Season 1 chapter 9
The Cussing Calibration
At 2:00 AM, they slipped into the deep forest, the same woods where they had once outrun a steam-tank. Malesh propped the Stone Gun against a fallen log, aiming at a thick wooden target he'd set up fifty yards away.
Malesh pulled the bolt back—clack-shick—mimicking the R37 Brockforce movement he'd studied. He squeezed the trigger.
Click.
Nothing happened. The spring didn't release. The stone sat dead in the chamber.
"Stipend well spent," Kniya mocked, leaning against a tree. "Maybe I can still get those bets in before the sun comes up."
Malesh's face turned red. The exhaustion from the warehouse, the pressure of the 90k salary, and the memory of the police carriage all boiled over. He slammed his fist against the side of the gun.
"Fuck this shit!" Malesh roared. "Work, you motherfucker! I didn't spend a week in a sulfur-smelling hole for you to jam now! Work, you piece of shit! Work! Work! Work!"
He violently shoved the bolt forward again and yanked the trigger in a fit of rage.
WHAM.
The recoil sent a shockwave through Malesh's arms. The cylindrical stone didn't just fly; it whistled through the air like a localized hurricane. It slammed into the wooden target, shattering the thick oak plank into splinters.
Kniya stood frozen, his jaw dropped. "What the hell... your cussings actually made the gun work? Is that part of the engineering, bro? Do I need to insult the ammunition too?"
Malesh breathed heavily, a dark, satisfied grin appearing through the soot on his face. "It's not the cussing, Kniya. It's the calibration. But if calling it a motherfucker helps the spring release, I'll yell at it all night."
"It's ready," Kniya whispered, looking at the shattered wood. "Rhuluf has no idea what's coming."
The Confrontation at the Gates
Malesh and Kniya stood at the school exit, blocking the path of Rhuluf and his growing entourage. Rhuluf now had six guys behind him—Throbes, Kliven, Norvis, and two other massive seniors who looked like they'd been held back three years in a row.
"Look at the little maggots," Rhuluf barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Still wearing those ties? I thought we kicked the 'Bulwadi' out of you last time."
Malesh adjusted his tie, his face a mask of predatory calm. "You insulted us, you beat us, and you thought we were just some rich kids who would go home and cry to our nannies. But I'm here to tell you that you're a fucking shit of a hell, Rhuluf."
Kniya stepped forward, eyes flashing with the Anderson fire. "We're challenging you to a fight. A real one. No teachers, no park rangers, no 'convenient' reports. Just us and you six. Forest clearing. One hour."
Rhuluf burst out laughing, his gang joining in. "A challenge? From you two? You barely survived the last one! Fine. We'll meet you there. I want to see which part of your face breaks first this time."
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The Forest Trap
The clearing was silent, save for the low hiss of a nearby steam pipe and the rustle of leaves. In the center of the patch, two long objects lay on the ground, covered in heavy, oil-stained cloths.
Rhuluf and his six goons emerged from the treeline, grinning and cracking their knuckles. "Are you acknowledging your defeat by just seeing our faces again?" Rhuluf mocked as the boys backed away toward the trees. "Why are you moving back, little ones? Scared of the 'critical hits'?"
"We aren't moving back because we're scared," Malesh said, his voice dropping into that chilling, professional tone he used at the warehouse. "We're moving back to get a better view."
Kniya pulled a thin wire hidden in the brush. "Now!"
They ripped the cloths away, revealing the Stone Guns. Simultaneously, Malesh triggered his masterpiece: a series of manual trip-wire setups he'd engineered during his night shifts. Hidden in the trees, four more "automated" stone-throwers—rigged with weighted mallets and spring-releases—clicked into place.
The Rain of Stone
"What the fuck is—" Rhuluf started, but the sentence was cut short by the sound of high-tension steel snapping forward.
WHAM. WHAM. WHAM.
The clearing turned into a kill zone. It wasn't just the two boys firing; it was as if the forest itself had grown teeth. Cylindrical stones, polished to perfection and propelled by industrial-grade springs, shrieked through the air.
One of the new seniors took a direct hit to the chest and went down like a sack of coal, the air driven out of him in a sickening wheeze. Another stone caught Kliven in the shoulder, the "crack" of bone audible over the mechanical roars.
"FIRE!" Kniya yelled, working the bolt-action on his hand-held Stone Gun with the same rhythm he'd practiced with the R37 Brockforce.
Rhuluf tried to run, his ego vanishing as he realized he wasn't fighting children—he was fighting a coordinated battery of artillery. A stone from Malesh's gun caught Rhuluf in the thigh, a "bloodshot" that tore through the fabric and sent him screaming into the dirt, exactly like the officer in the woods.
"You think we're maggots?" Malesh shouted over the mechanical chaos, his eyes burning with a week's worth of sulfur and spite. "We're the DI'ans! We're the ones who own the grime you're bleeding on!"
The seniors were in a blind panic, catching "very bad shots" from every side as they tried to scramble through the brush. The automated mallets kept swinging, resetting, and firing with the cold, logical efficiency Malesh had brought to the docks.
The hunters had become the prey, and for the first time, Rhuluf knew what it felt like to be on the wrong side of the "Game of Chaos."
The mechanical roar of the automated mallets finally sputtered to a halt. The forest clearing was thick with the smell of dust, crushed leaves, and the metallic tang of blood. Rhuluf's gang was scattered across the dirt, a mess of shattered egos and "very bad shots." Their faces, once arrogant and mocking, were now a map of dark purple bruises, cuts, and stone-scars.
Malesh and Kniya stepped out from the treeline, their shadows stretching long across the defeated seniors. Malesh was holding a heavy, rusted iron pipe he'd scavenged from the docks, dragging it against the stones with a screeching metallic ring.
The Psychopaths of Seistain
They walked straight to Rhuluf, who was clutching his bleeding thigh, his face pale with terror. Malesh stood over him, tapping the iron pipe against his own palm.
"Bro, remember what I told you last time?" Malesh asked, his voice low and cold. "I had warned you that we'd move your ass so high it would hit the clouds. I'm thinking we start by shoving this pipe so far up your ass it breaks out of your mouth. Sound like a plan?"
Rhuluf's eyes went wide, reflecting the flickering shadows of the trees. "Are you... are you fucking psychopaths?" he rasped, his voice trembling. "You literally created a working gun-like model that fires stones in a forest... what the fuck is wrong with you?"
Kniya stepped up, looking down at Rhuluf with pure, unadulterated disgust. "What's wrong with us? We're on the high edge now, you piece of shit. We can do whatever we want. You know what 'whatever' means? It means your life has zero value to us unless it's for our profit or our entertainment."
"Please... please," Rhuluf begged, backing away on his elbows. "I'll never touch you again. I'll give you whatever you want. Just leave me!"
The Leaf and the Scream
"I'm not going to leave you," Malesh said, a dark grin twitching on his lips. "First, I need to break your face. That is the most important part of the protocol."
Malesh reached into his bag and pulled out a small portable pot and a handful of dark, jagged leaves—Stinging Cinder-Leaf. He lit a small fire with a match, boiling a tiny amount of water, and dropped the leaves in until they turned into a thick, concentrated sludge.
"This," Malesh explained as he pulled the steaming, soggy leaves out with a pair of pliers, "is for the scars you gave us."
While Kniya held Rhuluf down with a boot to the chest, Malesh leaned in. He didn't just drop the leaves; he rubbed the hot, itching sludge directly into Rhuluf's open wounds and stone-scars.
The scream that left Rhuluf's throat was unlike anything heard in the Seistain forest before. It was a high-pitched, raw sound of agony as the chemicals in the leaf reacted with the fresh blood. The other seniors watched in horror, paralyzed by the sheer cruelty of the two eleven-year-olds.
The Warning
After the screaming subsided into pathetic sobbing, Malesh tossed the iron pipe aside. Kniya reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wad of credits—maybe 500—and threw them onto Rhuluf's chest.
"Get some medics," Malesh said, his voice returning to a terrifyingly calm state. "And listen to me very carefully, bro. If you—or any of your pathetic repeat-graders—so much as look at us the wrong way in the hallway, I won't use the stones next time."
He leaned down, his face inches from Rhuluf's. "Next time, I bring the R37 Brockforce. And I won't be aiming for your legs. I'm going to ensure your defeat is permanent. Do you understand?"
Rhuluf could only nod frantically, his face a swollen, itching mess of tears and blood. He finally understood: Malesh and Kniya weren't just "smart kids." They were the new kings of the grime, and they were much, much more dangerous than any bully.
The Unholy Alliance
As the screaming faded and the smoke from the automated mallets cleared, Kniya stood over the shivering Rhuluf. He didn't look like he wanted to fight anymore; he looked like he wanted to understand.
"One question before we leave you to rot," Kniya said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Which grade are you in, actually? 11th? 12th?"
Rhuluf coughed, wiping blood from his lip. "11th," he rasped. "I... I failed twice. My parents kept me back."
Kniya looked at Malesh, then back at Rhuluf. A slow, dark smirk crossed his face. He reached out a hand—not to hit him, but to pull him up. "I knew it. You're not a senior; you're just a survivor who got stuck. Look, Rhuluf... we move in the same circles now. We have the same ideology: power and shortcuts. The only difference is the tools we use. Why be enemies when we can be a coalition?"
Rhuluf stared at Kniya's hand as if it were a trap, then slowly took it. "Friends?"
"Equals," Kniya corrected. "Just don't forget who built the guns."
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### The Silent Rejection
The air between Malesh and Kniya turned cold instantly. They didn't look at Elara; they looked at each other. This was a "Battle of the Eyes," a silent telegraphy they had perfected.
Kniya's internal monologue (The Rage): *"Are you fucking kidding me? Look at this girl. Look at her stupid, smiling face. She wants me to sit in a circle and talk about my 'secrets' while I have three R37 Brockforce rifles hidden in the woods and a bank account full of blood-money? I should tell her to go find a hole and jump in it. Fuck these kids, Malesh. Why are they even breathing my air?"*
Malesh's internal monologue (The Logic): *"Bro, shut the fuck up. I know she's annoying. I know their 'game' is a joke. But look at the teacher. If you snap at her now, you break the 'Ghost' protocol. We need to be invisible. If you go 'Anderson' on a 12-year-old girl, the whole school will be talking. Have some goddamn moral dignity and keep your mouth shut."*
Kniya's eye twitched. He leaned back, his chair creaking under the weight of his irritation. He gripped the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white.
Kniya's gaze: *"Fuck the protocol. I'm tired of playing 'student.' I'd rather be back at the docks shoveling coal with the men who actually know what life is. These kids are poor—not just in money, but in spirit. They're weak. Why are we even pretending?"*
Malesh's gaze: *"Because 'weak' people are the best shields. If we are friends with the sheep, the wolves don't see us. Now, give me a nod so I can lie to her face and we can get out of here. Don't you dare use a cuss word, you'll ruin everything."*
### The Hollow Mask
After nearly thirty seconds of terrifying silence, where Elara and her friends began to look genuinely uncomfortable—some even taking a step back—Malesh finally broke the eye contact.
He turned to Elara, and for a split second, his face transformed. The cold, industrial manager of the docks vanished, replaced by the polite, scholarly image of a perfect 6th grader.
"That sounds like a great time, Elara," Malesh said, his voice smooth and empty. "Really. But Kniya and I are actually in the middle of a very complex extracurricular assignment. Our parents have high expectations for the next semester, and we have to finish this data analysis before the bell rings. We'd hate to ruin the fun with our 'boring' work."
Kniya didn't even pretend to be nice. He just stared at the chalkboard, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated boredom. To him, Elara wasn't a classmate; she was a distraction from the empire they were building.
"Oh... okay," Elara stammered, her smile faltering. "I guess... maybe another time?"
"Maybe," Malesh lied, already turning back to his notebook.
As the kids scurried away, whispering about how "creepy and serious" the back bench was, Kniya leaned over, his voice a low, dangerous hiss.
"Fuck this shit, Malesh. Why do you even bother talking to them? They're losers. They're 'poor' kids who don't know the first thing about reality. I felt like I was losing brain cells just listening to her."
"It's called 'social camouflage,' bro," Malesh whispered back, snapping his notebook shut. "You almost bit her head off. You need to chill out. We have 170,000 credits to manage and a Stone Gun to calibrate. We don't have time to be the 'mean kids' of the 6th grade."
"I don't want to be the mean kid," Kniya muttered, grabbing his bag. "I want to be the one they're too afraid to even look at. Let's go. I've had enough of this 'innocence' for one day."