Chin Music
The sun never set on Jumpers’ Claim, but neither did it rise. One of its faces stared ever at the stars, while the other gazed unblinking into a roiling red giant. Hellacious winds rushed from eternal night to never-ending day, depositing rain that cut a deep canyon around the planet, which it wore like a belt. Inside that canyon, sheltered from the howling gale, lurked a city.
Spires of rain-streaked copper grew from the rocky cliffs, topped with ten thousand spinning turbines that provided most of the city’s power. Further down, tungsten signs and street lights bathed the city in a warm, orange glow that did little to banish the chill. Mammoth bridges spanned the canyon at all levels, supporting busy markets and slow-moving, mostly pedestrian traffic. Airships drifted between the towers, either patrolling the proletariat or carrying the bourgeoisie above them. High over even their heads, an unchanging dawn of blazing, read-and-gold clouds smothered the heavens.
Rickshaws, tuk tuks, and horseless carriages navigated narrow, cliffside streets like billy goats, balanced on the razor’s edge between grace and foolhardiness. Chin Music watched men and women dodge away from his rickshaw as the Blessed driver hopped from one puddle to the next, splashing their black coats and sequined dresses. Chin didn’t understand the indignant expressions on their faces. They’d definitely been out in the rain before. Seemed like it never stopped raining.
The Turncoat scratched his furry chin as his rickshaw turned abruptly onto a market bridge. The canyon wall fell precipitously away. All the city’s refuse tumbled down, down, down into the dry riverbed below, where the truly destitute crawled over it like a whalefall. They’d salvage anything they could upcycle, haul it up to these markets, and sell it back to the rich. Some of the Franchise’s most inventive artisans could be found in the forgotten tunnels of Jumpers’ Claim. Chin might stop by and check out their wares later, after his business was concluded.
His attention snapped back to the bridge as he realized it was made of glass! Well, the important parts were made of steel, but the street’s surface contained huge, translucent blocks of glass at regular intervals. People walked, crawled, and slithered over them as calmly as they would over cobblestones. Sometimes, the arrogance of Franchise architects took Chin’s breath away.
“Here’s your stop!” announced his driver, setting down the rickshaw handles. They’d pulled up beside an unmarked staircase on the outside of the bridge, between a produce stand and someone hawking upcycled floor lamps.
“You’re sure?” Chin asked, collecting his ghost staff.
The driver’s voluminous, floppy ears twitched under a conical, straw hat. “Hanging Garden Teahouse, service entrance,” he repeated in what may have been an impersonation of Chin’s dulcet baritone. “Right here.”
“Alright,” Chin acquiesced, vaulting lightly off the rickshaw. He dug around in his loose, burgundy robes for a few coins and paid the bunny man, but the driver refused. “Oh, no,” he protested. “I couldn’t possibly. It’s been an honor to drive you, Mr. Music.”
The Turncoat’s reputation preceded him, yet again. “It’s not a surname. You may address me as Chin.”
“An honor,” reiterated his driver in hushed tones, eyes quavering.
The brass cap of Chin’s ghost staff clanged on the metal stairs as he started the long walk down. Now, Chin wasn’t afraid of heights, but he did respect them. The wind screamed through the bridge’s beams and catwalks. Entire buildings hung in its underbelly: houses and shops, apparently a teahouse. These stairs descended at least two stories along a featureless, peeling wall to a nondescript door.
“Is that the infamous ghost staff?” For some reason, the driver had started down the stairs behind him. Should’ve just paid the bunny man.
“It is,” Chin confirmed, not turning around. The staff itself was only a few hands long, but the caps at its ends could separate and project out to any distance. The empty space between was filled by an ephemeral swirl of blue energy. You could pass your hand right through without resistance.
“I’m Leadfoot,” the driver added, still following.
“Thank you for your generosity and service,” Chin responded, trying to (politely) brush off this barnacle. “Do you have business here, too?”
“Oh, no,” the bunny man mused. “I’m just a fan.”
That was flattering, but the last thing Chin needed right now. Covert missions were hard enough, with such a famous face. “Could I give you some coin to wait for me topside?” he offered. “I may need your services again, in an hour or two.”
Leadfoot wasn’t even listening. “Is it true you fought the Cardinal atop his own cathedral?”
Well then… “It is true, and quite a tale. I’d been brought before the bastard on charges of disturbing the peace — charges of which I was completely guilty — but who’s peace, eh? And maybe it needed some disturbing. Anyway, I pled my case and, when the Cardinal sentenced me to the stocks, I stole his gavel and used it to… Is there something amiss?”
Leadfoot’s attention had wandered from Chin’s thrilling tale to his less-thrilling tail. Inexplicably, the bunny’s precious little face was contorted with rage. “What’s wrong with your tail?” he asked. It sounded like an accusation.
Yes, Chin had a tail. He also had a fine mane of hair and prehensile feet, but it was all in outstanding condition. “Nothing’s wrong with it.”
“Yes, there!” insisted the driver. “Your shadow doesn’t move in time with it!”
This was lunacy. “My shadow falls were it may,” Chin barked, lowering his voice and turning to continue down the stairs. “It’s been real, Leadfoot. Either wait for me on the street or go about your — “
“It is out of sync!” the bunny man howled, disconsolate. Chin hadn’t imagined rabbits could howl. It was a ghastly sound.
The Turncoat leapt onto the railing and slid the remaining length of the stairs, landing at the bottom with aplomb. He knocked on the door, then pointed the end of his staff up at the rickshaw driver… who wisely backed away.
Won’t be seeing him again, Chin congratulated himself.
The door groaned open to reveal a fishman with colorful frills around his gills. He looked Chin over with bulging, orange eyes. Chin noted the comically-large meat cleaver held casually at his side. “Twenty-three skidoo,” intoned the Turncoat.
The fishman accepted his passphrase and stepped aside, gesturing for Chin to follow. They meandered through a busy kitchen where line cooks flipped burgers and fragrant stir-fry, rolled burritos and delicate cuts of sushi, tossed salads and spaghetti noodles. Most of all, they brewed tea: chai, matcha, jasmine, chamomile, red, white, and earl gray to name a few. Their aromas brawled all the way up Chin’s generous, simian nostrils.
Soon, they came to a door even the Turncoat was reluctant to open. Partially, this was due to the many times “Do Not Open” had been scrawled across it. Mostly, though, it was on account of the bellicose wind that tore through its every gap, whistling like a steam train. Chin remembered the incredibly long drop to the river of garbage and his feet refused to go any further.
The fishman stepped aside, looked at him expectantly.
Fine.
Chin grabbed the doorknob with forced confidence and pulled, bracing himself for a blast of wind… but something mechanical clicked on the far side and the gale just sort of stopped. In its place, a small but cozy speakeasy: soundproofed, black walls; a tiny, wooden stage; the heady smell of hooka smoke; and a modest bar stocked with smuggled coffin varnish. Nice.
Around the corner, a mechanical air curtain had been rigged up to simulate all that wind. It was connected to the door via a wire and pulley. Clever way to keep the Whispers from sticking their nosey noses into your underground juice joint. These were his people. Chin let the caps of his ghost staff clack into place and stowed the weapon in his belt.
He approached the bar, letting the gadflies get a good look. They were scofflaws, not Turncoats, just peaceful people who enjoyed good music, bad poetry, and spiritous beverages. Most were dressed in Franchise standard — black on black — but there was always an artful detail to give them away. Chin spotted a shock of purple hair here and an artfully-painted pinkie finger there.
The bar beckoned and Chin took a seat, caught the bartender’s eye. They were slight of build and had a nervous sort of energy, but met Chin’s gaze with confidence. Softly-glowing tattoos adorned their arms and crossed a pin-stripped vest to creep up their neck. A bowler hat festooned with flowers sat atop their bald head.
“Big Tuna,” they introduced themselves. “And you’re Chin Music, the Righteous Fist and Great Enemy of Heaven. Never thought I’d see your like in my modest establishment.”
“Guilty,” he admitted, puffing up his chest.
“What can I get you?”
Chin always answered the same way. “Something original.”
Tuna liked a challenge. They graced Chin with a wink before closing their eyes, spinning around, and grabbing three random bottles off the shelves. The barkeep lined them up before opening their eyes. “Well… I guess you asked for it.” After a little pouring, a little shaking, and a little stirring, Tuna shoved under the Turncoat’s nose a full shot glass of sheer regret. “Bottoms up.”
Actually, it wasn’t too bad.
“The Barkers would beat you for this,” he mocked his host.
“The Barkers I know would beat their own mothers for a ham sandwich,” they replied. “Now, do you have anything for me?”
“Depends.” There were rules about these things. “What number am I thinking of?”
Tuna pretended to ponder, then rattled off, “Thirteen thousand seven hundred and forty two. Point five.”
That was the one. Chin conjured a scroll case from his robes and Tuna made it disappear behind the bar. Their eyes darted around the speakeasy, no doubt checking to see if any of the scofflaws were taking too keen an interest. The Whispers were everywhere.
“Feel free to cool your heels here,” they invited him, “but the teahouse is also yours to enjoy. On the house. We’re all paid up for the month, certified Barker-free. The Cardinal won’t find you here.”
Chin did a little of both. He finished his shot of Big Tuna’s Revenge, as they decided to call it, and treated the scofflaws to a dramatic retelling of his latest public escapade. Since there was no band, he skipped the musical act and went upstairs to see what all the fuss was about. Never hurt to establish an alibi.
The Hanging Garden Teahouse was once, clearly, a warehouse. Must’ve been convenient storage for the market vendors above. Those glass bricks allowed ample, if amber, sunlight to filter down. Clay pots full of trees and flowering shrubs gathered around the cherrywood tables that filled most of the floor. A desperately sedate, four-piece band played Franchise-approved sonatas from a raised dais. At least the acoustics were good.
Dumb waiters one one wall brought food and drink up from the kitchen. Opposite them, three stories of ornate balcony seating had been built from the same rosy wood as the tables. It was much more busy than the speakeasy, filled with Franchise squares and their market wares, no doubt resting up for their long walks home.
At the risk of offending their sensibilities, Chin ordered the most obscure tea he knew, a bright blue variety made from butterfly pea blossoms. The flavor wasn’t as striking as the color, but Chin was trying to relax. Good thing, too, or this music would put him to sleep. He was seated on the upper balcony, back to the wall, overlooking the main floor. Big Tuna may have paid their bribes for the month, but that was no excuse to let your guard down, not when you were as wanted as this guy.
Consequently, he had an excellent view of the madness that ensued. Leadfoot busted through the front doors with a mob of angry miscreants at his back. They were all Blessed, like Chin, a motley assortment of uplifted animals and aliens. As they poured into the space, they displaced the startled patrons, who leapt from their chairs and headed for the hills. What did they know that Chin didn’t?
“Find him!” bellowed Leadfoot. Murderous intent looked adorable on that precious face.
Never one to take things sitting down, Chin flew from the balcony, arms outstretched and glorious mane flaring. He extended his ghost staff to the floor and let it slow his fall, landing gracefully in the center of the teahouse.
“There he is!” shouted Leadfoot, commanding the obvious.
“Wait!” Chin forestalled the mob. “What’s this all about?”
“Reveal yourself, Deceiver,” was the mob’s reply, along with a chorus of vulgar epithets. What the imaginary hells was that supposed to mean?!
A team of sleek-furred ferrets in kung-fu school uniforms rushed him, ready to bite, kick, and get their musk all over him. Chin backflipped onto a table and tipped it onto two legs, clocking the first few boxers under their snarling snouts. Next, Chin rolled the table from leg to leg, flinging chairs into the crowd and separating Blessed from their pointy teeth.
A star-nosed mole, wearing a red bandana over its vestigial eyes, charged in and smashed Chin’s table to bits with its steam-shovel claws. The Turncoat jumped clear of the carnage and pinned the mole’s head to the floor with his ghost staff, which propelled him up to the second-story balcony. He clung to the ornate railing, keeping the mole under control with his weight. “Is this about the bounty, Leadfoot? I thought we were friends!”
“Your kind took our innocence!” the bunny man shouted, teary eyed.
What was he on about?! “Who’s kind? The Turncoats? I’m Blessed, just like you!”
“We’re not blessed,” protested the mob. “Your kind cursed us!”
This was ridiculous.
They swarmed up the stairs and Chin went to meet them, releasing his star-nosed hostage. Boxers and swordsmen and literal street rats tried to take their piece of the Franchise’s most wanted, but Chin Music evaded them all. He swung around wooden beams, kicked tea kettles into faces, and sent the Accursed hurtling off the balcony with his ghost staff. “Bring all the fools you want!” he roared. “I am the Righteous Fist! The Great Enemy of Heaven! The Gift-Givers themselves could not tame me!”
“He admitted it!” barked a battle-scarred red panda in leather armor. “He’s a Gift-Giver!”
The balcony creaked and buckled as a feathered tengu woman took her gravity cleaver to the floor below. The weapon had a giant, rectangular blade, several times larger than the tengu herself. It was massive, too, but made itself light as a feather when its wielder willed it. She split the support beams and hacked the floorboards, the tip of her blade rising and sinking like a great white’s dorsal fin. Chin extended his ghost staff into the back wall and let it launch him clear of the collapsing structure. An avalanche of food, furniture, and steaming tea buried most of the mob.
The Turncoat was ready to call it a win and give this place the ankle, but a tortured note from the direction of the stage convinced him to stay. A frogman and a nine-tailed fox were manhandling the band! To what end, Chin could not imagine, but neither would he stand for it. He sent the cap of his staff into the fox’s ice-white pelt, pushing her up against the wall. The other end cap braced itself against the front doors and Chin left it there like a crossbeam, holding her fast.
The frogman opened his too-wide mouth and the tongue that fired forth was pierced at its business end with a short blade, like the tip of a spear. It cut the air just past Chin’s nose. He caught it in one hand and yanked the frogman in for a clothesline. “Nobody messes with the band!” he informed the room. The musicians looked at each other, relieved, before checking their instruments and launching into a raucous jazz number. They were instantly Chin’s favorite people.
During the sting, Chin faced off against his ragtag adversaries: squid-headed android, feathered tengu, sharp-tongued frogman, and the fishman fry cook from downstairs. “You, too?” scoffed the Turncoat. “I thought we were friends!” The cook roared, neck frills flaring, and readied his meat cleavers.
Chin danced through the chorus, narrowly avoiding several tongue lashings and a savage swing from the gravity cleaver. The fishman hurled one knife after the other, but neither hit their target as Chin flipped over one and then landed in a crouch, ducking the other. The gravity cleaver came down like a guillotine and cut a gash in the floor, all the way through to the speakeasy. “Sorry!” Chin shouted as scofflaws ran for the exits.
The cephalopod rushed in with piston punches; up close, Chin could see it was actually riding on the android’s shoulders, puppeting it with switches and levers on its chest. It had needles for fingers and its body pulsated with glowing ink. “You’re the tattoo artist!” Chin guessed as the android’s foot whizzed past his face. “Love your work.”
Time for the percussion solo. Chin retrieved his ghost staff, releasing the nine-tailed fox, who clutched her chest and dropped to the floor. Chin whirled on his opponents and sent the ghost staff out to meet them, snapping it back and forth like a metronome.
Clang! He bashed the android, sending its squid pilot flying.
Smack! He hit the frogman in the face, knocking him out cold.
Crack! He swept the cook’s webbed feet, introducing him to the floor.
Twang! He blasted the tengu’s gravity cleaver up and away, embedding it into the wall.
That cleared a path from Chin to the door… almost. An owl-headed man in a fine, pin-stripped suit stood there, blocking the Turncoat’s exit. As the bass solo started, this new challenger drew twin hand axes from behind his back. Their master spun them in lazy loops, limbering up his wrists. He cracked his neck, such as it was, and sunk into a low, ready stance.
Chin blew him through the front doors with one end of his ghost staff. Both hand axes clattered to the floor.
“How could you?!” his erstwhile rickshaw driver wailed from the balcony wreckage, where the mob was digging itself out. Before Chin could respond, something smacked him in the back of the head. Perfect accompaniment for the brass solo. It was a folded, iron fan and it was already returning to the nine-tailed fox. He sent the ghost staff at her, but she unfolded her fan and started it spinning in front of her like a shield, resisting Chin’s staccato strikes.
“How could I what?” Chin asked over his shoulder. He was just in time to see the bottom of Leadfoot’s feet racing toward him. Iron weights were wedged between his bunny toes, amplifying his already-mighty kicks. They bruised the Turncoat’s ribs and evicted the breath from his lungs. Chin hadn’t been walloped like that in a while!
And by a bunny. It was humbling.
Leadfoot leapt into the air and full-body kicked Chin straight into the band. His soundtrack ended in a discordant mess as the musicians scattered left and right. The nine-tailed fox was on him in an instant, kicking away his ghost staff. She backed off as Leadfoot crashed down on Chin’s chest, further abusing his ribs.
“Reveal your true form!” the bunny begged, tears in his dinner-plate eyes.
“What are you on about?!” Chin asked, sucking in a breath. “You nutter.”
“Your tail doesn’t move right,” he declared again. “It’s your tell; every shapeshifter has one! Your kind cursed us with self-awareness, cursed us to toil in cities when we could be communing with nature. Your kind burdened us with regret, self-doubt, and knowledge of our own mortality.”
From the corner of his eye, Chin spied the band escaping through the front door. Good for them. He turned his attention back to Leadfoot, whose face filled the rest of his vision. “Even if that were true — which it is not! — I couldn’t take any of that back. You were born this way; we all were. What do you want from me?!”
Leadfoot snorted, straightening to his full height. He looked down at Chin as if deciding what to do with an insect he’d found in his kitchen. “We want you to suffer.”
Nuts to that.
Chin bucked the bunny off of him and into the nine-tailed fox. As they tumbled over each other, he rolled to his ghost staff and somersaulted into the center of the room. The Accursed mob penned him in, eager for revenge. The Turncoat hoisted himself up on his staff and spun in a circle, kicking each of them in turn.
Simultaneously, the top cap of his staff rocketed up and into one of the glass blocks in the ceiling. Bang! Bang! Bang-bang-bang! Broken shards rained down on the scene. Fortunately, Chin’s kicks had cleared the area. He rode his ghost staff up through the ragged gap, then up even further, above the market bridge, and hitched a ride on a passing airship.
Seconds later, the bottom cap of his staff rejoined him, whistling out of the teahouse and clanging into place.
Chin Music, the Righteous Fist and Great Enemy of Heaven, routed by an angry mob. Not the way he’d seen this day ending, not that the day ever ended on this planet.
And what the hells was wrong with his tail?!
Written by Daniel Bayn
Introducing…
- Chin Music, Blessed Turncoat
- Leadfoot, Accursed rickshaw driver
- Big Tuna, speakeasy bartender
Based on “Fast Ships & Cool Swords,” a shared storytelling universe by Daniel Bayn. Fast Ships and Cool Swords © 2024 by Daniel Bayn is licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0 #FightTheFranchise
Daniel Bayn is a prolific author of games and strange fiction. He’s written three tabletop roleplaying games, monthly columns, short stories, and one non-fiction book on the psychology of online social behavior. He holds an interdisciplinary master’s degree from the University of Minnesota and works as a user experience designer, strategist, and researcher. http://DanielBayn.com
His premier novel, Mercyblades, is available on Amazon.
