlach could’ve gone through there no problem, but where was she? Out the front door. The whole building was on damage control, I doubt they even noticed until I was crossing the bridge back to the Lower City. Can you imagine? A problem tailor-made for me to fix and I’m escaping through the entrance? Proudest moment of my life… Well, except for this one, I suppose.”
“Maybe I should be calling you ‘ma’am’ after all you’ve been through,” Jaheira hurls back at the recently-free woman.
“Nah, I don’t know about all that, but I count my lucky stars I’m still alive. At least for now. See, I only joined up with Shadowheart because Dammon—do you know Dammon?”
“Yes, but I have little need for his services.”
“Course you do! He’s the best, though. And I noticed that,” Karlach observes in awe, “I was already impressed by you, Jaheira, but you did all that without a single body mod? Incredible.”
“Just a rule I made for myself. If I couldn’t keep up without them,” Jaheira admits with a shrug, “then I guess I’d just have to stop.”
“And keep up you did, and then some! Anyway, Dammon told me she, Shadowheart, was my best shot at getting back at that f*cker.”
Jaheira shrugs again. “Maybe he’s right. I could think of a few, but I think you’re a good fit for that little band of misfit women. Plus, I think you’re at very real risk of turning that Sharran honest. If you can pull that off, Karlach, it will make that whole story you just told me sound like a stroll through the park we’re under right now.”
“You think so?” Karlach wonders dubiously. “I have trouble reading her. Most of the time, I think she’s just toying with me. But maybe I just see Gortash everywhere.”
“You could be right. Just call it an old woman’s hunch.” Jaheira grabs the long-empty mugs, dumping the soaked sachets into the wastebin. “And I hear your Dammon is going to succeed where Bane could not, yes?”
“Gods, I hope so,” Karlach rasps with a bit too much desperation.
“And who knows? Maybe your end need not be so imminent.”
Karlach deflates, leaning forward on her knees and looking at the floor. “No need to get my hopes up. I’ve seen enough deaths to know when it’s around the corner.”
“And I have not?” Jaheira ripostes.
“Course you have! Sorry.” Karlach lifts her head, infusing her words with as much earnestness as possible. “I have the most people in my corner, really with me, since I was a teenager, and I still feel completely alone. Maybe I’ll feel better when Dammon fixes me up and I can get a good shag, but—Oh!” Karlach stops herself, covering her mouth in shame. “I can’t believe I just said that. I’m not some randy fiend, it’s just ten years.”
“You have nothing to apologize for. Blame the tea.”
“The tea?”
“Yes, it contains a powerful truth serum. I drank it too, if that makes you feel better.”
A truth serum. ‘Basically the exact opposite of Shadowheart,’ Karlach compares. ‘Jaheira requires the truth instead of relying on lies. If only I was born a hundred years ago, then maybe…’
Before she can complete the thought, Jaheira resumes her rationale, “Just a conversation, as I said. And you did well. You barely resisted speaking true. I’ll insist Shadowheart bring you to future meetings. So you’ll be seeing plenty more of me, cub.” Jaheira winks and Karlach does her best not to pass out from the idea of working with a living legend. Jaheira places her hands on her desk, pushing up to rise. She motions to the door and guides Karlach back to the shop where Shadowheart and the other two women are waiting.
“So?” Shadowheart inquires with both eyebrows raised.
“I like her,” Jaheira confirms with a wry smile. “More than you, actually, but few are as open as this one. Make sure you teach her when to keep silent, and she’ll do just fine.”
“Nothing I didn’t already know, but thank you, Jaheira,” Shadowheart says, nodding politely.
Jaheira puts her hands out to her side, palms up. “What? Did you come to me for shrewd analysis or approval? Now, go. I know how to reach you if I have a job.”
“I do not like these ones, Jaheira,” Minsc interjects as the crew prepares to leave. “They never even pretend they are going to buy something. Or that they like Boo. Everyone likes Boo!”
“I like Boo,” Karlach shouts, putting her hand up like a grade schooler.
“Then, the one-horned one can stay,” he cheers, putting his hand out to pat Karlach on the shoulder.
She recoils just in time, warning, “Bad idea, big guy. I’d burn those big hands to ash, if you’re not careful.”
He is unphased by the grievous injury he just avoided. “Duly noted, my fiery friend.”
‘Minsc is my friend,’ Karlach squeals to herself.
The foursome turn to leave when Jaheira stops them. “Oh! I almost forgot,” she adds with her sharp gaze leveled at Shadowheart, “make sure you bring her to any future discussions, yes?”
The leader's face twists into a look of suspicion. She pushes back, “For a job? You want a rookie in the room? Are you training my replacement, Jaheira?”
“Nothing quite so nefarious, Sharran. I just think it’d be a nice change of pace to have someone honest in the room.”
“Is my consul insufficiently forthright?” Lae’zel grumbles.
Jaheira shakes her head, in disbelief that such a simple request is meeting this type of resistance. Karlach tries to defuse the situation, offering, “I don't have to, if it’s a prob—”
The elder holds up her hand to emphasize the finality of what she's about to say. Shadowheart clearly learned this move from Jaheira, who underscores, “There is a difference between honest and blunt. I’m sure Karlach will mind her manners, yes?”
Karlach nods her head emphatically, and Lae’zel and Shadowheart roll their eyes in near unison. The couple seem to read some ill-intent in this stipulation, but they relent. Shadowheart capitulates, “Fine. Your gigs, your rules. May we go now?”
“Please,” Jaheira scoffs with a healthy mix of distrust and faux exhaustion.
The crew departs the shop and back into the Under City proper. The light washing in from the surface has taken on an amber hue. Karlach can’t help but shake her head and puff out under her breath, “What a day.” The others clearly hear her, but they let her have her moment.
***
Upon leaving Jaheira’s, the four mercs gossip about her and her shadow network of Harpers, as they call themselves. City law enforcement think of them as a gang, but they’re the only ones keeping the Lower City stable. “She plays retired for the Upper City’s sake, but that old bat is as sharp as ever,” Nocturne explains, somehow managing to infuse respect into the phrase “old bat.”
As they go their separate ways, Shadowheart makes it explicitly clear that Karlach’s only job for a little while is to lay low. Before returning to active duty, they had to verify no corporate bounties were put out on her or Astarion, since a lot of people at the Bane warehouse got good looks at both of them.
Two days after her impossible meeting with a childhood role model, Karlach was beginning to languish. Interspersed between swathes of that radical self-care, she resumes some of her favorite training regiments. ‘I’m no Lae’zel,’ she thinks, ‘but I gotta stay sharp.’ Despite the connection to her past, she finds great solace in knowing she can just pick and choose what exercises she does and for how long. No compelled routine that would earn her beratement or even a beating if she failed to complete it fast enough. She rarely failed after the first flogging, but the threat remained and seeing others punished sometimes hurt worse.
She looks out her apartment window, the blinds set perpendicular to the window for maximum visibility. The sky turns purply-orange and Karlach’s mind goes back to that night on the roof. Less than a week ago and it’s already embedded in her mind like a treasured memory she mustn’t let go of. In the dense cityscape, it was too much to hope to see more of the sun than some glare off a window. Even with the lingering glow, the neon signs advertising the storefronts below begin to flicker to life.
In terms of being a hunted woman, no news from Shadowheart was good news. Her reach wasn’t infinite, but if any corporate contractors were on Karlach’s tail, Shadowheart would probably know by now. Karlach only partially comprehended the intricacies of the relationship between mercs who take gigs from corps and those who don’t. The way her new employer described it, it sounded a lot like a high stakes game of cops and robbers. But also sometimes they will buy each other drinks out of courtesy. So if Shadowheart bought the right one the right drink, she could find out if she or anyone she knew was in the crosshairs.
On the other hand, the lack of contact from Dammon had Karlach worried. She insisted on knowing when the insulator thingamajig was ready, but no word makes her want to march down to his clinic and just sit there and watch until it’s ready. She knows that’s not fair to him, though, so she waits. Laying low. Karlach imagined that mercenary life would be constant excitement and action, but a lot of it was the opposite, though.
Karlach peels herself off the couch and puts a noodle cup on the counter. Sifting through the flavor combination packs, she pulls out pork for protein, level five-out-of-five for spice, and garlic veggies for garnish. She stirs the powder, dried ramen, and water with metal chopsticks, placing the slurry in the microwave. An adjustable attachment affixed to the top of the microwave’s interior holds the cup in place. It simultaneously combines the ingredients as it cooks them, producing a nearly perfect serving of ramen soup in a minute. She begins to chow down with the same metal chopsticks when a knock at the door surprises her.
No advanced word from Shadowheart… Is it a surprise? Karlach shrugs and carries the half-full styrofoam cup to the door, releasing the door lock from the console beside it and then cracking it open. Instead of Shadowheart or another member of her crew, the newly initiated merc spies a dark-skinned human with thin locs pulled back to the nape of his neck. Karlach leans toward the sliver between the door and the frame so this sharply dressed stranger could only see about a third of her face. “Hello?” she initiates. “Can I help you?”
“Karlach Cliffgate?” the person on the other side of the door inquires. The voice and general manner confers a very conventional type of masculinity. One that Karlach encountered all too frequently when working for Gortash.
“Who’s asking?”
“My name is Wyll, can I ask you a few questions?” he recites. It’s clear that he’s said those exact words hundreds of times.
She holds up the single use container, steam still billowing off the top. “I just sat down for dinner. Could you come back later?”
“I’ll take that as a yes, Ms. Cliffgate,” Wyll confirms. In one fluid motion, he kicks the door into Karlach’s shoulder and brandishes his gun and badge. The latter reads:
Wyll Ravenguard
INTERPOL
Karlach’s noodles plummet to the floor, splattering across the rug her parents kept by the entrance. A weaker person might have toppled over as well, but she holds her ground. With the door open and more illumination, she notices her assailant’s right eye has more than just the cornea and lens replaced, the entire eyeball is cybernetic.
Assuming a fighting stance, Karlach jeers, “Is this how you start every conversation, buddy?”
“It is when I’m talking to a dangerous fugitive,” he fires back, “Now cooperate and I won’t have to use this.” Wyll shakes his gun at her and begins to swap his badge for handcuffs.
Karlach contemplates smashing this poor sod’s skull in, but closing the distance before he gets a shot off might be dicey. Also, hiding a body in this calmer neighborhood might prove challenging. She turns her wrists outward and relaxes her fists, arriving at a ‘hands up don’t shoot’ stance. Trying to diffuse the situation, she entreats, “Can we talk this out?”
Wyll clicks his tongue, shaking his head without taking his eyes off her. “There’s nothing to discuss. You’ve stolen proprietary technology from Avernus and we’re going to return it.”
“Stolen? Listen, Wyll, you have the wrong idea. I never stole anything. Really, if you think about, they stole—”
“Don’t try to twist my words to get out of this!” he interrupts, “You’re a thief and a killer. Why else would you take military tech from a known enemy of the Sword Coast?”
Karlach tilts her head up, muttering quietly to herself, “Of course they have to lie. It’s all they know.”
He tightens his grip on his firearm, advancing a micro-step forward. “Speak up!”
“I could,” she returns, her hands still held aloft “But there’s nothing I can say that will make you listen, is there?”
“Nothing that doesn’t begin with ‘I unconditionally surrender.’”
“Fine,” and she repeats, “I unconditionally surrender.”
Genuine shock spreads across Wyll’s face. He expected a fight, but his training kicks in and he advances the three steps between them. His right hand reaches out to steady her wrist and Karlach lowers her arms to meet the outstretched hand. This is all the confirmation she needs to know that this poor man was sent into a situation with no real explanation of the particulars.
“Ahh!” he howls as flames lick hungrily against his palm. In the moment he recoils, Karlach shoves him to the back and left, past the open door. She bolts out into the corridor, banking a right to leap down the stairs. She hears the echo of Wyll shouting “Halt!” But she doesn’t mind him, running for her life. She’s already three flights down when the sound of his footsteps bounces off the concrete walls of the stairwell. Two more down and she streaks through the lobby. It’s at this moment that Karlach realizes she’s only wearing her underwear and a crop top that hangs off one shoulder. Needless to say, she turns heads as wisps of flame trail behind her and out the front door.
Quickly looking down the road, she crosses to the opposite sidewalk when the oncoming traffic stops at a nearby intersection. When her pursuer exits the building, the light has turned green and the blurs of speeding vehicles separate predator from prey. They run in parallel, but after a block, Karlach turns down an alley that’s actually a local street market. She breaks through a thick cloud of steam and into the bustling arrangement of stalls selling food, trinkets, and off-the-shelf tech. This is only her second time back down to this market since her escape. Her attention is ever so briefly drawn to the fond reminder that her favorite kebab stand from when she was a kid is still up and running. Needless to say, no time to indulge as she tries to find a corner to hide in.
About halfway down the alley, she finds an abandoned stall, leaps over the counter, and crouches behind it, hoping that the officer chasing her will just run right by. She catches her breath for a few beats before she hears a gunshot. Small gasps ripple across the alley, but no harrowing cries of agony or grief. ‘Must’ve just shot in the air,’ Karlach reasons.
Then, in the distance, she can discern Wyll saying something like, “Leave… Interpol… Dangerous fugitive… No harm.” Murmurs from the crowd as they start to file out in the direction of the voice. Much louder and clearer, Wyll voices his appreciation, “Thank you for your cooperation!”
Karlach whispers to herself, “sh*t. sh*t-sh*t-sh*t! Okay, think, Karlach.” She looks around. The stall is equipped with a kitchen, so she starts pulling out the drawers, grabbing whatever seems remotely useful. Pots, pans, utensils. “Knives, where are the knives? Don’t cooks have knives?!” she wonders, frustration mounting. “Must be one of those fancy chefs who takes their knives everywhere. Great.”
The soles of Wyll’s dress shoes lightly tap on the concrete, inevitably getting closer. As the final stragglers empty the market, another voice squawks out, “Big tiefling? She’s over there.”
‘f*cking coward,’ Karlach swears internally, grinding her teeth. She grabs a pot, pokes her head up above the counter. Spotting Wyll standing apart from the remaining bystanders, she chucks a pot at the glorified cop.
He dodges out of the way, “Agh! Are you throwing kitchenware at me? Just give it up. There’s nowhere left to hide, this alley is a dead end. You’re cut off.”
Karlach slumps back down behind the stall, her back against the mobile structure. She projects her voice to the man standing a few meters away on the other side. “You’ve been lied to, Wyll. Who told you to find me? Gortash? Zariel? What monster sent you after an innocent woman?”
“A colleague. She said she met you while you infiltrated Avernus Corporate HQ. Mizora.”
Karlach cackles in disbelief. “Godsdamned. They let Mizora into Interpol? That monster of a cambion?”
He takes a few soft steps closer. “She’s proven invaluable, and she led me straight to you.”
“Which was clearly a trap! They didn’t even tell you about my heart, did they? Why did you think you could touch me? Did they say the constant fire was just for show?”
“They didn’t mention…” The slightest falter in Wyll’s voice, but he rediscovers his resolve. “None of that matters. You’re carrying illegally obtained tech in your body. You have to return it!”
“How do you think it got there? You think I just grabbed it off a counter, ripped out my heart, and plugged in an engine that runs on f*cking fire?” Another moment’s hesitation.
“What about all the deaths in Avernus associated with your actions?” he fumbles, grasping at straws.
“They forced me, at pain of death, to fight in their war. Have you even been there?”
“I’ve been to the embassy…”
“The country is named after the company for a reason.” Her voice drops, staving off flashbacks of her time there as she reiterates, “If you work for the nationalized corp, what you say goes. I’m a test subject, Wyll. An experiment gone wrong, and you were sent to clean up their mess.” Karlach can hear the small whirring sounds of Wyll’s eye. ‘He must be close,’ she deduces. She grabs a wide wok. ‘Maybe this can take a bullet.’
She sets her jaw, sharply huffs, and then springs up with the pan held up in front of her head and chest.
When she does, though, Wyll’s gun is pointing at the ground. She drops the wok on the countertop. She puts it all on the line, trusting his intuition, “You know monsters, right? Better than anyone. Look into my eyes. Can’t you see I’m not what you think?”
Wyll gazes at her, his lip pursed in a mix of rage and bemusem*nt. He lifts his weapon back up, aiming right at Karlach. Karlach braces herself for impact, squinting her eyes shut and turning her head away reflexively. Maybe she gambled wrong. A shot rings out. But Karlach slowly opens her eyes, the bullet’s impact crater beginning to crumble a brick in the wall behind her. She turns to Wyll, his eyes quivering, barrel of his gun smoking.
“sh*t,” is all he can say before repeating himself, elongating the curse, “Shhhiiiit! I’ve been deceived, played for a fool.”
“You believe me, don’t you, Wyll?”
He holsters his gun, gazing hopelessly at the woman standing behind an abandoned stall. Alone, in need of help. He concedes, “It might cost me everything, but yes, I do.”
“Thank the gods. Thought I was going to have to take your head,” she half-jokes.
He cracks a smile, the first one Karlach has seen. Underneath all the cop indoctrination, there’s a good man, she can see it. He jabs back, “You would’ve died in the attempt. But—there have been enough threats today. I think you owe me a story. The real story.”
Karlach points to the end of the alley, offering, “How about we let these fine people get back to their days and I show you the best kebabs in the city? Story comes on the side.”
Wyll nods his head in agreement. “Deal.”
