The horde howled – orc pirate rage. The bridge shook. The bridge shuddered.

‘Carry on!’ Constant shouted at the other two Seekers, ‘I’ll buy us some time.’

But the orcs flat-out refused to sell any and Constant found himself hard-pressed to rent some. There was surely a terrible slump in the market.

He harried. He parried, thrust and chopped. Pirates fell and more took their place.

‘Constant,’ cried Honeycomb, ‘give us the baby, give us the Chosen One.’

The baby giggled and wailed from its pouch on Constant’s back.

He stopped a spear thrust with his DreamShield. ‘Oh no, you’ll not take the credit!’

Parry. Slash. Stab.

Smellsick: ‘Then get your ass over the bridge!’

Honeycomb: ‘Come on, you bleeding fool.’

The pirates forced them back, gaining ground and pushing them onto the middle of the bridge. Wood creaked and splintered. Below them the abyss yawned and enormous mouths snapped with hunger.

‘Hell are those mouths down there?’ said Smellsick, plucking orc eyes with his sword tip. ‘They damn eager.’

Honeycomb severed a hand, then it’s owners head. ‘Those are starving worlds, Smell. Lost places what’ve forgotten reality.’

‘Suck on this for reality,’ Constant said and took down three orcs with a powerful swing.

‘Nice one, bro!’ said Smellsick.

Suddenly the pirates parted and a massive smasher troll came thundering up, awful hammer raised. Constant groaned. ‘Bollocks.’

The hammer came down. Constant jumped back. The hammer smashed into the planks beneath his feet and a hole opened up in the bridge. Constant and baby fell through, the smasher troll tumbling after them. A mouth opened wide, chomped and swallowed.

*

They slammed onto cobbles. Constant’s sword flew from his grip. He spat blood, hands and knees marshing with pain. A tremendous crash behind them was followed by a loud troll scream and choking sounds. Constant jumped to his feet, eyes hunting his blade and shield. There – his blade, glinting a foot to the rear of the massive troll now rising to it’s feet.

‘Bollocks,’ Constant said, raising his fists and getting ready to dance. To weave. To keep the baby alive. The troll looked at him with an expression of surprise, mouth wide open. A long handle protruded from that awful gaper. Constant smiled. The troll dropped back down to its knees with a heavy thud. It’s eyes rolled up. And slowly, the huge creature turned to stone.

The baby on Constant’s back wailed and fussed. ‘Shut it, ye little fecker.’

He looked about. They were in a dirty alleyway between high glass buildings. His prized shield was nowhere to be seen, lost somewhere in the galaxy’s sewer. Constant peeked over his shoulder at the baby. ‘Some forgotten world in some lost galaxy, fecker.’

Like a bitch snapping at insecurities, a chill wind sucked through the alleyway. Like that awful in-law who’ll never accept you, who might smile and cut you with it.

Constant closed his eyes a second and drew some warmth from his volcanic ego. Lava flowed over his soul and as an after thought he spread some the baby’s way. Constant walked quietly over to the statue and picked up his sword. He reached up and patted the stone head. ‘Suits ya,’ he said and stepped out from the alleyway. He looked about the frantic street.

Dig ‘em: These people. They hustled. They bustled. They feckin stressed. And they carried boxes.

‘Well, Chosen Turd Factory,’ Constant said, ‘What you make of all ‘em boxes these feckers are carrying around with ‘em?’

Big boxes, small ones. Nice boxes, ugly ones, colorful ones, boring ones. The nicer the box – the happier the smile it seemed, the sturdier the step.

Boxes around the wrist, over the shoulder, and on their feet. Even boxes over their heads. Some feckers had three or four boxes, bursting with color and pride. The boxes were made of some translucent material. Full of color yet see-through.

A select few had no box at all, and these souls passed by with guilty eye’s that sucked at the ground. They dared not even glance at each other.  None of the box bearing people paid them more mind than a passing glance though. Their avid eyes but chased boxes. Constant felt slightly disgusted yet a strange hunger licked his gut. His mouth watered, and then dried up. Instinctively he cast his eyes down when a passing box rocker glanced his way. Careful and slow he raised his soul windows after a few seconds. ‘But hot damn, fecker,’ he said, ‘I want a box too.’

The baby gurgled in reply.

‘What kinda box is the question. So many cool ones.’

‘Gurgle.’

‘But if I get one, kid, its gotta be damn unique. Gotta be sharp.’

‘Gurgle!’

‘Come on, fecker.’

Constant walked up the street, soul windows downcast as he hugged the glass wall. He only glanced up every so often to search for an opportunity. There – a box store window. He stared in, turning every so often to allow the Chosen One a view from his back.

‘Man, dig ‘em boxes, fecker. Dig ‘em awesome colours.’

Constant scoped out the entrance for a bit. Over the door was a vibrant sign:

Be Yourself!!! The Box Shop!!!

There was something annoying about the steady stream of fools crawling in and strutting out. Old boxes replaced with better, sharper, brighter, stronger ones. The Thrill Seeker sucked some mettle into him and entered the store.

Hustle, rustle, scorn and box porn. Over the well hidden speakers a catchy song indoctrinated:

Harder, sharper, better, stronger.

You can be my black slate box tonight

Play secretary in my box tonight

I’ll be the boss of the box tonight

You don’t give a damn what they all say right?

Harder, sharper, better, stronger

‘Don’t pity these fools, fecker,’ he whispered. ‘Thems iz all fools, not like us, no.’

With his eyes safely downcast Constant left the store boxless.

‘My own design, Chosen Turd.’

‘Gurgle.’

‘Yes. My own line. I’ll be the box pimp. The box king. The box smith and all these fools will want our boxes.’

They walked through the glass city looking for a workshop they could rent. As Constant walked around with the baby on his back, he pondered this strange place. Every wall made of glass. Glass you could see right through, in and out. Only roofs and ceilings sometimes hid from view.

‘Seems these feckers ain’t heard of privacy, Turd Bag.’

Sudden sirens and whistles broke over the sounds of the city. Three red trucks shot past and went skidding around the next corner. Constant followed after, eyes averted from box bearers. They stopped behind a gathered crowd under a cloud of smoke.

Constant noticed a boxless soul just beside him.

‘Is there a fire?’ he said.

Unlike the other Downcast, this one looked directly at Constant. And in those soul windows there spun no shame. He nodded. ‘Now there is,’ he indicated the red trucks, ‘now that the fire starters are here.’

Atop one of the trucks a man swiveled a cannon. Flames leapt from the nozzle in a quick burst. Other men fussed around the site making sure no flames spread.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Constant.

The stranger shrugged, spitting on the street. ‘Someone built a house that was not in the shape of a box or rectangle.’ He considered Constant. ‘Worst of all? That someone didn’t use glass, but another material you can’t see through.’

‘And this is a crime?’

‘An unwritten one. But I’d be surprised if whoever built this place hasn’t perished in that fire.’

As the crowd began to disperse Constant turned to the stranger. ‘Hey, you wouldn’t know where I could rent or buy a workshop?’

‘Sure, down the south end. Always a space or two up for lease. What you working on, alien?’

‘Oh,’ said Constant, ‘I’m gonna build boxes. The best ones!’

Once more the stranger spat on the street. ‘Course you are,’ he said, turning away. He disappeared into the crowds without a backward glance.

Constant turned south. ‘Come on, fecker,’ he said, ‘I know what we gonna do.’

‘Gurgle.’

‘And trust me, Kid, it’s gonna be the bomb.’

‘Gurgle.’

‘What? Oh, hell.’

Constant slung the baby round. ‘You little fecker.’

He took a gold coin from his purse and threw it at a boxless soul. ‘Here, change this one’s diaper and get yerself a bleeding box, ye fecker.’

The Downcast eyed the baby askance. The coin in his hand. The baby.

‘Fine.’ He said, and changed the diaper, his face screwed up. But his soul windows, they flared hope.

‘Thanks, fecker,’ said Constant and continued down to the south end.

The Downcast sprinted into a box shop and when he exited some minutes later he was a Highcast.

Down the south end Constant spent the last of his coin on a fully equipped workshop. Its top floor afforded him a view of the shining city and as much privacy as bubbled glass walls could offer.

First he built a box for the baby.

‘Coolness,’ he said, checking out his work.

‘Gurgle,’ said the Chosen One and tapped a tiny index on the box.

Constant blinked. ‘What the feckits?’

The box was no longer translucent.

‘Well I’ll be, you just made my job a whole lot easier.’

Chisel, plane, shape and blend. Burn and blow, hammer and force.

Constant Falter got stuck into it like that cold bitch witcha business. There’d be no letting go till the thirst was sated. No wide-angle lens, just that tunnel vision what’s gotten many a bitch his way.

Chisel, plane, shape and blend.

Burn and blow, hammer and force.

ShhhDon’t stop till it’s run the course.

Slap Bang Damn – they rock the city.

Highcast. Downcast. Halfcast. Blind.

Every soul window a gate to blown mind.

‘This city just got knocked the feck down, Turdo,’ Constant said as they swaggered down crowded Main street, ‘and is looking up at dis slugger with awe and fear.’

Words were passed and tales spun. Rumors soared on jealous winds.

‘Halt!’

Constant turned. ‘Sup, Watchmen?’

They made a square around him. ‘Your boxes are hidden, stranger.’

Constant chuckled and struck a pose. ‘Or are they?’ he said, turning slow.

The watchmen gasped and one of ‘em fainted.

The box at his wrist glittered and shone. And on each face of the box little squares moved in a line dance. Some of ‘em squares were a dark material the eye was unable to penetrate. And yet more of ‘em still were translucent, so just when you thought this box was hiding something fierce, an open public face was revealed. Nothing to fear.

The box strapped to his chest sucked the crowd to him.

Constant basked. ‘Who the hell wants a damn box!’ he cried.

*

The portal pulsed open. Honeycomb and Smellsick stepped through.

Smellsick immediately pulled his collar up. ‘Damn cold bitch, this place.’

‘Aye, Smell,’ said Honeycomb. ‘Damn cold.’

‘These people are weird.’

‘Stay focused, Smell. We gotta get that kid so’s the Queen can kiss his dreams before they’re corrupted.’

‘This whole place is corrupted.’

‘Holy Feckits.’

‘What is it, Hon?’ Smellsick followed her gaze. ‘The hell is Constant’s face doing up there?’ he said.

‘Not just there, Smell,’ she said and pointed. ‘Up there too.’

‘Shiiiit, everywhere. Hell has your brother done now?’

Honeycomb didn’t reply. She eyed the people around them. Box bearing, strutting and aloof.

Smellsick pointed his chin at a building of cunningly bubbled glass. ‘Think we can find the fecker there, Combs.’

She nodded and spat on the ground. ‘King Falter Enterprises, bloody hell.’

Smellsick shook his head. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking, Honey?’

‘Aye, Smell, that bloody fools got the chosen one mixed up in this shit, whatever it is.’

‘Whatever it is, Hon, we gotta stop it.’

They walked up to the building where three hulking guards blocked their way.

Smellsick sized ‘em up. ‘Better step aside you know what’s good for ya.’

The guards made to move forward but Honeycomb held up a staying hand. ‘Relax, you lot. All of you, just bleeding relax.’

More guards stepped from the revolving doors and moved in behind the first three. Honeycomb picked out the leader by the gold and glass box he had on his head. ‘Tell Falter that Honeycomb and Smellsick are here.’

The leader, an apey looking hulk nearly as tall as Smellsick, glared at her. ‘The hell you think, Boxless, think you can address me?’

Another guard piped up. ‘Cast down your eyes lest we remove them!’

‘Screw this,’ said Smellsick and slammed a fist into the leader’s jaw. The box on his head shattered and he dropped to the ground under a cloud off glittering gold.

With shouts of surprise the other guards drew swords, but even as they attacked, Smellsick’s blade was already out stealing life. Vicious and fast, final and ending, that blade was a thief in the night stealing the most valued possession – your last breath. Guards screamed as Honeycomb punched a hole through ‘em to the entrance. Her blade sang, danced and sliced, precise as a chef’s knife over veggies. Guards dropped like diced tomatoes falling off a kitchen bench. Smellsick squished ‘em as he followed Honeycomb through the entrance, leaving a red trail behind him. Death cries and gurgles announced their entry into King Falter Enterprises.

They paused at a long, stained glass counter where huddled forms cowered behind, hands over heads. Facing them was a long hallway with walls of bubbled glass, colored and flickering. At the end of the hallway was a sealed door.

‘Reckon your bro be at the top of this building.’

‘Stairs through there, I’d guess.’

The sealed door at the end of the hallway slid open and more sword wielding feckers poured through, fanning out and positioning themselves in a defensive line down the hall. As the doors slid closed behind them Smellsick pointed his sword. ‘Didn’t see no stairs.’

‘Some kinda contraption to carry us where we gotta go, Smell. ‘s what I reckon.’

‘Reckon you right, Kid.’ He stretched his thick neck from side to side. Loud clicks followed the movement. ‘Then these fools is as good as dead.’

Honeycomb unslung her Dreamshield from her back and it fastened its-self to her left forearm. ‘Aint they just.’

An ambitious secretary popped up from behind the counter. Smellsick spun and glared at her amiss. ‘Hell you gonna do, lass?’

She lifted a dark metal pipe. ‘This.’ Flames shot, hot and fierce. Smellsick ducked quick sharp. Honeycomb stepped in the way, raising her shield. Flames roared off the shields face, trying to curl around the edge and lick Honeycombs face. The guards took the opportunity and charged up the hall. Smellsick ran to meet them, a big grin on his face. A couple of the guards saw that grin and stopped, knees buckling and spines going on holiday.

First guard up – swinging her blade at Smell’s neck. The Seeker ducked and stepped in to the left, free fist crashing back-handed into her face. The impact caved in the guard’s pretty features and lifted her backwards off her feet. She hit the ground a few feet away, dead as dead. Second guard up – Butterfly Attack maneuver. Smell’s dagger took him in the throat. Blood faucet spraying onto the floor. Third, fourth and fifth up – converging, blades flashing. Ring, ring, ring – Smellsick blocked and deflected every slash and cut, his speed at odds with his massive size. His turn: Heads leapt from shoulders. Three blood fountains. Gush, gush, gush – blood was everywhere and guards slipped and fell over dead comrades. Smell looked over his shoulder in time to see a secretary lose her head and hit the wall.

Honeycomb leapt over the counter and started running down the hall. With a fluid release she slid her shield onto the floor ahead of her face down and sprinted behind it, sword held low behind her. Just as the shield skittered by Smellsick, Honeycomb jumped into its concave bowl and hurtled towards the remaining guards. They clambered, slid and staggered, trying to position themselves in hasty defense. The shield and its final passenger skidded over the blood-slick floors, riding over the dead. Sing, dance and slice. That blade: oh so precise. Scream, cry and die. Them guards: Memories, fading ones.

Honeycomb coasted to the end of the hall, stopping in front of the sliding doors.  Smellsick retrieved his dagger. ‘Nice one, Kid,’ he said, wiping his blades clean as he picked his way around the corpses. ‘Now lets go sort that brother of yours out.’ He punched the glowing square on the wall by the doors and they plinged open. Honeycomb and Smellsick entered the glass room and the doors closed behind them.

Smellsick leaned down to glare at a square filled with numbers and a green arrow. ‘Hell is this thing now?’

‘A code catcher, Smell. Gotta hit a certain number or numbers, then that green one.’

Smellsick punched in 99. Hit green. Pling, pling, pling! Their bellies dropped and suddenly they had a rising view of the shining city. Smellsick grabbed the glass wall. ‘Bloody hell, queasy as I’ve ever been. Like that time I rode a dragon.’

‘Or a bleeding rocket ship.’

‘Never been, not me.’

‘Hundred times worse.’ Pling – their bellies jumped and slammed back down. Smellsick passed through the doors unsheathing his sword and clutching his belly. Honeycomb followed him into the bright, box filled room with the panoramic view of the shining city. There the sight beheld them and Honeycomb groaned. ‘For the love of dreams, Constant. This is a reach, even for you.’

All over the floor gold coins lay strewn about and on a throne carved into the stone statue of a troll, there sat Constant Falter. Nearly naked beauties were draped over Death Kisser, feeding him grapes and tracing lines along his features with their fingers. Honeycomb saw no guards and Smellsick eyed the women the way he would rapid dogs outside a butchers shop.

Constant waved a hand and considered them through half lidded eyes. ‘Honeycomb. Smellsick.’ The naked drapes removed themselves from him and sashayed over to a bar where with the movements of a whispering wind, they began mixing drinks.

‘How nice of you to drop by,’ he said, ‘are you here for a box? As my most trusted ones, you may pick whichever box catches your desire; free of charge.’

‘Screw your boxes, fool,’ said Smelsick.

‘Where’s the chosen one, Constant?’ Honeycomb said, looking around the glass room. ‘That infant better not be corrupted.’

The languid expression on Falter’s face hardened into one of chipped stone. ‘No. If you are here for the child, you may as well turn around leave the way you came.’ He stood and stretched, pulling his sword out in a slow movement. ‘He goes no-where.’

‘Constant, as my brother, listen very carefully. The Queen has not kissed his dreams nor cast them. And he has the strongest destiny to grace The Big Wide Galaxy since the dawn of stars.’

‘Honeycomb, as my sister, I’ll tell you this once. Leave the way you came – empty-handed.’

‘The galaxy needs him!’

‘Screw the Galaxy, here I am King.’

‘Gurgle.’ They all spun round to behold the chosen one standing in the corner of the large room, waving a pudgy hand and smiling. ‘He’s corrupted,’ said Honeycomb, ‘but if we get him back quick sharp the Queen can still kiss him and his dreams. Kiss him clean.’

Suddenly a magicked glass cage dropped over the infant. Constant laughed, lifting a hand off a button on the troll throne. ‘You’ll die if you try wrest this one from me, guys.’

‘You sound like a pirate again, Constant,’ his sister said, ‘only much worse, like oil in a river.’

Her brother grinned wide, snapped his neck from side to side and then whirled his blade, making it whistle. ‘As you know, pirates show no mercy.’ Smellsick ran at him then, a bellow leaving his lungs. ‘You fools kiss!’ he cried. Blades licked and kissed a little, creating sparks as Constant slashed at his friend of ten years. Smellsick danced back, stumbling in the coins that covered the floor.

The trio of temptresses exploded into motion, hidden knives of assassins appearing in each hand. They flowed towards Honeycomb. She went to meet them, shield held low, blade held high. Coins flew and rang as two of ‘em sexy killers converged her. Honey slide-stepped back and to the left, her shield glancing away the succession of stabs and slashes. She flicked her blade up and sharp down. The assassin took the bait and ducked to Honeycomb’s right. Like a sprung lever Honey’s blade jerked back, sword point singing straight at the killer’s throat. Blood sprayed into the path of the next killer, her leaping snap-kick foiled. Honeycomb dug low, slamming her shield into the assassin’s exposed knee joint. Honey’s blade screamed in delight. Blood sprayed and a head rolled. Honeycomb smiled up at the last leaping  assassin.

Smellsick blocked another slash, his blade feeling heavy. Constant’s speed was fearsome, tiresome, and he was hard-pressed to meet every attack. Only so much longer could he fend off those scything blows before one of them found a way in. He parried a thrust and barely escaped the back-slash. Constant whooped, glee licking his eyes. Smellsick surged forward and swung his blade. Falter blocked strong and slid his blade down Smell’s, all the way to the grip, slicing his hand. Smellsick involuntarily opened his hand and lost the sword. Constant kicked him hard in the chest and the massive Thrill Seeker staggered back, lost his footing and fell back in spray of gold coin. His breath gone, Smellsick could but watch as Constant jumped high, a double grip round his sword.

‘I hope you got some live’s left, brother.’

Constant turned his head mid-air in time to see his sister’s blade come hurtling at him. Too late. The blade buried itself deep in his chest and his leap was stopped short. Falter landed in his coin carpet, blood springing out from his chest around his sister’s blade. Honeycomb stepped up, tears in her eyes. ‘You better have some lives left, you bloody fool.’ She wiped her face. ‘You bloody fool.’

She turned at crash. Smellsick stood, gasping and holding the chosen one, a cage smashed to pieces around him. He held up a fist-sized globe. ‘Time to bail, Kid.’ The globe came down to the floor, smashing and smoking into a portal. Honeycomb looked through the gateway and at the Queen of Dreams. ‘The bloody fool,’ said the seeker, tears now flowing free. The Queen reached out her hands, her eyes pained. Honeycomb pulled her blade from her brother’s chest and followed Smellsick through the portal. She did not look back as the gateway closed after her.

As that gateway closed and the chosen one was ferried into the safety of the Queen’s cleansing kiss, boxes in the shining city started disintegrating. People raged and marched on King Falter Enterprises, guaranties waving in the air.

Lungs gurgling blood and choking, Constant dragged himself over his dead assassins. Behind the elevator doors he could hear his competitors jumping with joy. And in his mind he felt a million eyes watching him with disdain. He pulled himself up to his workbench. ‘A new design. A new design. A new design.’

*

Far, far away, in a place where many arrive in a box and indeed some because of their boxes, Father Death turned away from the coffin he was calling open. He looked into his dark heart and watched as a fool built himself a box with his last dying breath. ‘Tsk, tsk, tsk. The final box.’

His brother Father Sky took a peek. Shook his head. ‘Built from looking at yourself through other’s eyes.’

‘Some don’t trust their own.’

‘Eventually though,’ said Father Sky as they watched Constant crawl up the black hill, ‘that’s all one can trust.’

‘You have nice eyes.’

‘Where are yours?’

‘Gave ‘em up, bro.’

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