Chapitre 89: A Seperation
Boone stood at the front of the registration line. He and Jostice the last to go through. Half the slingers already passed the gate, equipping themselves ready.
"Next!" an older man yelled. His eyes hazy and his breath foul from even across the booth. "And with with haste!"
Jostice gave him a nudge and he took step to the booth in dead center of a dozen others. Each with two Legionnaires wearing their dark garments, watching closely, their hands near their hips.
"Name?"
"Boone Rigger—"
"Slot twenty-five," the man smirked, pushing two silverish-black revolvers towards him. A W.W. sigil engraved into the handle. Two of the most beautiful guns Boone had ever laid eyes on. "You need 'em or you packing your own?"
Boone placed his hands down on the old slingers resting on his hips. "Revolvers?"
"Roulette's … Alcheme revolvers for firing alchme rounds." The man rubbed his chin, flaking dried skin. "Aren't you a little young to be entering?"
Boone eyebrows furrowed, "I've got my own pair, thanks …"
The man held up two numbed fingers and a middle finger twisted ugly. The man's thick tongue whipped, "you've been assigned a judge. You have one hour to create three alchemy rounds. If the judge deems them too unstable you'll be removed from the tournament."
"Alchem rounds?" Boone rubbed his head, Grotknot never taught me nothing bout making them rounds ... a fine brew, yes. Rounds, no…
"It's called The Iron Alchemist for a reason. If you can't make an achellet, why are you here?"
Boone raised a fist, "you're damn certain I can make one." He lied. "Anything else?"
"Ya… Now you can substitute your three achellets for one elixir if you choose. Your choice. Three or one, it's up to you."
Boone scratched his chin, "Um..."
"Tell the judge. Now turn around." Boone did as he were told. The man pinned a piece of parchment to his back. A black 25 written in dried ink. "You're good to go."
"What about my ticket?" Boone reached into his coat long-tailed coat. One that went down to his leather boots.
"Don't need it … you says you were you and that's good enough for me. Next!"
Boone stepped beyond the gate, his hand trembling by his side. The canyon walls loomed high on both sides, creating a path that led into the colosseum heart. He found the others grouped together, near the western canyon wall.
"Would you have a look at these bad boys?" Quincy said. "Made from Corodite … found here in beautiful Sundown City. If I can't win this thing, I can sell mine and Olivica's gun. Sure we'll get half of what we need. Give us a bit more time, perhaps."
E'krek shook his head. He preferred the older revolvers as did Boone. "The only gun you can trust is one that has earned your trust … you'll have to learn to use it and by that time you'll be dead."
Leslie preferred her own red-handled revolvers, bright as her hair. "And I doubt they let you keep them …"
Quincy smirked, exposing thick teeth. "Who says they need to know?"
Jostice came up the rear still carrying his black-handled revolvers. Didn't take only, but a second to decided to keep his own. "Best you don't use those things," he told Quincy. "Them sights are likely unadjusted and the weight may throw you off. Where's the guns you came in with?"
Quincy frowned, the glint in his eyes gone. "I left them at the booth. I had to exchange them in order to get these guns …" He looked between the others. "Did none of you grab them W's?"
Grotknot guffawed, "you've got much to learn, Laddy." He patted his own blackish-gray handled revolvers. "There are two things a man doesn't part away from �� His guns and his—"
"Hat," Boone whispered, pulling his own from his head. The white brim and crown were faded, colored by the sweat and the dust that surrounded them. The same sweat that drained from his father's head. Long before he met his fate. When he was brave and fearless. Much more than Boone ever had been. He placed it back over his golden strands that draped to his shoulders. And it sat slightly more snug. The time away allowed him to grow into it. "Are we ready?"
Jostice sighed, "if not, there's no chance to worry about it now. Follow me."
The group set off and Boone trailed behind, head down, swearing beneath his breath. How am I going to create alchellets if I don't know how? He swore once more. "That no good Bork taught me nothing—"
"I hope you're not speaking of me, Laddy."
Boone's nose wrinkled, looking upon the man whose grayish-black beard was large and ruffled. "I am talking about you. All that time you was supposed to be training me, wasted. Now I am supposed to create three achellets and I've got no idea how …"
Grotknot guffawed, "And what did I teach you?"
"Nothing of value," Boone said. "How to create a frosted beer, a black gumbo, and light wax. As I said, nothing of value …"
The Bork stepped over a rock, guffawing. He seemed unbothered by what the boy said. Likely more concerned about his next drink than being of any good use, Boone thought, he crossed his arms. "I'll be eliminated before it starts …"
"Than you're already defeated."
"No thanks to you …"
Grotknot stopped and turned on heel, placing a hand on the boy's chest. Boone stopped, glaring a the man. "What? We have to get …"
"Hold out your hand …"
The boy was in no mood for the Bork's trickery, "I'm done with your games." He took a step and the man's arm held strong, unmoving. Study as a tree.
"I said, hold out your hand, Laddy."
Boone lip sunk, he looked around for the others but they'd were lost in the sea of slingers. He lifted his palm. Grotknot dug through his thick-hided jacket. Too thick for the hot weather, causing him to sweat at the forehead and cheeks. His hand reappeared, a golden cartridge flickering between two fingers. With a tug he popped the bullet head from the cartridge. His tongue stuck to his upper lip as he poured black powder into Boone's palm.
Boone squinted, "What? am I supposed to eat it—" Snap! His head whipped, pain throbbing in his head. "Hey. What was that for?" He asked, seeing Grotknot's palm swelling red.
"You're smarter than that … what is it?"
Boone frowned.
"I said … what. is. it. Laddy?"
The boy stared at the black, sandy pile in his hand. "Gunpowder … and what of it?"
Grotknot grabbed the boy's hand, gently collapsing his fingers. "The power is in the powder," He smirked. "You already know how to brew, all you need to do is change the ingredients; Frost, light, and shadow … they're already in your midst … how you make them is in here." He prodded his thick digit into the boy's head.
Boone's eyes widened to moons. "I've been so blind … I'm sorry, Grotknot." He wrapped his arms around the man, and they held each other closely. "I'm sorry I ever doubted you."
The bearded man squeezed him like an ape, Boone winced. "Take your time and you'll see things more clearly … it took me a long time to realize that."
Boone smiled, "Thank you …"
After one last hug, they ran and caught up to the gang at the edge of the canyon tunnel. Each one pinned with numbers, standing to be shown to their stations. "Fifteen!" A hairy faced judge said.
"Here!" A large husk man said, raising a hand. "You're with me."
The man nodded then followed the man down into a tunnel deep beneath the colosseum. Where the screams and the sky were nowhere to be found.
Jostice corked his head, fighting to peer through the crowded bodies. An eerie look in his eyes. "Damn," He said, "I was afraid of this …"
"Afraid of what?" Olivica asked, standing on her tippy toes, too short to see a few feet in front of her. The competitors bodies crammed together like blocks, creating a wall. "I don't see nothing."
"They're separating us …"
"Separating us?" Grotknot and Quincy asked while Leslie and Olivica gasped.
"To break up any alliances that were formed … We'll have to find each other inside the colosseum … That is, those who make it inside—"
"Twenty-five!" The number was called with a heckle. "Where is Mr. Twenty-five?"
The crowd parted and Boone stood stiff. Twenty paces away was the greed-eyed and suspicious grinning, Richie Tyalor, wearing fingerless gloves, a large top hat, and a black trousers and coat.
The flesh around the silver particles were pink from rashing, "follow me," he hissed, almost whispering.
Boone turned to the others, their eyes sunken. Carrying the same fear that rattled his hands. "Good luck to y'all," he tilted his hat. They nodded at him, mumbling words his ears blocked. He swallowed then turned, watching Richie walking towards a black breach in the canyon.
The boy took a step, something hit him from behind. Boone gasped, feeling limbs entangle him, wrapping like veins. Long raven hair brushed against his neck. Before he could react, soft lips warmed his cheek. And he couldn't find his breath.
"Good luck," Olivica whispered with the sweetest of honey.
Boone turned, finding her grassy green eyes. Like to gems twinkling in the canyons. Set there only for him.
"You too," he smiled, then walked towards the breach, hands steady as they'd ever been.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone