Still completely naked, he began picking through the nearest pile of debris—searching for anything that could pass as clothing.
A torn cloak, a relatively clean tarp, even a ragged curtain would do. All while keeping one ear tuned to the cavy hole where Lulu slept and the other on the distant, heartbroken cries that filled the ruined night.
The Thunder Saint's mess stretched endlessly in every direction.
His bare feet crunched over shattered glass and pulverized brick as he navigated the treacherous landscape of what used to be Old Man Hemlock's tinker shop. The acrid smell of melted solder and burnt wiring hung in the air, a ghost of the old man's livelihood.
"Hemmy's gonna be pissed," Pryce muttered, stepping over a half-melted clockwork bird that still twitched spasmodically. "Hope the old goat made it out. He owes me ten coins from last week's card game."
He spotted a flash of fabric pinned beneath a warped metal beam—a surprisingly intact duster, dark oilskin that had probably belonged to some Guild-enforcer wannabe who thought a long coat made him look intimidating.
With a grunt of effort that sent another confusing jolt of that new strength through his arms, he pried the beam up and snatched the coat.
It was a bit singed around the edges and smelled faintly of burnt ambition and cheap cologne, but it was better than nothing.
He swung it on, the heavy fabric falling to mid-thigh. "Hmm. Not quite my usual style, but it'll do until I can 'acquire' something more... impressive."
He left it unfastened, a deliberate choice that still left a significant portion of his chest and most of his legs on display.
It was less about modesty and more about making a statement.
"Can't let the new, divine-approved physique go completely to waste," he reasoned, adjusting the collar. "This is a strategic glimpse. A teaser for the main feature."
He continued his search, now slightly more purposeful, sifting through the debris with a scavenger's practiced eye.
His quest for bottoms led him toward the collapsed remains of the market square, where awnings and tarps had once provided shade for vendors selling everything from synth-meat skewers to black-market power cells.
As he rounded a corner, he stopped dead. A small group of figures was huddled near the crater's edge, their forms silhouetted against the ominous black void that Nightcrow had left behind. They weren't survivors crying for lost ones.
They moved with a quiet, predatory purpose, their forms unnaturally still in the wavering air. Pryce flattened himself against a half-demolished wall, peering through a gap in the rubble.
Three figures in dark, form-fitting armor, the sigil of the Guild of the Seven—glowed faintly on their chest plates.
He sneaked from their watchful gazes
*****
The next morning, a watery, grey light filtered through the persistent haze of smoke and void-ink, painting the ruins in shades of misery.
Pryce woke with a start, a crick in his neck from spending the night wedged against a collapsed pillar, the duster offering scant protection against the damp chill.
Beside him, Lulu stirred, her breathing catching on a pained gasp as she shifted. Pryce was already moving, shushing her gently.
"Easy, shortstack. Don't go trying to redecorate your burns."
He'd been busy. From a small, neat pile nearby, he produced a set of clothes—a plain, slightly-too-large tunic and a pair of sturdy trousers that had somehow avoided the worst of the destruction.
The origins of these garments were a mystery he'd take to his grave. "Got us some threads. Fashion's a bit 'post-apocalyptic hobo-chic,' but they're clean."
He tossed the smaller shirt to her, then quickly dressed himself, the stolen duster completing the look.
While she changed, wincing with every movement, he found a long strip of relatively clean, soft cloth—salvaged from who knows whose curtains—and fashioned it into a makeshift scarf.
"Here," he said, tying it gently around her lower face, careful not to disturb the scorched skin. "Gives you that mysterious, broodinganti-hero vibe. Very in this season."
Her good eye crinkled in a smile above the fabric.
"Will you be okay for a few hours?" he asked, his tone casual as he packed a small salvaged bag with what little food and water he could find. "Gotta swing by the closest Guild outpost. Got some... business to handle. A debt to collect."
He left it vague, not wanting to explain the angelic bargain or the threat of obedience protocols. Lulu hesitated, then shook her head. "I'm not staying here alone."
The words were firm, muffled by the scarf but unmistakable. Pryce looked at her, at the determination burning in her one clear eye, and sighed. "Fine. But you stick close, and if I tell you to run, you run."
They stepped out of their small shelter and into the devastated morning. The scale of the destruction was even more crushing in the harsh light. Whole districts were just gone, replaced by a flat, grey landscape of rubble and sorrow.
A few dazed survivors stumbled through the ruins, their faces hollowed out, but most people were simply...
'Sigh.'
The whole place had nothing as people left in it.
The few valuables not vaporized by the blast had been scavenged in the night by desperate survivors or the Guild's cleanup crews. They walked through the rubble in silence, Pryce's arm firmly around Lulu's waist as she limped beside him, but careful to not hurt her, her left foot screaming in protest with every step on the uneven ground.
The scarf covered the worst of her burns, but he could still feel the slight tremor running through her body, a constant, low-level hum of pain. And with each painful step, a cold, heavy realization settled deeper in his gut: this was no longer their home.
The grimy, crowded fringe town they'd grown up in was gone, replaced by this flat, grey wasteland of sorrow.
A responsible feeling, foreign and unwelcome, coiled in his chest—he had to find them somewhere to live, somewhere safe, somewhere away from heroes and their collateral damage. He squared his shoulders, forcing the worry from his face before she could see it.
He was the big brother.
The rock.
The guy who turned horror into a bad joke.
"The walk's gonna be long," he said, his voice a little too loud in the dead air. "The main Guild outpost isn't exactly around the corner. Probably half a day's trek if we don't get eaten by mutated rubble-roaches."
Lulu leaned more heavily against him, but her response, muffled by the scarf, was surprisingly bright. "Good. It'll be exercise for before I get my promised powers. I'm not gonna be some frail damsel who gets tired walking to the bathroom."
Pryce couldn't help but smile at that. She was trying so hard to be tough, to not make him feel worse about the fact that he didn't have a single gold coin to his name to hail a taxi or a transport, even if any were running in this hellhole.
She was protecting him. He sighed, the sound carrying an unusual weight of genuine frustration.
"Damn right you won't. You'll be leveling buildings with asneeze and starting bar fights with a wink. Just gotta make sure the angel chick delivers on her promise." He squeezed her shoulder gently.
"Come on. Let's go find some feathered bastards to bother with giving you OP powers after I get a few think done."