Discords' downtime

“He learns quick.” Sizlack was leaning against the balcony railing overlooking the backyard, a perfect view of the stage as Discord took a spot beside him. “Very adaptable. Doesn’t fall for the same trick twice.”

“You should see him with a blade.” Discord tugged up his pant leg and grabbed the flask tucked into his sock. “Reminds me of a younger me.”

“Is that a good thing?”

Discord barked out a laugh. “That’s a good question. One to which only time will give the answer.” He drank from his flask. “He can take a beating, though. Should’ve seen him after Bernmore.” He let out a long, high whistle.

The crowd was dispersing, the godly guests flocking to what remained of the food and drink like vultures to a corpse. Discord caught sight of Terra leading Derrek inside by the hand. He was punch-drunk, as well as just plain drunk, but he was still on his feet, a wide grin plastered on his face. It suited him, it was a shame the reaper's touch didn’t let it show more often.

A strip of cloth draped over Discord’s head, blocking his left eye. He grabbed it and found it to be an undone green tie.

“It’s past two and I’m done with that fucking tie,” Jericho said, rubbing his freshly liberated neck with relish.

“Your necks' job may be done,” Sizlack said with a sidelong glare, “but you’re still on the clock until all the guests leave. All of them.”

Jericho waved his words away and took his place next to Discord on the railing, “They’ll clear out once the barrels run dry. Twenty minutes tops.”

“In that case,” Discord said, shoving the tie into his jacket pocket, “I’m gonna dip on out. Never wanna be the last one at a party-”

Sizlack rolled his eyes, “Or you might get stuck with cleanup duty,” he finished.

Discord snapped his fingers. “Bingo.” He tossed his flask to Jericho, who only just caught it by the cap, and turned to walk away. He immediately bumped into an enormous mountain of muscle. “What’s up, big guy?” he asked, looking up at Justice.

Justice stared down at him through his hooded eyes with the same lack of emotion he always had, his blind eye giving away no more than his good one. He grunted and nodded in the general direction of the stage.

“Everyone consented to fight,” Discord said with a friendly grin, “I made sure to do it by the book.”

The giant's eyes narrowed and he turned to look at Discord sidelong. Discord threw up his hands.

“Fine, maybe Havok didn’t get much of a say, but he still never said no. Nobody made him fight.”

Justice stared at him for a while longer, then let out a long breath through his nose and walked around Discord, taking position between Jericho and Sizlack, though not leaning against the railing. Jericho playfully punched him on the arm and Sizlack nodded toward him. Discord smiled at the display of brotherhood, but it never reached his eyes. Not that they ever did, not anymore.

He turned away and made for the balcony door. He turned the knob, and the temperature rose forty degrees. The glass door he closed behind him became the slapdash wooden door of his shack in Madagascar. It was one of his favorites, top ten at least, since nobody ever bothered him this far into the jungle. As if they could with all the wards he put on the surrounding woods. Anyone who got too close would feel as if they were in a Blair Witch movie until they ran away, or went catatonic in a few cases.

It wasn’t a big shack, but it did the job well enough. Time had taught low standards, and a simple place to sit and store his shit was enough for Discord. He slumped down in his recliner, the one luxury he allotted himself in this tropical piece of paradise, and pulled his tie away. His attire instantly transformed back into his signature red coat and patchwork clothes, the veneer of class shattered. He tucked the tie back into his coat, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, taking in the swampy humidity and the rotting foliage.

Hardly a minute had passed before a series of sharp knocks on the door tore him away from his relaxation. He stared at the shack door, pondering the countless wards and repellants he had carved into the surrounding trees, the sigils he had painted on the walls, the spirits he had bribed into protecting the place. Then the knocks came again.

He drew his revolver and made his way to the door. He looked through the peephole and saw a figure facing away from the door, a comically large backpack blocking sight from anything above their pale, knobbly knees. He pushed the door open, leaning against the doorframe, pointing his gun at the visitor.

The visitor spun around, revealing a middle-height man in stereotypical safari wear, khaki shorts, and a button-down shirt, a wide grin plastered on his round face. Despite the bog-like humidity, he still wore a wool beanie, the fringe ending just above his brow. He ignored the gun and reached his hand out toward Discord for a handshake.

“Hello!” he said with a toothy grin and an enthusiastic British accent, “Are you Kahli?”

Discord cocked his gun’s hammer. The man patiently waited for a further reply, his smile not so much as slipping all the while. He eventually pulled back his hand and scratched at the back of his beanie-clad head.

“I completely understand,” he said, slinging the bulging pack off his shoulders. He undid the buckles and began rooting around inside. “I suppose if I chose to build an abode this far from prying eyes I’d be more than a little miffed at someone slinking their way up to my door myself. Small wonder you haven’t shot me yet!”

He yelped out a sharp bark of laughter. If Discord hadn’t seen it happen, he would’ve thought it came from some bird. A cuckoo, or a toucan maybe. He was a strange one, speaking with his hands as much as his words. He seemed harmless, but there was no denying the defenses he had to have wormed through. And there was something in his eyes, something missing, something… extra. Discord did not lower his weapon.

“Though personally,” the visitor continued, tossing random items aside as he dug deeper into his pack, “I’ve always been drawn closer to civilization. Smack dab in the heart of life, that’s my way of it! Amid the hustle and bustle, the dreary gloom that hovers over the slums, the sinking pressure of too many in a place for too few, that is where I thrive! Yes indeed!”

“You talk a lot,” said Discord. The visitor smiled a tooth wider.

“And you,” said the visitor, pointing a wagging finger at him, “are rather careful with your words. I expect you’d sooner leave a silence than fill it with meaningless drivel. I’ve always been the other way around, can’t stand a dip in conversation. ‘The gift of gab,’ my father called it. If my lips aren’t flapping then my hands take up the slack. I consider myself a craftsman by trade, but my trade can be rather difficult to define if truth be told. Ah! Here we are!”

The visitor had nearly emptied his pack, the varied assortment of survival gear, food stores, books, and random scraps of metals strewn about the ground. He reached deep into the exhausted pack and struggled as if he held a great weight. When the item was finally free Discord saw it was a wooden box. Not a large box, but not a small one either. Bigger than a cigar box, roughly large enough to fit his revolver, in fact.

He hobbled over to Discord and dropped to one knee, presenting the box as if to a king, his noodle-like arms trembling under the weight. Discord raised an eyebrow and let the man wait for a moment.

“Go on, then, open it!” he wheezed through clenched teeth, “I never show up uninvited without at least a good gift!”

Discord shrugged and uncocked his revolver, tucking it into his coat. If he was unsatisfied with whatever this stranger had for him he could always kill him afterward. He undid the simple brass latch and peered inside. His eyes went wide as dinner plates.

It was an absolute work of beauty. The well-polished barrel, the smooth dark wooden handle, the cylinder engraved with tiny markings he had not seen in a very long time. In short, it was the most beautiful revolver he had ever seen. The very frame of the weapon gave off a kind of aura, an unmovable sturdiness.

He picked it up gingerly and he could see the visitor relax with the weight out of his hands. It must have weighed eighty pounds at the very least, and it wasn’t even loaded. The grip felt natural, almost as if it were made with the dimensions of his hand in mind. It felt right. Like a solid steel extension of himself.

When he finally peeled his eyes away from the work of art he held, he saw the visitor was holding something else out toward him. A single bullet held out like a caught insect. Discord grabbed it and tossed it up and down to get a feel for the weight. It looked like a standard .44 round, but it weighed much more than it should have. With that thought finished and no others in his mind, he loaded the gun and aimed at the nearest tree.

The sound was beyond deafening, shattering his right eardrum completely and doing what would have been thirty years of tinnitus before complete deafness in his left, which was to say nothing of his broken hand and fractured wrist. A cylinder a yard in diameter was completely absent as far as a quarter-mile back where he was aiming. The trees fell and left a scar in the jungle, completely breaking most of the wards he had on the place. Discord didn’t care in the least.

He put the barrel to his nose, taking in the euphoric scent of the freshly shot barrel. It was a smell he knew well. He remembered the first time it graced his nostrils. That pointless assault, his slaughtered comrades, but such a wonderful sound when they were blown to bits. A hell of a day, but nothing compared to this.

“I may still need to make a few adjustments to the mix,” said the visitor, “less bang more umph, eh? Not much of a weapon that cripples the user!”

Discord's ears were only just reforming, and he was transfixed by the marvel of technology he held. When he finally peeled his eyes away from the weapon, he saw the visitor smiling wide, twitching up and down like an eager puppy.

“Would you like to come inside?” Discord asked, his face plain as a slab of stone.

“I would be delighted!” The visitor grabbed his nearly-empty pack by the straps and Discord stepped aside to let him through, tucking the weighty revolver into his coat. He stood in the middle of the room, taking in the several shelves packed full of assorted artifacts, weapons, and valuable-looking items. The sound of Discord closing the door snapped him out of it.

“Can I offer you a drink?” Discord asked, reaching for a bottle of wine sitting on the windowsill. “Got this bottle as a gift from Napoleon, his way of bragging about his victory at Austerlitz. Classy bastard.” He produced a knife and deftly wedged the cork out, sending it flying. He plucked it from the air with the tip of the knife and brought it to his nose, breathing in deep.

His nose crinkled in confusion. He sniffed again. It didn’t smell right, more pungent than aromatic, more sour than sweet. He grabbed the bottle by the neck and took a deep swallow.

“Yep,” he shoved the cork back into the bottle and set it back in its place on the shelf, “it’s turned. On the bright side though, that’s the best-aged vinegar I’ve ever tasted.” He quickly shoved several boxes and trinkets aside in the space opposite his recliner. Once a livable space was made, he grabbed a lightly-rusted metal folding chair from behind a pile of junk, folded it out with a sharp clang, and slumped into his recliner, leaving the footrest down. “Have a seat.”

The visitor complied with a smile. He tossed his bag next to the chair and dropped into the creaking seat, staring ahead at Discord.

“You have a lovely home.” He wriggled in his seat for a more comfortable position, which Discord knew did not exist. “So far removed yet so full of intrigue! I’ve truly never seen anything like it.”

Discord glanced at the barest of the four walls around them, catching a ray of sunlight through a gap in the ancient boards. The whole structure seemed close to collapse, that was the point after all.

“It does the job.” He said, turning back to the visitor, “I’ve got these all over, at least one per country, which makes me wonder just how the hell you managed to track me here.” The man was about to speak, but Discord got in first. “I know everyone, I take it as a point of pride, and I don’t know a single person who could do such a thing, let alone do so willingly. Who are you?”

The visitor's brows shot up, his eyes wide. “Wherever are my manners?” He reached his hand out once more for a handshake. “I am Dr. Miguel Estamos, infamous inventor, hated historian, shady surgeon, and avid alliterator. It is an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir Ironfist!”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Discord looked at the hand, then back up at Miguel, one of his brows arched. ‘Sir Ironfist’ was a name he had not heard in a long time. A very long time.

“I go by Discord these days.” he once again ignored the offered hand. “How’d you find me? Interpol database? A corkboard and a shelf of yarn? The Titanic manifests? I didn't sink that boat if you were wondering.”

If it was possible, Miguel’s smile grew even wider by a touch. “Those all came in their time, and of course, you didn't! Incompetence and cut corners were the true culprits! I have heard tell of a more ‘mystical’ cause, however, through a certain cursed mummy kept in the cargo hold at the time, but that is a conversation for another day.”

“Agreed.”

Miguel reached into his pack and pulled out an ancient-looking book, held closed with an old leather strap with brass studs. “I first heard of you through the first-hand account of an old friend of yours, Ponce De Leon’s personal journal.”

Discord scoffed and snapped his fingers in annoyance, “Goddamn Leon. Should’ve known. How’d you get your hands on that? Last I heard it was locked up tight in the Yale archives.”

Miguel chuckled. “I did say, ‘hated historian,’ did I not? Fair to say, I am no longer welcome on the majority of the Ivy campuses, save for Cornell, they’ll let anyone in.” He undid the strap and began leafing through the pages, his eyes darting across the words at lightning speed until he reached a page three quarters in. “Ah, here we are!” He cleared his throat.

“‘I swore I would not return to dry land until I had discovered the fount of youth, but my thirst for adventure has run dry. I shall have word of my retirement sent to the royal family tomorrow, as well as word of my failure. But for today, I will ride the wind in whatever direction it takes me as soon as I can rid myself of Kahli. I am eternally grateful he left me my life, and I pray to never see that bastard again.”

Miguel snapped the journal shut with a snap. “The rest is a mix of high and low-quality recipes for a dish that would be called Gumbo nowadays.”

Discord’s brow furrowed. “And that's what led you to me? I feel like I missed a few pages here.”

Miguel thumped the aged book with a knuckle, producing a small cloud of dust. “To be honest, it was more of a missing link between two of my pet projects: finding the fountain of youth, and finding you. I could bore you by explaining the web of yarn from the aforementioned conspiracy board, or the wing of my library dedicated to maps with a considerable amount of notes written in the margins, or the books full of ancient symbols only a handful of beings understand I left at your front door, but I think we both know that would be a waste of your time. The point is that I found seven of your shacks through my studies. Three were outside of my travel budget, two were at the bottom of large bodies of water, and one was in Jacksonville, Florida.”

“You got a problem with Florida?”

Miguel scoffed. “Are you serious? There are meth heads and literal dinosaurs there, and you're more likely to be eaten alive by the meth heads! Florida is, quite literally, where bad things go to happen!”

“I know! Isn't it great?” Discord had a faraway look in his eyes, “Only place in the world where you're never more than two miles away from an ATV dealership, a jet ski rental place, or an all-you-can-eat shrimp bar.”

Miguel coughed and snapped him out of his caridean fantasy. “Anyway, the shack here in Madagascar was the most accessible of the lot. Plenty of edible vegetation to give me as much time as I needed to crack your wards. After that, it was a simple matter of waiting for the light to turn on.”

“Hmm,” Discord said, relaxing a bit. He hadn't been to this shack in months, and if Miguel could find that many locations, it was plausible he could have made it through in that time. It made him wonder how many stalkers had found his other shacks and were lying in wait, or how many had eventually given up for that matter. “That all tracks. So what do you want?”

Miguel blinked, “Pardon?”

“I'm keeping the gun, you might as well name your price.”

“Oh. Oh! Right!” he opened the book again and flipped through the pages. “Based on Leon’s writings, his crew, yourself included, found the fountain of youth, yet you were the only one to drink from it.”

“What can I say? I was thirsty.”

“He describes you taking two full volleys of musket fire. He uses the words ‘amorphous lump’ to describe what was temporarily your corpse before it began to grow and reform into your usual shape, and ‘an atrocity unto god’ to describe what was left of the men who fired upon you.”

From what Discord remembered, that was accurate. He nodded Miguel along.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” Miguel said with a surprisingly serious expression, even with his continuous grin. “I believe that, with a sample of your blood, I could synthesize a chemical that would be able to recreate the effects of the waters from the fountain, creating a substance capable of halting the aging process completely!”

Discord scratched his chin. “You do understand that I’m not a normal human, right? If you put my blood into someone else it could really fuck them up.”

By some marvel of facial musculature, Miguel’s grin grew even wider. “Exactly as I would expect! I assure you, by the end of the synthysation process, there will not be a strand of your DNA left in the final result. Ideally, it will be a pill, but I have been considering a nasal spray! I have all the preparations in order, all that is left is, well, you!”

Discord rested his chin on his hand and crossed his legs, considering the proposition. It occurred to him that a certain ex-mortal enemy of his had recently come into possession of a multinational conglomerate that was created with the express purpose of one day creating what this beanie-clad safarist had on offer. It also occurred to him that they had been having little success, and it might be handy to have something like this in his back pocket.

“I have one condition.”

“Name it!” Miguel said with visible enthusiasm.

“When you have a final product, come to me before any other.” Discord produced an empty notecard and a pen from his coat and began writing. “I have contacts that would be very interested in this.”

“Derrek Snowe, do you mean?”

Discord stopped writing. He stared at Miguel silently. Miguel grinned wider.

“I know about you, it stands to reason I would know of some of your acquaintances. You were there when Snowe was introduced to the world stage, off to the side.”

“And you saw me as your way to get to him.” It was not a question.

“I admit, I have my own motives. I’ve been able to do amazing things with the little I’ve had to work with, a line of storage lockers and relatives' garages and whatever was lying around, but if I had access to the whole of Frostbyte’s resources,” his wide eyes sparkled with eagerness, “the possibilities are endless!”

That feeling of something missing tugged at Discord. There was an emptiness behind Miguel’s eyes. Or rather, there was an infinite space, an endless void. A limitless pool of potential energy. The gun is too heavy, he thought, How could it be that heavy?

“You cheeky fucker.” Discord said through gritted teeth. “Y’know, I’ve killed people for getting my sandwich order wrong. What do you think I’ll do to a presumptuous little shitsnack trying to use my blood as leverage?”

Miguel’s grin finally slipped to Discord’s great satisfaction. “I didn’t mean to offend,” he said, waving his hands madly, “My sincerest apologies! I don’t mean to presume, by all means you have your right to refuse, but I thought you’d’ve seen the possibilities!”

“Even your apologies are pretentious.”

Miguel was silent for a moment, then broke out in a grin, somehow wider than before. “I’ve heard that before. I freely admit I have difficulties in presenting myself in a relatable manner, and I take every exchange as an opportunity to better my social skills. But my eccentricities aside, you must see the potential! Not only within me, but within yourself!”

Discord shook his head and let out a long sigh. “You’re fucking crazy.” He lurched to his feet and stretched his arms before he began rolling up his sleeves, the notecard fluttering to the floor, hardly noticed. “But you’re lucky I always bet on crazy. How much do you need?”

Miguel blinked. “Pardon?”

“Blood,” Discord said, tugging at his bound sleeves to make sure they were secure, “how much?”

“Oh,” Miguel stammered, “well I suppose, in all honesty, I only require-”

Discord produced a knife from his coat and plunged it into his left forearm, just below the elbow, the point sticking out from the other side. With a sickening sound of slicing meat and scraping bone, he dragged the knife until it met his wrist and yanked the blade out without so much as blinking. Blood poured from the wound onto the floor and he casually plucked an empty paint can from the nearest pile of junk, positioning it under the crimson torrent.

“-a few drops,” Miguel finished lamely, his brows raised in shock.

Discord frowned, the flow of blood already slowing to a trickle. “Wish you said something sooner. Hell of a mess I made.” The wound had closed completely, and he gave it a shake to get the last few drops left on his forearm as if he were trying to get the last few drops from a gas nozzle. From the same pile the can had come from, he grabbed a matching lid, placed it gingerly around its rim, and gave it a firm hit with an open palm, sealing it tight. It sloshed quietly as he picked it up and held it out to Miguel. “Should be plenty, at any rate.”

Miguel’s smile snapped back across his face and he warmly accepted the can. “Better too much than not enough, and I’m sure I can find a worthwhile use for the excess. You won’t regret this decision!”

Discord unrolled his sleeves and slumped back into his chair. “I already do.” He leaned over the side of the chair and retrieved the notecard. He held it out toward Miguel between his index and middle finger. “When you have results, call me first.”

Miguel accepted the card with his free hand, “You have my word.”

“Good,” Discord pointed to the door, “now get the fuck off my property.” Miguel stood frozen for a moment, then stood and attempted to retrieve his backpack. Discord stopped him with a snap of his fingers. “I’ll mail you your shit, just go back the way you came.”

“Ah,” Miguel’s smile slipped a fraction, to Discord's satisfaction, “I see. Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Sir Ironfi-”

“Discord.”

Miguel winced, “Discord. I apologize. Have a nice day!” He scampered out the door, blood bucket in hand. Discord watched through the cracks in the wall as he scurried across the clearing, maneuvering through the path of carnage the revolver had left until he was lost in the foliage.

He drew the gun from his coat, admiring the craftsmanship. Miguel disturbed him in more ways than one, but his work spoke for itself. He had known people like Estamos in the past; Da Vinci’s tank was leagues ahead of its time, despite popular belief. The prototype would’ve leveled Florence if Discord hadn’t stolen it. He still had it in a garage somewhere. Nikolai Tesla had been a close friend for a few years, and Discord had borne witness to the oscillator, he was in the building it shook. Permanent structural damage after thirty seconds of operation. It was a relief, and somewhat a shame, that Tesla abandoned the project. The death ray was a definite shame, though.

Neither could compare to this simple, yet infinitely complicated pistol. Those before had learned the rules that governed them and tested them to their limits, but they never actually broke any of them. This was beyond natural, beyond supernatural if it came to that. It was as if Estamos had taken twenty guns and shoved them all together into one super-gun. It was wrong. It was beautiful. It needed a name.

“The Handcannon.”

He smiled. It was perfect. He tucked the Handcannon back into his coat and pulled the lever on the side of his chair, extending the footrest. He laced his fingers together behind his head, leaned back and closed his eyes once more. Less than three breaths later, a phone rang in his coat. Without opening his eyes, he fished around for the right phone. Once he found it, he answered.

“You’ve reached Discord, what the fuck do you want?”

“Hey hey, Discordio!” a cheerful, scratchy voice with a Cuban accent chirped through the speaker, “Finally got the right number! It’s Steban, quine mas hermano?”

Discord held the phone away from his mouth and quietly groaned. “Hola, Steban. Que the fuck do you want?”

Steban barked with laughter, like a Doberman that had smoked for thirty years. Why did nobody who bothered him have a normal laugh? “Bueno! Muy Bueno hermano! Listen, amigo, I followed up on those wackos, Los hijos de Ragnarok.”

Discord opened his eyes. “Hot damn. What turned up?”

“The survivors are gone, la enferma went for a smoke break, and they were vamoosed when she got back. No sign of either of them since. I’ve been working los Santeros, they're good with fringe shit, you know?”

“You got that right, they’ve got augury down to an art.”

“Si! I made three grand on a race thanks to Enrico! Kinda sad about la cabra though. Anyway, there’s a bunch of doomsday groups across the country, all with different ideas. Meteors, volcanos, one guy was even convinced he was Elvis reincarnated, dunno how he turned that into an alien invasion though. But about two weeks ago, they all change their minds.”

“One date passes and they pick another, how is this anything special?”

“That’s the thing,” Steban paused for annoying dramatic effect, “it’s the same mind.”

Discord blinked. “Come again?”

“They changed their mind the same, same mind.”

Discord nodded. “Ah. I’m with you.”

“Si, they all started doing the same shit los hijos were into. Mutilation, sacrifices, weird shit, hermano. I swear, one of those putas had all his skin gone except his face. I don’t think he made it to the weekly meeting, if you’re smelling what I’m stepping in amigo.” Steban barked with laughter again.

Discord let air out through his nose. That might’ve been the funniest thing Steban had ever said. “Did they settle on a date? Sounds like there might be something to this.”

“Not that I could tell. They talk about the end time, but nobody seems to know when it will be. Sounds like they’re playing it by ear.”

“Those are the worst ones. Anything else?”

“I think that’s it. Whatcha think, want me in deep cover? I can fit in with the loonies like a cuckoo in a nest hermano!”

Discord thought for a moment. There was a very good chace Steban would be found out and summarily executed, which was a plus, but he was more useful alive. “No, just keep watching from the outside, no need to tie you up for weeks. And keep a close watch on other groups' doomsdays, if they start syncing up we’ll have a real problem.”

“Aye aye capitán! I’ll let you know if anything especially fucked up happens.”

“And I’ll make sure you’re paid on time.”

Discord could hear the smile spring onto Steban’s face. “Muy bueno, Discordio, muy bueno de hecho.” There was a click and the call disconnected.

“That was rude.” He closed the phone, tucked it back into his coat, and closed his eyes once more, wasting no time to consider the implications of the call. He didn’t even get halfway through his first breath when a different cell phone in his coat began to beep. He grumpily opened his eyes, snatched the phone from his coat, and read the alarm.

“Be in Queens, meet with PM JJ in 5.”

“Fuck.” He had forgotten about his meeting with prime minister Jacob Jones. It was their weekly brunch. He dejectedly ended the alarm, closed the phone, and put it back in his coat. With a prolonged groan, he lurched up from his recliner, forlorn at the knowledge that he would not rest again any time soon.

He meandered to the door, stretched his neck first one way, then the other. He shook his head and faced straight ahead with a look of determination. He could rest later, there was business to attend to.

“Let’s get this over with.” And he stepped through the door.