Grown Men

shaking hands, Runt set the point at the tooth’s insertion point. The sonic-blade never seemed to cut, it just . . . entered without resistance as the molecules thrummed a passage into the skin. Like light passing through plexicrete, neither one broken.
    All of Odd’s Gods, firm and foolish—
    The humming tip scratched the tooth, balanced there. Runt relaxed his grip a fraction.
    Carefully, carefully, Runt picked the lock of Ox’s wound. He let the bone weight of the knife widen the cut ever so slightly, then lifted it away quickly. He dropped it on the floor with a clank. It fell silent without his hand to arm it.
    —dice gently with our fortunes—
    Blood started to well under the synthetic skin still stabilizing the wound. Ox barely breathed, but that was best.
    Runt realized he had cried, that he was crying. He could feel it tracking through the dust on his face. Only one tear, but enough to shame him. And he couldn’t spare a hand to wipe it.
    —Because I’d sooner die than lose him.
    Now that the barbs had clearance, Runt used the calipers and tugged the vicious tooth free, wincing every time it sawed Ox open a little more. That his cofarmer didn’t flinch only made him hate the evil spike more. He growled under his breath.
    So much blood . Every scarlet drop burned his eyes like acid, but he didn’t cry another tear. Spine by spine the tooth slipped free of Ox’s muscle and bone.
    All better.
    Runt sterilized the reopened wound. He cleaned the gore and slapped another strip of synth-skin over it to stop the bleeding and numb the torn flesh. He’d done the right thing, so completely the right thing that he felt lightheaded.
    Ox’s deathly stillness made Runt anxious enough that he pressed a hand to his heart to satisfy himself with its slow drumming.
    I’m here. We’re here.
    Runt rolled his heroic partner onto his back. Straightening his legs and checking the bite for leakage. Everything looked safe. Luck itself had cheated on their behalf.
    A little longer .
    Using disinfectant and a cloth, Runt spent a few minutes wiping the gore from Ox. Better, he reasoned, to wake clean than blood-soaked. He scrubbed the red from the floor and the furniture and his skin until the only stains were on Runt’s clothes.
    He retrieved the sonic stiletto and put it in the case. In his panic, he’d jumbled the other paraphernalia, but he left them crooked.
    This advanced weaponry belonged to a corporate assassin. Runt knew that in his gut. Undetectable organic alloys, quick-dose emergency meds . . . all in a low profile case that could fit under a worksuit. No venom-gun, but those needed a surgical holster which Ox did not have on his body.
    Runt spat. He picked up the tooth and froze, not wanting to break the spell, not wanting to see Ox hurting again, not wanting to have the argument already congealing in the air around them.
    Just a few more seconds.
    He checked the wound again: stable.
    Runt sat on the bed, knowing that the clock’s seconds flicking by on the ceiling above his head only brought Ox closer to waking up and knowing. His stomach boiled and flipped.
    Time for truth. He had everything to lose and no choice. The two of them had to discuss the deadly retirement package. A lot needed to be dragged into the light.
    A lot.
    Runt shuddered, dreading the discussion. In some ways, what came next would be worse than the bite, the tooth, the knife. His angry heartbeat slammed in his ears.
    The eel’s iridescent black tooth sat on the bed between them. Five centimeters long and jagged as a whipsaw.
    I need to wake him and check his vitals.
    The concealed arsenal was either a secret he had kept from Ox or a secret Ox had kept from him.
    Lose-lose, pretty much.
    Odds were, HardCell had intended Runt’s early termination. Very likely Ox had arrived as a fugitive and a felon. Runt knew tonight had probably claimed all his luck for the year. His life. At least.
    More like lose-lose-lose-lose .
    Runt hoped the truth didn’t require him dying.
    Time’s wasting . Death’s waiting.
    Both of them liars, Runt had snooped and Ox had come to retire him. In half a moment, they’d stand on opposite shores of a toxic sea.
    Pulling an adrenal pen from the kill-kit’s lid, Runt sank the needle into Ox’s sturdy chest and pumped the ichor into him. He stood up to put the needle away.
    Wham!
    Ox’s eyes snapped open to the whites and his face twisted in shock. His muscled back bowed off the bed and his legs pushed