"This the place," Tardif asks his haggard companion, the pair walking through a treacherous mine of puddles plaguing the road.

"Think so," Damian replies loosely, appraising a signboard that reads, “The Crossings” that welcomes their arrival.

It was hard to see, especially with the gloomy conditions, a flash of lightning blazing across the night, illuminating the carved wood.

Judging by the skyline of shingled rooftops, the population was bigger than what they were used to, the modest accommodations of Hamlet easy enough to navigate around.

"Ye got the map don't ye," the bounty hunter grumbles, soured by the almost constant downpour of rain that had dampened their journey.

There was no use for a torch in such dreary weather, and though this town was advanced enough to offer enclosed street lamps, their weak gleam still struggles to survive the elements.

"What map," the flagellant remarks, a coyness that clearly shows he's probably misplaced it.

Tardif scoffs. The bastard is enjoying this, vexing him on purpose, doing everything he can to make it worse.

"Ye tellin' me ye lost the letter?"

Tardif must not have been thinking clearly (he really wasn't) to have left him in charge.

The heiress had sent them on this expedition just as soon as they returned from another, the brooding tactician unable to plan as he normally would, the stress threatening to consume his mind.

"Oh, the letter," enunciates the sing-songy voice, correcting his companion's word choice, "yes, I have it."

Damian slips scarred fingers into his robes, procuring the item in question for Tardif to see, the parchment erotically nestled around the grove of his inner thigh, no safer place for it.

"Good, make sure it stays that way," Tardif huffs, noting the sprinkle of droplets now darkening the paper.

"Of course," he concurs, putting it back in the same private quarters he found it.

Tardif's gaze lingers, watching it disappear back down the provocative sway of fabric. Stupid flagellant. Stupid weather. Stupid surprise mission.

He can never understand how he walks in these unbearable conditions. Even the bounty hunter's boots are soiled, almost soaked through, and Damian is traipsing around barefooted.

As they pass the wooden gates, the brute makes sure his steps are extra sloshy, splattering the flagellant with all the mud he can, trying not to think about the rain wreaking havoc on his armor, probably aiding in its rust.

The streets are almost barren thanks to the weather (still more lively than Hamlet's standards), but those who are out, braving the storm, address them with cold, judging stares.

A traveling mercenary and a flagellant are bound to stand out and Tardif admits he’d do the same towards any newcomers dressed as they are, but this curious speculation seems more odious than most.

"There! That's him," cries a balding innkeeper, pointing an accusing finger in their direction,

"Don't let him get away!'

Tardif is under the assumption the frantic loon of a man (his actions making Damian appear sane by comparison), might be insinuating him of all people, but that just couldn't be, wouldn't be impossible.

As villainous a reputation as his mask bore, not even he could commit a crime that quickly.

The bounty hunter strides ahead, not about to involve himself in petty domestic affairs, having more important matters to attend to.

"My, they're quite friendly here, aren't they," the flagellant chirps in his partner's ear, smiling at the swarm of angry faces threatening bodily harm.

"Not everyone gets their rocks off from pain, ye know," Tardif gripes, almost slipping in muck.

"They should. The world might become a better place," the flagellant counters, imagining a bloody parade of devout apostles flogging in the streets.

The mercenary scoffs. For him maybe it would be, but Tardif isn't about to get sucked into an ideological debate.

"Where we goin' again," the bounty hunter asks, distracted by the mob at his back, mapping out an escape route just in case.

"The manor house," the hooded priest supplies, leading them toward the big white pillars in the distance.

Tardif sees it, doesn't like how much ick he'll have to trudge through to get there. Why do these wealthy types always have to live on a blasted hill?

"Right, knew that," the mercenary spits, his memory conveniently returned, "got sidetracked."

The holy man doesn't question him and despite their heated pace (he won't admit that he's been following Damian's lead), the throng of activists persist, nipping at their heels.

“Look, he's wearing the mask," spouts the persistent inquirer, leading the uproar, "it’s the same guy who beat me half to death!"

Whoever beat him over the head didn't do it hard enough. If they had, he'd be properly unconscious right now and Tadif wouldn't be dealing with this quagmire.

The huntsman flips through his mental lineup of bounties, revisiting old marks. He always remembers a face, especially when it concerns business and he does not, for the life of him, recognize this whackjob of a man.

"Someone you know," the flagellant teases.

"Ye think yer funny, don't ye," the bounty hunter gripes, side-eyeing him, not at all amused.

Damian grins, relishing the admission. "I do."

Judging by the uniforms assembling a perimeter ahead, the authorities have gotten involved, sealing off the road and dwindling their options for escape.

Shit.

"What do you suggest we do," the flagellant asks, hoping Tardif wouldn’t resort to mutiny.

As much as he would love to turn this into an all-out brawl, he reserves to be passive just this once (for Damian's sake).

"Just keep movin'. Follow my lead."

The bounty hunter tactfully steers them down a side alley, but before he can reach for the fuse of his flashbang, a shadow leaps out, subduing him from behind.

"Get yer bloody hands off me," the mercenary shouts, kicking and flailing with sharp jabs of his elbows.

It's not often Tardif comes across a thug more burly than himself, but he has to give the son of bitch credit, not many were ballsy enough to attempt a full nelson on a trained killer.

You'd think that Damian would do something to alleviate their current predicament, but the masochist is lost in a daze, the horde of townsfolk closing in.

"You thought you could rip me off,” the innkeep asserts, the first to arrive on the scene, spouting more slanderous drivel, “well tough shit. I know your name, Mack!"

"That ain't my damn name," Tardif snarls, resisting arrest, but despite his best efforts, his captor will not budge.

"You think I'm that stupid," his naysayer declares, getting in his face, "You want us to believe that there are a bunch of guys going around wearing the same mask as you?"

"They haven't got a name fer how stupid ye are," Tardif snarls under his breath, wanting to kick his ugly mug clean off.

Standing on his metaphorical soapbox, the alleged victim turns to his audience, pleading his case for all to hear. "Bastard would rather kill a man than pay for his tab! Stole my horse to make his getaway and now he’s back for more!"

The crowd murmurs, fear-mongering abound, the authorities seemingly convinced by this riling testimony.

This drunkard must have a personal vendetta against him. Why else incite the masses?

"And who's he supposed to be," the cue-ball with a ponytail demands, indicating Damian with an unimpressed sneer, "Your backup?"

"Damian, tell them," the bounty hunter growls, craning his neck towards the good for nothing flagellant who so far hasn't lifted a finger in his defense.

Finally, the priest snaps into action.

"No, wait," the hooded man intervenes, holding out a placating hand, stepping up to the front line, "You must take me too. I am his accomplice. We'll go quietly."

Tardif stares at him in disbelief, eyes as wide as saucers, too shocked to even breathe.

"Are ye mad," the mercenary barks, "Wot the hell are ye doin'?!"

Through the slits of his visor, Tardif watches on as the flagellant wrists are shackled by a group of lawmen, his deranged companion mouthing the words, "trust me."

Trust him?

Oh, no — they're not just screwed, they're utterly fucked.

The bounty hunter wilts, losing his will to fight back, the two heroes escorted to the nearest jail to await their completely fair and unbiased trial.

"Make yourselves at home," the warden tells them, unlocking Tardif's handcuffs through the bars, "you're going to be here awhile."

The bounty hunter rubs the life back into his wrists once he's free, remembering all the reasons why he hated being dressed in irons.

To his right, he listens, watching as Damian is released from his binds, the key making a distinct windup as it twists open.

This "jailer" of theirs seems to be a greenhorn by the looks of it, probably assigned to a task he's sorely unqualified for, simply filling in an empty post, and to top it all off, he's distracted. Tardif takes note of all these details. Especially, the fact of how incredibly tired the young man is, carrying the smell of drink and debt on him like cheap perfume.

Should be easy to manipulate if they play their cards right, Tardif assuming the part of a perfect inmate up until the guard removes himself from the room, blissfully out of sight.

Forget everything else, right now, all Tardif wants to do is to give that religious fool a piece of his mind.

"Some mister righteous, ye are," the huntsman barks, jabbing his companion's scarred chest with a reprimanding finger, "Aren't ye supposta seek truth and justice and all that?!"

"How else were we to sort this out," the flagellant reasons, gritting his teeth, "Do you want another parading around as you, branding you as a thief?"

"Coulda helped me beat them all up," the mercenary growls, pissed that things didn't go exactly that way, "coulda done our business n' left."

"I sorely doubt that. Given our apparent reputation, do you think the mayor would believe us? Any request we made would have been denied."

"Coulda shown them the letter," propounds the bounty hunter, but it seems Damian has a rebuttal for that too.

"It matters not. They were in no state to listen. Only our confession would have pacified them."

"That's bullshite speculation and ye know it."

The two continue to stare each other down, exchanging bluffs of opposition until the mercenary sighs in defeat. Arguing with his confounding logic was a waste of time.

"Make yerself useful and help me look fer a way out," Tardif grumbles, stepping away from their debate and toward where the bed and the wall meet.

Kneeling down, gloved hands pry at the straw lining the brick, testing for a weak spot while Damian drags his feet, meandering towards an alluring set of chains suspended along the adjacent wall.

He runs passionate fingers down the length of them, inspecting their quality, a delightfully wicked idea coming to mind for their use.

"Tardif," the flagellant calls softly, but the man in question pays him no mind.

"Tardif," he echoes again, a little louder this time, but still to no avail.

"TARDIF!"

Snarling, the bounty hunter drops what he's doing, standing to his full imposing height as he faces the holy man with murderous intent, "Wot the bloody hell do ye want?!"

"I got stuck," the flagellant replies simply, a finger indicating one of his wrists now manacled above his head

"Ye fuckin' idiot," the bounty hunter huffs, anger transforming into laughter, muffling the sound inside his glove.

"Aren't you going to come over here and untie me," the flagellant suggests, his voice an obvious lure to entice him closer.

With pouty lips, the kinky sidekick yanks on the chain to show the extent of his helplessness, selling it further, whimpering like a pathetic mutt.

Even as he approaches his prey, Tardif knows he's in for something dangerous. Damian was predictably unpredictable, but that's what he liked about him, the thrill of never knowing what to expect.

The mercenary glares at him, his helmet practically touching the skin of Damian’s crooked nose, daring him to try something as he reaches up to unlock the shackle pinning him in place.

Clack.

He shouldn't be surprised when his wrist is ensnared by the remaining metal clasp, now a twin to his partner, but he is.

"Wot the hell are ye doin," he grumbles, outraged that the deviant priest had bound him as well.

"Helping you focus," the flagellant grins, arching forward, brushing their lower halves together.

"Is that what ye call it," the bounty hunter snorts, not completely opposed to the compromising position they find themselves in.

The baggage of their last excursion still lingers, eating away at him, making him more baited than a pint of ale and he needs something to take the edge off.

"Mmmm-hmmm," the flagellant drawls, putting a knee in between Tardifs legs just a little too roughly, making the brute growl in warning.

The axeman pitches forward, catching himself with a leather glove against the wall. His breathing has turned heavy, this proximity tantalizing.

Should he play Damians game? It’s probably not the best idea to encourage him, but to see a man of Light, usually so demure, suddenly flaunt himself for the taking is an intriguing sight to behold.

Rather than reaching for a means to pick the lock, set himself free, the brute hooks his hand around the sash of his partner’s waist.

"That's it," the flagellant goads him, a bandaged calve wrapping itself around his partner’s belt,

"I'll make it easy for you."

"Coulda done this back home," comes his chastising remark, but his voice is winded, defeated.

"But we're not at home," the priest purrs, adding the other leg, squeezing the bounty hunter with both, bringing him flush, "Are you really going to wait? Wouldn't you rather punish me now?”

Tardif scoffs indignantly, rolling his eyes, "'course yer turned on. Startin' to think ye had somethin' to do wit' all this."

"Please, I am just as innocent as you are,” Damian tells him, a coy little smirk working it’s way onto his lips, spelling trouble, “but seeing as we're both stranded here, shouldn't we seize the opportunity?"

"Should be workin' on an escape plan,” the mercenary sighs, reiterating their priorities, pliant to the solicitation despite his words.

"I assure you, I am working on one right now," he says, using his free hand to pull down the brute’s cowl. He does so with languid movements, allowing the bounty hunter time to intervene if he so desires.

He doesn’t.

Breath a heated temptation between them, Damian leans forward, connecting their mouths.

The brute presses back the moment he does, hard enough to force his partner’s head back into the brick, a noticeable impact, the masochist groaning into their kiss.

Lucky for them, their unassuming bailiff returns just in time to spy the nefarious plot taking root.

"Hey! Knock it off," he calls, banging on the bars, trying to dissuade the prisoners from their suspicious proclivities.

“Should we stop,” Damian asks in a hushed whisper, training his peripheral vision on their irked overseer.

“Not until he opens the lock,” the bounty hunter whispers against parted lips.

“Hmm, I don't think I want him to,” the flagellant chuckles, the sound rumbling in his throat, his scarred mouth pulled into a smile.

A crimson hand tangled in the fabric of his partner's cowl, Damian pulls him back in for another round of vicious kisses. Tardif worries for his disguise, thinking his lover might rip it to shreds if he's not careful, but then again, that seems secondary to the rampant stroke of their tongues.

With the two troublemakers keen on defying orders, the jailer fumbles with his keys, trying to open the cell door before their undulation escalates any further.

“Move on my signal,” the bounty hunter tells him, resisting the tug of arousal.

“Now,” the flagellant gasps as their cell creeks open.

“Now."

BOOOOOOOM !!

Just as Tardif gives the word, an explosion of stone follows, disorienting clouds of dust and debris piling into the room, the very foundation around them rattled to its core.

As the rubble settles, the blunt head of a battering ram can be seen breaching the side of the building, demolishing metal and brick, creating a sizable hole.

"Someone call for backup," Barristan says through the fog, resting his mace upon his shoulder, his pose statuesque.

Boudica's fierce silhouette cuts in after him, occupying the space beside the old man with a powerful howl, "KREEEE-YAAAAAA! What a rush!”

The jailman is stunned, realizing with abject horror these unpredictable events were above his pay grade. “This is crazy,” he shrieks before running off, seeking reinforcements.

"I'll go silence our whistleblower," deems the soldier, stepping down from the dock, off to fulfill his duty.

"You sure you're fast enough, *skilpadda," Boudica taunts, chaos still ringing in her decorated ears.

The man at arms laughs, loud and hearty. "Been hunting down stragglers long before your time, girl. Just watch me!"

His weapon crackling to life, electrifying his mustache, the veteran takes off with a speed that invigorates his age and the hefty armor plate he bears.

“Damian, tell me I am dreamin',” Tardif grumbles, fearing he'd finally lost himself to delusion.

“You're definitely not,” he assures, just as surprised, "that was quite the signal you gave. You must teach it to me."

Tardif snorts, his attention divided, eyes landing on the prostrate lump by the hellgirl's feet, "Must be dreamin'. That sad bastard looks like me."

“Yes, I can see him too,” the flagellant nods, the impersonator clad in a near-perfect rendition of his costume.

Must be none other than his evil half, the cheapskate doppelganger that the inkeep was yacking on and on about.

“We ran into him on our way here,” Boudica informs them, kicking the fraud’s unconscious body off the wooden slab, “Thought he was you. Convinced him to tell us everything.”

Well, that’s one mystery solved.

"Tolda ya that wasn't me,” the brute says under his breath, just loud enough for his partner to hear, fearing the same tragic fate, “I never woulda talked.”

The morbid priest seems to agree, despite the palpable sweat breaking out under Tardif’s gear.

As the imposter's listless bulk rolls into the cell, sandals stomp onto his backside, the female barbarian asserting her dominance, both Damian and Tardif flinching as she approaches them next.

"I should gut you *svín where you stand,” she says, a harsh grimace, reaping their punishment.

"Not my fault the bloody flagellant got us thrown in here," Tardif spits, impressing all his weight against the man in question, putting as much distance between him and the hellion as possible.

Hands on her hips, Boudica throws her head back and laughs, one loud booming crack, "Ha! All you *fífl managed to do was make a mess of everything."

“What of the mission,” the flagellant asks, poking his head out, goal-oriented despite the circumstances, “Were you able to talk terms?”

“Barristan bartered for supplies. A steep price considering the damages.”

“Wot damage,” the bounty hunter growls, brows knotted in anger for being framed for yet another scandal.

The hellion smirks, gesturing her fur fisticuffs at the destruction all around them, “this damage.”

Done with her lengthy exposition, the braided woman takes up her glaive, both men shirking away, intimidated by what she intends to do with it.

"Don't move," she advises, aiming for their chains.

It’s not often Tardif seeks the Light’s protection, but he closes his eyes and prays, staying stock still until he and Damian are liberated from their restraints.

“AAAKLYORAAAHHH,” the exiled warrior cries, severing the links with a barbaric yap.

The bounty hunter exhumes the stale breath in his lungs, patting himself down from the spark of adrenaline, accounting for all his limbs while Damian seems disappointed with the lack of amputation.

"What are you waiting for,” Boudica calls, already boarding their ride home, “I need you to drive.”

Damian and Tardif make no effort to move, but for very different reasons.

One man has grown attached to their surroundings and wants to stay.

The other is still too awed by the bizarre string of circumstances, lacking the coherence to act on her command.

Boudica's dark chestnut eyes narrow, the grip on her weapon tightening, incensed by their goosenecking.

"Board the getaway wagon right now," the valkyrie warns, her dark lips curling around a snarl, "or I will feast upon your *böllur."

This proves to be quite the persuasive technique, the boys jumping onto the wheeled contraption to save themselves from the hack of her blade.

It’s sunset by the time they report back to the heir's estate, the overcast conveniently clear.

Barristan, Damian, Tardif, and Boudica are lined up before the antique desk of their employer's office, their formation serving a higher purpose. It was a rarity in itself to come face to face with their mysterious benefactor, a clear indication of how badly the two degenerates wedged in the center had failed in their duties.

The heiress sets down her reading glasses, finished with the neighboring correspondence, her mouth set into a grim line.

"Do you have anything to say in your defense," she prompts, a forced air of stately composure. Tardif takes the opportunity to size her up, noting how she appears older, matronly despite her youth, how she continues to stare behind heavy eye makeup, awaiting an explanation from him.

He speaks bluntly.

"Sorry, Damian got horny and fucked everythin' up," he shrugs, trying to get a rise out of her ashen face, "Ye should punish him, he likes it when ye do that. I ain't takin' none of the blame."

Damian turns to his partner, astounded by this callous declaration, his scarred mouth opening to protest.

With a fist around his collar, Boufica swiftly reins him back in, suffocating his response.

"Oh, you won't be going anywhere,” the regal woman declares, expression stern and unreadable.

"Wot," the bounty hunter deadpans, his temper ignited. Aristocracy be damned, he’s not about to let anyone push him around, regardless of what their signed contract says.

The heiress stands, fully clad in gothic ruffles, lacey stockings and gloves to match.

"You two will be staying here with me in the manor,” she portends, boots clacking on the wood as she circles around to face them, “waiting on me hand and foot, tending to my every whim."

She swipes her dainty finger along the desk, rubbing away the film of dust between her thumb.

"Yer jokin’," Tardif wagers, attempting to call her bluff, but she merely smirks.

"On the contrary. Consider it a training exercise," the heiress drawls, velvet hat and veil unable to hide her glee, "Boudica, please show them their uniforms."

The hellion is more than happy to oblige. She hands the second hanger to Barristan, the garment clearly meant for Damian, its contents hidden beneath a stark white sheet.

The two corroborating warriors synchronize the unveiling, lifting up the cover in a flute of effervescent surprise. There, in black and white, was a pair of objectionable high-skirted, degrading poofy-sleeved, bow-in-the back maid outfits.

Tardif thinks now is a good time to shrivel up and die.

Damian, on the other hand, seems thrilled.

"Over my dead body. I ain't wearin' that."

"Yes, you are," the group vouches, their voices meeting unanimously.

Tardif heats up under his helmet, underestimating his popularity. It's a complicated emotion, one part ego boost, one part crippling emasculation to know that everyone in the room wants to see him dressed up in such servile fashion trends.

At least he'll witness Damian in one of these frilly things too, splitting the shame, (if the masochist would even consider it that). Still, the mercenary would have preferred an ensemble that came with a pair of britches instead.

"The mask stays on," the brute stipulates, snatching the dress out of Boudica's hands while the hellgirl snickers at his misfortune.

"A small price to pay,” the patron lady permits, sending both Boudica and Barristan along with them to the fitting rooms to assure their compliance.

As the heir eagerly awaits their return, she rifles through a bucket list of chores. Perhaps, scrubbing the floor on their hands and knees to start with, then running her a nice hot bath before finally preparing her a candlelight dinner.

Who's to say what will happen in between, but the night will end with them tucking her into bed, wishing her goodnight with a doting peck on each curve of her rosy cheeks.

— FINIS