SCORPIONES || Camilo Hemprichii

The soft glissando of a pianoforte, then fingers pressing one-by-one on staggered keys, accompanied by the rattling percussion of a Cajon box drum. Slow, firm chords alongside the feather-light pick of a high-pitched guitar string, followed by a rhythmic strum of bass arpeggios.

“What did you say to me?” The cello kicks in, and Camilo’s head whips around to face the cloak-clad man behind him.

The smooth slice of a bow along catgut cords, screeching into the crowd of dancing dignitaries. The promenade à deux is an annual nocturnal fiesta of dance and merry-making held by the Eight Eyes Guild’s Southern headquarters in Peoria. It’s a diplomatic masquerade dance and night market with members and patrons of the guild from all across Hive.

“No matter what the other species say about the Eight Eyes Guild, we’re an unignorable political entity.” Camilo slowly speaks, setting down his glass on the booth table. “We offer services like drug trafficking, information dealing, political manipulation..." He trails off, punctuating his monologue with an ominous forbearance. "Death.”

Arachnids have a loose mercenary social structure, what with the vast majority being non-social, solitary individuals. Even if they come under the banner of the Eight Eyes Guild, the independent directional branches are largely decentralized.

As the Southern Guildmaster, Camilo’s role is to receive and post jobs available to Eight Eyes members, as well as regulate which members of certain strengths and standards can accept them. If any member is sullying Eight Eyes’ reputation, the most important capital of the organization, he has the right to expel them.

Haha, ‘expel them’.

“You accepted this job, and what do you have to show for it?” Camilo snarls, adjusting the collar of his flower-embroidered vest as he stands. “Seven dead Eight Eyes members, and a caravan of human livestock on its way to the slaughterhouse from the farm, now frolicking the Peoria streets like the fucking running of the bulls.”

Among Camilo’s companions at the street-side booth, a few let out soft snickers beneath their masks. All high-ranking members, no doubt. A thin trail of sweat beads beneath the reprimanded member's mask, and his fists clench tightly at his side.

He gulps.

“We’ve managed to recapture most of the escaped livestock, Guildmaster.” The masked mercenary quickly bites out, his heart hammering with the thwack of cello staccato. “They fled out the Hojadeladrillo favela, down through the sewer systems. They tripped the weaves made by security, and it wasn’t hard to catch up. There’s only one still on the run.”

Branches operate solely because of the machinations of mutual interest and benefit, while authority within said branches is the exclusive right of the skilful, notorious and respected. People like Camilo, masters trusted with the duty of maximizing benefit for all stakeholders.

And, when talking about mutual interest and benefit, there’s nothing more exemplary than the promenade.

The promenade à deux is where members and patrons become connected. Both with each other, and within their own circles. In an environment where murderers, criminals and political powerhouses tango hand-in-hand, there are two safeguards in place to prevent conflict – anonymity and tacit agreement.

For one day of the year, there is no bloodshed. No argument. No incident.

“Sewers, huh? So, not only are our honoured guests going hungry, but the livestock you’ve oh-so-efficiently recaptured are now unsanitary to serve?” Camilo takes a step closer to the man, eyeing him up and down. “But that’s not all, is it? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Silence. A violin eases its pace to a mild hum. Then, a sharp snap of noise.

“The human still on the run didn’t escape with the rest of the group. The city centre isn’t wired like the suburbia or outskirts because of the dance.” The man’s voice cracks as he confesses, his words falling from beneath his mask with a muffled helplessness. “When I notified the guild, the group sent to recover the human found another corpse. Stripped of clothing. Likely, the human has chosen to blend in with the crowd by posing as a dancer.”

Camilo advances.

“And has this corpse been identified?” Camilo questions sharply, his tail coiling around the member’s back. “Member or patron?”

The man steps back.

“Yes...” The man sighs, resigned, and in nothing more than a whisper he states: “Patron. Trichopteran. Hydroptilidae. We haven’t been able to identify which family they come from, or who the individual is. They’ve been... made almost unrecognizable.”

The most important capital. Reputation. Along with that, impartiality and reliability. Without those three things, nothing is differentiating the Eight Eyes Guild from anarchic rogues. The second patrons begin to question their security, they lose all faith in the conduct of the guild. Scepticism and doubt tend to fester, and each patron lost is coin lost.

Rudimentarily, the best way to display this is by ensuring that during the promenade, Camilo sees to it that all patrons leave unscathed and satisfied with new arrangements.

As it happens, one patron this year will be leaving in a coffin.

Camilo can practically hear the wicked bitch of the West laughing at him. What does this say about his capability as a Guildmaster? No, he has to fix this himself. He’ll fix it himself. He will.

“I’ve already got other members searching through the crowd while I came to inform you, Guildmaster!” The member quickly makes a last-ditch appeal. “It’s just this one human that will be missing from the food stalls.”

Palpable fury seeps into Camilo’s magenta eyes, seeming to shine with venomousness under the low-hanging street lanterns. “Then...” His lips hook like the tail-end of his stinger, red as the blood dripping from the impaled body before him. “Make up the numbers for us, would you?”

With a thump, the corpse slumps to the ground, enriching the musical score.

Camilo cracks his tail, flicking the remnant rivulets onto the walls of a nearby building. He strides out of the booth into the crowds. Behind him, the corpse is dragged into the shadows by hooded figures before anyone can even see what happened. The music increases. The cicada musicians are nice. Their speakers reach all across the promenade.

He walks into the dancers. They’re twirling. They’re moving in tandem with one another. There are colours. And lights. And talking. He wanders. Wanders more. Wanders for a long, long time. He searches. He uses every ounce of ability at his disposal to discern anomalies in the crowd.

A small figure, unusual for insect-humanoids, but not impossible. Still, a suspect.

No obvious insect traits, unusual for insect-humanoids, but they may be covered by the clothing and mask. Still, a suspect.

He steps. He steps faster. He skitters between the dancers like slippery oil through the turning cogs of a machine. He approaches.

How can he find the human? Is this the human? He cannot take off their mask without compromising the anonymity of the promenade, possibly offending a member or patron. But without taking the mask or clothes off, how can he see if they’re human? In good faith, he cannot ask them for a name or any identifying details. On even the slightest possibility, he cannot threaten or unnerve the figure in any way. Still, he trusts his instinct.

"Of course. That’s it." He mutters, smiling. "Farm-bred human livestock do not know how to tango."

He stops with you with a hand on the shoulder, and as the instrumental halts, reaching its steady and low-pitched bridge, he does not need to raise his voice. “Care for a dance?”