The Ibanmothe quarters of Suchi's Slums, a sketchy bar, a toddler-sized statue on the counter emitting an aura of coolness to provide relief against the oppressive noon heat.
Usually, the lunch hour would be a noisy time, as the patrons fought over each other to get the bar's Aionian Cook to throw this or that delicacy from his homeland on the grill. Today, however, all one heard, here and elsewhere in The Slums, was the gulping of intoxicating liquors and teas and murmured requests for refills.
Last evening's Community Service event, intended to be a multi-day affair, had been ended abruptly by The Church.
Their troops, sallying out from Central City, had broken up The Empire's encirclement. Simultaneously, they'd torched the headquarters of King Sejeong of Pacific East Asia and Queen Atusa of Greater Iran, both amongst Ramiro's main co-conspirators, along with several build sites of King Gustaf's AKEL construction firm. The Empire's soldiers had had no recourse but to clear out from these areas and watch the destruction since retaliation would have been rewarded with death.
To prevent any misunderstanding about The Church's motives, a Cardinal had telepathically projected to The Slum's citizens a warning for their Saviour. If he broke their bans on political assassinations and factionalist rhetoric again, The Empire would be erased from this land. The message had not been couched in false pleasantries or subtlety to save Ramiro's face - he and his meagre forces were not powerful enough to warrant that treatment.
Now, the Ibanmothe found themselves like grains of sand being tossed back and forth between two competing typhoons. The Church may have been the larger, but it blew from a distance, from inside the walls of Central City, while The Empire was much closer to them in The Slums, perhaps within hearing range.
In such moments, there was only one proper course of action. When the world offered turmoil, the glass offered certainty, gifting each precisely what they needed. For the mourning, there were depressants to dampen the sorrow for lost fortunes from the crashing Slum Point, for the lost comrades lynched by the Offworlder mobs. For the meek, stimulants could bolster the courage to flee into the savannah, to up-and-move to the WBAE, or to remain in this perilous pit for one last deal, just one more.
At the back of the bar, a guard held vigil outside a set of booths employing similar privacy technology to Domes of Secrecy.
In one, occupied by a reputationless Merchant and a low-level Offworlder Scholar writing a history of The Delivery Roaches, a deadly load had been laid out on a table between them: Memory Spheres, sketches, letters, affidavits, and other documents all detailing The Empire and The Saviour's illicit misdeeds.
Merchant Alme, having read enough, was reclined back, his hands motionless in his lap, his eyes staring at the roof through the slit of his mask. This booth was blocking noise not just from exiting but entering. The resulting silence made him hyper-conscious of his breath, the undercover journalist's ceaseless rambling, and his regret at not departing on the next trade mission sooner.
Their request, the way it had made his body freeze, was reminding him of an embarrassing episode from his boyhood when he'd gone cliff-diving with the other Roaches. After he'd scrambled half-way up the cliff-face to the jump spot, the sight of the shrunken waves below had made him retreat in terror. He'd known there was no climbing back down, only forward, only the dive, yet he still couldn't will himself to jump. If not for Brother Elokelo shoving him, he might have starved to death up there.
He was stalling on such a precipice again. Would he receive the needed nudge from Elokelo's ghost?
Across from the nervous Merchant, Oliver Spears was talking at a lively gallop.
"…beyond my moniker as Saana's premier journalist, I've adhered to a consistent ethos throughout my career, in every exposé and every editorial, one that has caused the rats I've smoked out to accuse me of being perverse, provocative, unwavering, sociopathic, evil. I've been around a long, long time, broken many different stories, toppled many different regimes, exposed many different breeds of filth. So you can be assured that I'm not bound by any respect or fear to the small-fry 'Savour' of this slum. I predate him, and I will be around long after I've destroyed him."
He'd discarded his amateur historian disguise. To bring this source on board, he'd laid everything out: his identity, what he knew about Ramiro, the aims of his exposé, the material he'd collected thus far. Him revealing the full deck was dangerous, no doubt, but to achieve the most sensational scoops, to create the most sensational scoops, one could not always shy away from risks.
Since his time-out had expired, Oliver's investigation had uncovered the identity of two more severed hands in addition to the Meggy girl's, making him 3 for 5.
Hand number two had belonged to Piszok, i.e. Steel Fist, a boy with a reputation as a bully who'd been murdered by Ramiro at age 10. This victim had provided the first definite match, the boy having a prominent diamond-shape mole at the base of his left ring finger. Oliver had used this mark to match his hand from Memory Sphere footage on the eve of Steel Fist's disappearance, taken by his sister, and footage of a rally to excite the Villagers into hunting down The Priest of Wanaagsan - Ramiro himself had presented the severed hands dug up from the framed priest's shack. Xun's preservation process had discoloured the skin, but the shape and location of the mole were unmistakable. Of special note, the length of the digits were identical in both videos; given how quickly NPCs grew in the game, this indicated that Ramiro had murdered the boy shortly after abducting them. Sadly, this reduced the likelihood that Oliver would find a dungeon of living victims.
Hand number three had been a compatriot of this Merchant, a boy named Elokelo, whom other Delivery Roaches had spoken fondly of, a sort of older brother figure, and whom Ramiro had killed at age 12.
There didn't appear to be a consistent personality type or sex that The Sadist of The Slums had been targeting. Oliver had been unable to pinpoint any commonalities aside from the victims being Delivery Roaches, and one could chalk that up to their orphan status, ensuring that few would miss them. The timings of the killings seemed to be random, spread across eight real-life months, starting before The Empire's rise. So far, direct evidence of Ramiro carrying out the deed had eluded him, the Saviour having taken some precautions to cover his tracks.
That was where Merchant Alme came in.
Oliver had received a Memory Sphere from another Delivery Roach having a meeting with their gang after Elokelo's disappearance. In the footage, one of the boys, White Quail, had blurted out to having seen their missing brother being escorted by Ramiro during a delivery. In response, the gang beat him for disloyalty to The Saviour. After a couple minutes, the bruised up White Quail confessed to making up the story, and the gang proceeded to beat him further, perhaps for lying, perhaps because they sensed that the confession was a lie.
That beaten boy was the Merchant about to break to Oliver now. White Quail had since assumed a new identity, hiding in the anonymising disorder of The Slums, but that hadn't stopped Oliver from tracking them down.
"From this cornucopia of dirt, it's obvious that Ramiro is done. The single question is in what manner does our angel fall from grace. As a journalist, my job is to develop the best story from the best evidence available. What I have in my hand and what I don't, that changes what the story's about. A milquetoast corruption case, the tragedy of a noble spirit who tried his hardest but was spoiled rotten by reality? Or a megalomaniac who intended from the beginning to clothe himself in undeserved adoration, who would be barred by nothing in his quest, not theft not murder? Or a story of something more sinister than all of this, something unspeakable? Something that will never be spoken without your voice, White Quail."
Under his mask, Merchant Alme smiled. The expression was not a happy one, though, but rather a nervous habit, the young man having been nurtured by a harsh setting where outward signs of weakness were like open wounds in shark-infested water.
He extended his hand, a Memory Sphere materialising in his palm. Like tear-diluted mucus, a chain of Peopleworker Energy streamed out of his nostrils and channelled into the Memory Sphere, where it linked up with other streams from his eyes, mouth, glabella, and ears.
Oliver leaned in to study the memory being transferred.
White Quail was on a moonlit delivery, his emaciated arms pulling him over fences, his racing strides guided by paths trampled in the dirt by the other Roaches. Whenever a street appeared up ahead, he slowed down and approached on his tippy-toes, dipping his head out for a moment to check for danger, before continuing on. It was for this caution that he'd been dubbed White Quail, referring to a species of Enuchibe Desert fowl renowned for its skittishness.
When checking one of the side-streets, he spotted two distant shadows.
"It's them," whispered Oliver. "Oh, Ramiro, you twisted risk-taker, so you do flirt to heighten the arousal."
Seen from behind, a short boy without shoes was walking alongside a chubby figure dragging a cloud of cigarillo smoke. The latter had an arm wrapped around the child's shoulder, preventing his flight, guiding him onwards to the abyss.
"I know that walk. That's the swagger of a man about to bed a lass. How despicable, how foul, abhorrent, how loathsome, how fiendish…"
"We're alone," said the boy being led along. "I think we can talk now."
"Not yet, my son. This is a top-secret delivery with Our Empire at stake. If anyone overhears us, the reforms we've been working on, this fragile dream of a community, this castle we've built of sand, it might all crumble apart. You wouldn't want to be the one who broke the castle, would you?"
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"My god…the tie in with the Ibanmothe...people of the sand... that'll make for a brilliant line..."
"Of course not, your grace."
"Good boy." Ramiro caressed the orphan's hair. "That's a very good boy."
White Quail, despite his timidity, followed along, driven by an overpowering sense of unease, which grew stronger the longer he observed. To avoid detection, he stayed far back, beyond the extended range of
The pair stopped, dipping into a random shack, indistinguishable from the hundreds of thousands of others that carpeted the land. White Quail stealthed forward, sighting a gap in the shack's planks that he could peek through.
"Here comes the money shot." Oliver licked his lips, his gaze engorging with the predator's hungered focus. "Got you, you sick—" His face twisted in disgust.
Before reaching the shack, White Quail retreated, tears blurring his vision as he snuck then sprinted away.
Bang!
Oliver's fist hammered the table, knocking over the stacks of his hard-earned research. "#*@*ing coward! You blew it! It was right there and you $&*#ing blew..."
Merchant Alme, the transfer finished but his eyes and nose continuing to stream, stared at the raging journalist with repulsion. Placing down the Memory Sphere, he made a quick escape from the bar, the slums, the monsters, and his shame.
Five a.m., Auckland, New Zealand, The Flaming Sun Headquarters, floors 10 to 12, the gymnasium.
The sun had yet to dawn, but the facilities were being utilised by a fair number, many members of The Company and Flaming Sun syncing their wake-sleep cycles to foreign time-zones. Some worked out through conventional methods, their muscles through weights and hearts through aerobic equipment. Others were sweating it out in a VR-augmented training space, diving into bunkers to evade holographic spells, clamouring up fake fortress walls.
"
In a magma field, Henry and Caramel were duelling. Using the kiting strategy of Grass Dragon, he evaded her reach by switching in and out of his Cheetah form. Whenever he shapeshifted, the hologram being projected onto him changed from between being a human and a Cheetah, reflecting the altered hit-box. To mimic the enhanced speed of the Cheetah
Caramel, meanwhile, blocked his
Henry, his left leg locking up when he dipped it in a lava puddle, stumbled. "
"
While Henry's VR-suit froze him in place mid-fall, she drew a holographic line describing the path of her
"Don't do it!" She jogged over excitedly. "Give me satisfaction!"
"I concede."
Before she could deliver the coup de grace, the suit returned Henry's movement and he stopped himself from toppling over.
"Bastard! Let me kill you!"
"Nope."
Using another voice command to cancel his projected armour, he left the training area, dodging other combatants. At a group of vending machines, he removed the suit's helmet and bought a refreshing can of Banana-Weed Milk.
"You're improving at a decent pace!" Caramel swiped the drink faster than he could react. "Another century and you might be able to beat me!"
"My pillow defeated me, not you," he replied humourlessly, purchasing another can.
Insomnia had put him in a sour mood.
He hadn't bothered going to bed after last night's incidents. With the Ramiro stuff, the spies, and The Primordial Path, his dreams would have been a monotonous repetition of climbing and falling from the corpse mountain, a few bodies taller. The biggest target of his irritation was Digital Henry; while that guy had the luxury of decades to decompress, for Fleshbag him, it'd been merely two hours since he'd dismembered hundreds of people with his own two hands.
Stupid zone…
"Stupid lumpy pillow…"
Caramel assumed a gloating stance. "A good night's rest is also a tool! Helmet back on, bozo. I'm gonna whip you again!"
"Nah, I'm out for the day; got big plans ahead."
"Your only plan should be to die by my sword." She swiped his second can. "That's what you get. Hmph! There should be a limit to a person's pettiness."
Caramel was mad that he'd withheld solutions to The Trials of Nerin from the guild, thereby also preventing them from obtaining special privileges that The Church would have granted. With those, Suchi might not have been in its current state of underdevelopment.
Henry wasn't doing it for petty reasons, but he didn't correct her misunderstanding. Some burdens should be borne alone in the dark.
"Henry!"
In the middle of the practice area, a duellist went flying from a two-story-tall platform at a kick, before being sliced apart mid-air by a holographic Flying Sword. The instant before they struck the ground, the back padding of their suit inflated like a car airbag and counteracted the impact of the landing.
On top of the platform, a young Qi Master, the victor, was waving at him. "Me next?!"
They were an up-and-coming Saana League pro who'd been staying at the HQ during a press tour with their team. Although they had no idea who Henry was and they'd trounced his crippled-self repeatedly, they'd continued sparring him, feeling like they'd gained a new insight from every match.
This was the boundless energy, curiosity, and lack of prejudice of youth!
"Go away!" Henry yelled. "My saga has enough minor characters. Also, I have critical plans that cannot be delayed." Ignoring the kid's response, he turned to Caramel, his sour mood having lifted slightly. "I've got a spa appointment with my grandmother. A four-hour deluxe course, with deep-tissue massage, full-body exfoliation, mani-pedi, and skin seasoning – isn't this a rejuvenation routine befitting of us age-worn retirees?"
This retirement activity served a dual purpose. Firstly, it might relax him enough to sleep. Secondly, it would put his grandmother into a relaxed state where he could slip her the poison of deceit.
Later today, she wanted him to send out college applications under her watch. She suspected that, if he did it alone, he would try to concoct a scheme to weasel out of spending so many years atrophying on the flat-slopes of university.
After softening up his grandmother via luxurious pampering, he would let her down, he would inform her that he would attend college but only on the condition that it was Australia National University. His grandmother would baulk at this low-prestige choice ("Not even in the top 20?!"), but he would parry with justifications. His friends were there to monitor him, the lack of culture shock, loyalty to the historic ANZAC spirit by raising their region to the national stage through his predestined academic stardom, the reduced fees, the close proximity allowing him to fly back to visit family when homesick…yes, there it was, grandmother, the true cause of his reluctance. Beneath the facade, he was still a child, terrified at the prospect of roaming too far from home. Without his friends, how could he endure the loneliness?
Moved by empathy for her grandson, she would acquiesce. Outwardly, she'd act as though he'd thrust a knife into her heart. Inwardly, though, she'd be celebrating because all she'd wanted by insisting he enrol in higher education was for him to live a normal life and he could transfer somewhere better for post-grad.
Thus, the meddlesome shrew would be thrown off the trail of Henry's actual scheme: studying through correspondence.
Grandmother's suspicions weren't wrong. Rotting away on a campus? Never. A hired body double would attend classes in his place and take regular photos to update the finessed grandmother. Henry, meanwhile, and his golden-hearted gold-digger girlfriend would be eating snails in Paris, riding camels in Arabia, purifying themselves in the Ganges, skulling beers in Bavaria, making sweaty love in Maui, spotting Zebra in Kenya. And, occasionally, he would pop back home to continue the ruse. Utilising his early retirement to its fullest, he would gobble up significant life experiences. These, he would then feed to Digital Henry as source material for the climbs, for more sentimental stories, for more revolutionary paintings, etc. In exchange, Digital Henry would do Fleshbag Henry's homework, freeing him up for even more well-earned retirement activities.
Brian had already agreed to corroborate the sham in exchange for a top-of-the-line didgeridoo.
Just as Henry was sinking into the comfort of his fantasies, he, Caramel, and everyone else in the gym flinched as the ceiling speakers exploded with eardrum-stabbing trumpets and skeleton-shaking bass.
“AND NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” added an obnoxious announcer track, “TONIGHT’S DEFENDER, WEIGHING IN AT 172 LBS OF RAW MUSCLE, THE MODERN MIDAS, YOUR BELOVED GUILD LEADER, THREE-TIME CHAMPION OF THE 6V6 NO GEAR RESTRICTION CATEGORYYYYYYYY, IT’S MAYONAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAISE!”
The music rising another twenty decibels, the gym's front doors flung open. In entered a brat with a mullet hairdo that resembled a beaver. Dressed in pre-fight boxer robes, he was accompanied by an entourage of brawny hype-men, who rubbed his shoulders and assisted him in sipping from a water bottle.
Most of the gym members returned to practice.
The group marched straight over to Henry and Caramel.
Beaver-head, signalling to cut the entrance music, flashed an arrogant smile. "Well, well, well, look who we have here, fellas, it's our little friend, Henry."
Henry didn't recognise any of the entourage. From their buff physique and fake tans, they seemed to be professional male strippers.
Alex snorted. "Hello, Henry! Word on the street is that you've been gossiping about retirement. Not so fast!" He reached into his shorts and, retrieving nothing, presented an empty hand with his index and thumb pinched, as though he were holding an ace of spades. "Have you forgotten about this?"
Snapping his fingers, Alex had two of the male strippers peel back his boxer robes. As they slipped away, they revealed a muscled torso decorated with a tattoo of a dragon. Its tail wrapped around a flaming sun, its butt dropped turds on a mountain, and its jaws clamped down upon a guy in a wheelchair.
"The card," continued Alex, resuming the presentation of his empty hand, "let's forget this silly tournament, why don't we wager it right here, right now? A duel for the ages, you and me, in the arena."
Henry shrugged. "No item or consumable restrictions? You're on."
"Hahahahaha!" Alex cocked his head back and cackled. "Figures you'd refuse. Cheats or no cheats, you would have been dead meat! Godspeed, Henry boy. 9 days left to get in fightin' shape; time's a-tickin!"
The beaver-head then shamelessly trotted over to a changing area. While a clerk retrieved his VR-suit, he began shadow boxing, weaving between jabs and hooks intimidating glares in Henry's direction.
Caramel was squinting in disbelief. "It's a bit excessive, the strippers, the fake tattoo…"
"Worse than that." Henry sighed. "Think of the raiders wasting time."
During his duelling climb in Suchi, Alex had been raiding in a desert zone on the south-eastern point of Abhaya. In a recent televised interview with Channel 5 News, the guy had boasted about reaching Tier 5-3 before the next big international PVP tournament, set during their guild's recruitment tournament but located in Heimland. To achieve that push, the Abhayan team had been working around the clock, shipping in fresh troops, gear, and consumables. By turning up here, Alex was presently having the raid pause, making tens of thousands wait, for no other reason than to drum up scripted drama for their wager.
"What the heck's wrong with him?"
"Boredom does strange things to the brain."
Really, Henry wasn't in a position to criticise. After all, he'd initially allocated over two centuries to martial arts training in order to showboat.
Alex, donning his VR-suit, equipped a hologram of his Legendary zweihander Worlddevourer and hacked a training partner in half before the countdown of their duel could finish. Another intimidating glare.
Without the VR glasses, the action had looked to Henry like he'd swung nothing but air. That seemed an apt metaphor for his frenemy's futile attempt to defeat him, The Invincible Cripple.