As he opened the door, a buzzer sounded, reverberating across the dark, musty shop.

Jack was on a mission.

In his battle with Lydia, she had broken the unbreakable; he’d grown quite attached to owning a magic sword, given he preferred keeping his head attached to his shoulders.

The shop was a depressing square, with windows full of posters and everyday objects carved with runes; rows of display cases filled the area. The far wall held racks of self-amplifying instruments, and a long counter adorned the wall to his left.

It smelled vaguely of wood polish.

Behind the counter was Rooney Smith, a lanky Sidhe with pointed ears poking through waves of teal hair. His face was chiselled, his high cheekbones jutting. He wore a crisp black shirt and slacks, a silver tie too short for his torso.

“Jack!” He welcomed him with a warm smile. “What can I do for you, my friend?”

Reaching into the sheath on his belt, he produced the jagged remnants of his faithful partner and slammed it on the counter.

Rooney’s jaw dropped, nose wrinkling in disgust. “How in the name of sanity did you manage to break an unbreakable sword?”

“Do you know who Lydia Blackwell is?”

He gripped his chin. “Please, do not tell me you got into a fight with the heir of one of the Twelve Families.”

“Dunno what to tell you, mate,” said Jack, shrugging. “Wasn’t the first time, either.”

It had, in fact, been the second. Unless one counted his protests to her hobby of casual dickery, in which case the counter was already beyond repair.

With a sigh, Rooney said, “and you survived?”

He made a face. “Don’t act so surprised! I might have even won, you know.”

“You definitely lost.” He nodded. “Pathetically.”

Clicking his tongue, Jack shook his head. “Oh, ye of little faith. I’ll have you know that old blade stopped Blackpool turning into a blood farm.”

Rooney gave him a flat stare. “Quite. A new one then, I assume?”

“Please.”

“Okay, what kind of budget are we working with?”

Jack nodded at the broken weapon on the counter. “What’s the trade-in value on that?”

Face falling, Rooney thumbed his nose. “Seriously?”

He shrugged. “It’s always raining, mate.”

“You still talk a lot of shit, I see. I have some things in the back, but it might wind up costing you more in the long run.”

“Let me have a look, and we’ll see.”

Rooney disappeared through a door behind him, leaving Jack to wait. He tapped his foot, one arm leaning on the counter, and stared at the ceiling. It was covered in swirling patterns his mind shaped into amusing pictures—one particularly therapeutic vista depicted him booting Lydia unceremoniously out of his front door. Though, in reality, that would be followed by her blowing it off and walking straight back in.

After a couple of minutes, Rooney emerged, fumbling with a bundle of cloth almost as big as he was. He laid it down, unwrapping the white fabric.

It revealed what was essentially a giant meat cleaver. Its blade was dual-toned black and silver, with bandages wrapped around the hilt; tapering to a point, the edge glinted with malice.

Jack twitched. “Is that what I think it is?”

“That depends on what you think it is.”

“I think it’s a complete rip-off.”

“I did warn you that it may cost you more in the long run.”

Licking his teeth, Jack shook his head. “I’m not planning on slaying any Hollows, so this one’s a pass.”

“In that case…” Rooney hauled it back through the door, reappearing moments later with a chain dangling from his hand. Attached to it was a small white stone with a rune.

Jack blinked. “That doesn’t look like a sword. “

Rooney smirked. “For now.” He pulled the stone from the chain, and it flashed with light, transforming into a double-edged blade with a leather-wrapped hilt. The pommel was a steel ball, and runes were emblazoned up the groove in the centre.

“What’s up, man,” said the sword. “Name’s Jack.”

He started. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You need me to speak louder, or something? MY NAME IS JACK.”

Turning to Rooney, he felt his facial muscles escape his control. “Where did you get this one from?”

“I bought it from an einherjar,” said Rooney, puffing his chest. “I don’t think he knew what it was truly worth.”

“Yeah,” it said, “story of my freakin’ life.”

He rubbed his forehead, eying the other Jack with a grimace. “I’m sorry, mate, but we can’t have Jack the protagonist with a sword called Jack, that’ll just confuse the readers. And I don’t think Rick would appreciate it much.”

It scoffed, as much as it is possible for an object without a mouth to scoff. “Like he’d read this crap! You can’t refuse me, asshole, I’m the sharpest weapon in the nine realms!”

Rooney attached it to the chain, reverting it back to pendant before again going through the door, his lips pressed into a line.

He returned bearing a stick.

Jack gaped. It resembled a training blade, but was still a simple length of wood. The only runes he could see were a pair of Kanji characters on the hilt, and even though he didn’t understand them, he knew what they said.

“This situation’s starting to give me extreme deja vu.”

“You mean déjà vu?”

“Whatever, I can’t be seen with that thing!”

“Why not? It’s perfect for you, considering you’re a rip-off of its original owner.”

He simmered. “You take that back!”

“Fine,” said Rooney, expression strained, “I apologise. Now, do you want it or not?” On his pride as a runesmith, he would find Jack a weapon.

“It’s not even a proper sword!”

“Yet it can slice through just about anything.”

“No!”

With an aggravated sigh, Rooney dragged the rip-off back to the storeroom, finally emerging with an ornate, navy-blue sheath. It was slightly curved and had golden spiral patterns running up it, a ribbon tied halfway down. The grip was leather, and felt comfortable when Rooney put it in his hands.

Gripping it, he pulled the blade from where it nestled. It gleamed in the low electric lights, wicked silver fading into the black of its back; it was around thirty inches long, with an oval crossguard. He held the katana aloft, surveying the runes packed onto its surface. There were circuits more complex than his computer.

When he ran his hand over the smooth metal, he felt for a second like he’d been ripped in half, then forcefully shoved back together. His knees almost buckled, and he panted, drawing a worried glance from Rooney.

“I was worried about this,” he said. “Is it talking to you?”

Breathing deeply, Jack squinted. “No, why would it be talking to me? I just feel light-headed; must still be hungover. And this one’s not a rip-off, so why’s it bargain bin?”

He tittered. “It’s cursed, Jack. I don’t know how, but the woman who brought it here told me that it’s both sentient and not very nice.”

“I’d imagine not many swords are,” said Jack, eyes glued to the blade. “They’re literally made to cut things.”

Rooney chewed his lip. “If I were you, I’d take my risks with a lawsuit, my friend. I’m only showing it to you because it’s my duty as a professional to give you an informed—

With a grin, Jack slid the weapon back into its scabbard. “I’ll take it.”

Huffing, Rooney put his hands on his head. “You can hear me, yes? The sword is cursed!”

“And I’m cursed with existence, so we’ll make a good team.”

“Fine,” said Rooney, ringing up the purchase. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

***

Despite the freezing temperatures and the hole still present in his jacket, he felt warm as he exited Rooney’s shop. Everything had a bit more colour now.

Choo-chooin’s thermostat was his first destination upon boarding the turtle, followed by inputting his actual destination: his office.

During the ride, he wondered about sentient weapons. In fiction, it was a toss-up as to whether they were good or bad; tabletop versions never ended well, but other media was kinder to them.

He didn’t have any real-life examples.

Was his new weapon cursed, or just misunderstood? Was it even cursed? To find out, he’d have to unlock the key to its sentience, which would require plenty of trial and error.

An epic project was about to begin.

His eyes narrowed when Choo-chooin jumped into the front yard, flicking back to the long black sedan parked on the kerb. A fair and plain woman sat behind the wheel, eyes fixed ahead.

Either they had a job, or the heads at Argolis had finally sent a team to reclaim all their pens.

He ascended the stairs with consternation. As he reached the top, he heard muffled voices, and pushed through into the office.

“Finally,” said Lydia, eying him with the rare but chilling Ode to Playfulness. “I thought we might die of old age before you came back.”

She sat on the right-hand sofa, Hannah next to her; they were in conversation with a man on the other side of the table.

With deep green scales and a long jaw, he was instantly recognisable as a lizardman. His eyes were bloodshot, and his belly threatened to burst from a suit likely worth more than Jack’s kidneys.

Standing, the lizardman approached Jack with a serious demeanor. He stuck out a hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Trades.” His voice was raspy and sibilant. “My name is Saul Oyster, and somebody is trying to kill me.”