Joseph woke up in a dull agony, his head pounding and his body cold and covered in sweat. He was lying down on one of the beds aboard the Titania Amber. He looked over to see that the wound from Robber Fly's proboscis had been patched up, wrappings covering his entire chest. Becenti was across from him, reading a book.
“Awake at last, I see,” he said.
“What...” Joseph's head swam. Memories were beginning to come back to him – of the lightning arcing through the entire garden, striking and immolating Robber Fly. Of the brilliant green plasma bolts lighting up the station.
Of the man he had killed, his head scraped apart.
Joseph was silent. Becenti flipped a page in his book.
“Congratulations, Mr. Zheng,” he said, not looking up from his page, “We succeeded in the job.”
“It...” Joseph sighed, “It doesn't feel like we succeeded.”
“You almost died back there,” Becenti said, “I had to improvise on the anti-venom. It's not every day that one faces off against a robber fly the size of a wolf.”
“Did I-” Joseph's breath caught, “Did I kill him?
“I'm not sure,” Becenti said, “But metahumans are tough. I wouldn't put it past him if he got up and walked it off.”
“I hope to God that he's alive.”
That statement got Becenti's attention. He looked up from his book.
“It was kill or be killed, Mr. Zheng,” he said.
“You say that,” Joseph grumbled, “But it still felt wrong. I-I killed someone. Me.”
“And you will likely kill many more,” Becenti said bluntly.
Joseph shot a glare at him, “I don't kill.”
“That is a lie.”
Joseph rose up. He wanted to grab Becenti, throw him against a wall, make him feel even a modicum of what he was feeling. But weakness overtook his body, and he simmered back down onto the bench, pulling a face as his headache flared up. The full weight of Becenti's words hit him like a truck, mixed in with memories of his conversation with Wakeling's offer when he had first joined the guild.
“What, do you think you'll be in an office, doing paperwork? You'll be in the field, facing danger almost every day.”
He understood now what Wakeling had been saying. To train with the Amber Foundation, to work with them, meant going into situations every single time he stepped out to join them on their missions.
If he wanted to get back home, he'd be forced to go out again and-
And-.
“Does it…” Joseph stared at the ceiling, “Does it get any easier?”
“That's the worst part about it, Mr. Zheng,” Becenti said, “It does.”
He wanted to talk about something else now. Anything. He didn't want to think about the man he had murdered, the way his blood was pooling on the floor. He wondered if the man had any family. Did they know where he was? Where he was going? Or would they assume he was just missing, or out on a great adventure, never knowing their son or father, brother or uncle, was lying face-down in a pool of his own blood, on some space station on the edge of civilization?
Joseph didn't want to answer that question.
“That man,” Joseph murmured, “The... metahuman. He called himself Robber Fly.”
“Yes. Most likely not his original name.”
“Why Robber Fly, though?”
Becenti sighed, closing his book. He seemed to recognize Joseph's words as a plea to change the subject, to go back to who he was before the space station.
“Many metahumans have a feeling to change their names after they awaken,” he explained, “It's... a feeling that they get, a final cutting away of their old life and who they were before they obtained their abilities.”
“So, he had a normal name before all of this.”
“Not 'normal,'” Becenti corrected, “Different. Robber Fly most likely comes from a plane like Earth or Prime, judging by what he was wearing. He may very well have chosen his new name when he left that plane for the Silver Eye.”
“What's your metahuman name?”
Becenti just gave a tight smile at that, “A story for another time perhaps.”
“Should I...” Joseph thought for a moment, “Should I get a new name?”
“That is entirely up to you,” Becenti said, “But I would not think of one right now. You need rest. It's been a long day.”
“Fine,” Joseph said. Becenti got up and went to the backpacks, pulling out a small bottle of pills. He uncapped it and poured one out, handing it to Joseph.
“For dreamless sleep.”
“Seems pretty odd for you to just have that on you,” Joseph said.
“The act of killing gets easier,” Becenti said, “The dreams don't.”
Joseph looked at Becenti, trying to gauge the old man's intentions. Far from being blunt, Becenti was being kind. Once upon a time, he supposed, Becenti had been much like him. Not a killer, but a normal person. He felt guilty about being angry at him, at how Becenti managed his own demons. He swallowed the pill with a small glass of water. Then he closed his eyes, and went to sleep.
***
He would be alright, Becenti reasoned.
More than reasoned, he realized. The boy had to be alright. He couldn't go down the path that Becenti had so long ago. The old man sighed, rubbing his temples to ease an oncoming headache. He was used to those venomous glares that Joseph had shot at him back on the station. Such looks had followed him for most of his life. Even other guild members had judged him for the manner in which he accepted the less scrupulous parts of the job.
Because it was just a job.
It had nothing to do with his own moralities.
It was just a job.
He went over to the cockpit. The old communication device that he had plundered from the Maltor was still turned on. It was time to find out who those mercenaries were. He inserted the device into the identification suite aboard the Titania Amber. He turned the program on, letting it isolate specific signals within the frequency, trying to find its source. Becenti clicked a few more buttons, and then stared at the viewscreen, waiting for answers.
The results began reading out. He exhibited no outward reaction as he stared at the screen, at the letters and symbols that scrawled across the monitor, showing the frequency the comms had been set.
No outward reaction, that is, save for the slight tremble in his hands as he realized what the frequency meant. Perhaps it was just a coincidence – of course, anyone could have used that signal. Yet it was a frequency difficult to replicate – and therefore hack into and listen in on.
No, it had to be a mere coincidence. There was no other way.
Yet as the old man stared at the screen, absorbing the information, his heart fell as the realization hit him. It couldn't be a 'mere coincidence.' The one problem with experience, Becenti realized, was that there were no coincidences.
He knew he was not ready. He wanted this to just be a job.
Just a job.
He would talk with Wakeling when they returned. He would check the prisons. Check the worlds that had been forcibly erased from all Federation records. Check to see if any of the Sons of Darwin had resurfaced.
But then, he knew, it would no longer be a job, but a calling he had relinquished long ago.
Inwardly, Myron Becenti wept.
***
They arrived back to Everlasting Truth a few days later. The Titania Amber set down in her loading bay, and after a hello and goodbye to Rax, they made their way back to the Traveling Point. Joseph had spent the days recuperating and, with the advanced medical technologies of the Federation, the wound had closed up without even a scar. There was still a hole in his jacket and shirt, however, to remind him of Robber Fly's vicious attack. He shuddered at the thought, that the metahuman had punched through the enchantment so easily.
The Dreamer's Lament was still moored by the Traveling Point when they stepped through the strange mirage, the air becoming hot and stale, the wind whipping around them. Becenti walked forward up the entrance.
“Looks like no one's been in here,” he commented.
“You just left the ship here?” Joseph asked, “Talk about trusting.”
“Not many come around these parts,” Becenti said, “This Traveling Point is relatively unknown compared to more popular ones in Salthirn or Koriad.”
They took off, heading back towards Castle Belenus. It was a silent affair, the two of them watching the clouds churn below. It seemed as though a storm was coming to Scuttleway, as the world they found beneath the clouds was overcast and gray. Already showers were falling in the distance.
“Well,” Becenti said as the airship landed, “Best you get yourself washed up, Mr. Zheng. It's almost time for lunch.”
“Right,” Joseph muttered. He got off the airship without comment, waving a lazy goodbye to Becenti.
He went inside the Great Hall. Nole and G-Wiz were there. G-Wiz gave a cruel smile to him as Nole stepped forward.
“If it ain't my favorite guildmate,” the troll snarled, “How are ye doin', Noodle?”
“Shut up, Nole.”
“Methinks I won't,” Nole walked beside Joseph, clasping a meaty hand over his shoulder, “How was the big job, Noods? Did you manage to get the big job done? Were ye brave and true to yerself?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Joseph asked.
“Wow, dense as a door,” G-Wiz giggled, her high-pitched laugh running through the hall.
“It means, were ye brave? Did ye face the bad guy, Noodle?” Nole let out a hearty chuckle, “Did ye get all of 'em, then? Kill 'em all? Slice them into little bits-”
Joseph snarled, his soul manifesting upwards and outwards. In a swift motion, it picked up Nole and hurled him across the room. The troll slammed into the wall, groaning as Joseph strode forward, looming over him.
“Shut up!” he roared, “Just shut up! For once in your fucking life, shut-”
“Joseph.”
He looked up to see Becenti walking in. He shook his head.
“Leave it. Go get some rest.”
“I'm feeling pretty rested, thanks.”
“Then just get out of here,” Becenti said, “We are Amber Foundation. We don't hurt our comrades.”
Joseph glowered down at Nole. Far from looking hurt, or surprised, the troll was smiling. He was goading him, trying to make him hurt him more...
He also remembered Becenti's words, from what seemed to be long ago, when he had first met Nole:
“Pull a stunt like that again, and I'm afraid there will be consequences.”
No consequences, but another warning. One Joseph knew Becenti would pursue, if he decided to rip Nole's head off. He glared down at the troll, and turned away, the eagle dissolving back into his body. The anger flushed out of him, he simply walked up the stairs, the laughter of Nole and G-Wiz vague and distorted as he went into his dorm. Phineas was there, his head poking out beneath the bed.
“Oh, you have returned,” he rasped, “How did it go?”
“Don't want to talk,” Joseph fell onto his bed, “Just... Don't want to talk.”
“That is understandable. Talking is horrible,” the Deep One pulled his head back under the bed.
Droplets of water began splattering onto the window. Soon, the storm was at full strength, blanketing the city in a sheet of rain.
***
Becenti walked into Wakeling's study as the first droplets, like tears, began dripping onto the windows around Castle Belenus. Wakeling was looking out one of the windows, towards the city beyond, her brow furrowed in thought.
“I retrieved the records,” he said.
“Oh! Good,” Wakeling turned her head over to face her old friend, “Lady Sunala will be most pleased. I'll get the records to her as soon as I am able.”
Becenti presented the datapad, which disappeared in a flash of light. Wakeling smiled at him, “How was it out on the job, Myron?”
“It was...” Becenti struggled to find his words. A rarity.
“Ohoho, that intense, eh?” Wakeling chuckled, “How did that Joseph do – Zheng's grandson?”
“He is learning,” Becenti replied, “He killed his first being.”
“...Did he take it well?” Wakeling asked, her voice careful.
“As well as can be expected,” Becenti shook his head at a platter of cookies floating before him, “He will recover.”
“But that's not why you're concerned,” the guildmaster said.
Becenti was quiet. Wakeling raised an eyebrow.
“Myron?”
“We were attacked while aboard the station by a band of mercenaries in a silver ship,” Becenti said, “We fought them off, but two things were off. The first is that we encountered a metahuman who I theorize was not native to the Silver Eye Galaxy.”
“Strange,” Wakeling agreed, “But not unheard of.”
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
“The second is that their comms were set to the frequency of Darwin's Voice.”
He laid the communication device on the table. Wakeling looked down at it, her eyes scanning it, glowing silver for a moment.
“Ah, I see now,” she murmured, “A coincidence, perhaps?”
“I think not,” Becenti said.
“Do you have proof?”
“Just my gut.”
Wakeling sighed, rolling herself back to a resting position, “You know the Federation won't accept that answer.”
“Of course not,” Becenti said. He sat down at the desk, “But it's true. I feel it. No one ever uses Darwin's Voice anymore.”
“You theorize. And you sense,” Wakeling countered, “But you don't know.”
“Which is why I wish to do some independent investigation,” Becenti said, “Do some research. Follow up on contacts. If the Sons are making a comeback-”
“I know, Myron,” Wakeling's voice was sharp, “But you may be rustling a hornet's nest here. You know how the Federation treats these... theories.”
Becenti was quiet. The only sound in the study was the rain striking against the windows, a chorus of a thousand steel drums that, all things considered, were making Becenti's headache worse.
“If the Sons of Darwin have begun making movements once more, we'll know of it,” Wakeling said, “If it comes to a point where we should discuss it with the Federation, we will.”
Becenti could not argue with her. Wakeling was right – it was early in the game, far too early for the Federation to make any moves. He would not sit and wait, however.
He could not.
“Let me do my investigations,” he said, “I'll make it look like a check-up. Nothing more. We can even make it look like official guild business. I'll take Broon, or Ichabod, or even Joseph with me.”
“And where will you go, Shimmer?” Wakeling challenged.
“The prisons,” Becenti said, ignoring the jab at his once-new name, “All of them.”
***
Joseph opened his eyes. He wasn't aware that he had fallen asleep – thankfully, it seemed Becenti's pills were still in his system, as he hadn't had any dreams. The rain had stopped outside, though it was still overcast and gray. Joseph checked the clock by his bed. It was five in the morning. He pulled himself up, throwing off his covers and standing, blearily looking around as he put on his AC/DC shirt and jacket. Then he looked down and saw the holes from Robber Fly's proboscis.
The events of the last few days came back to him like a bad high. The images he had seen – of the man in the station he had torn open with his eagle's claws, the twitching and smoking form of Robber Fly – oozed back into his memory like poison. He steadied himself on the desk, his breathing suddenly very heavy. Wave upon wave of guilt crashed over him, threatening to pull him down.
Then, little by little, he somehow managed to push it down. Not by much, but just enough that he could feel put his shoes on and walk outside the dorm. The guild's hustle and bustle had already begun. Rosemary waved to him from downstairs as she and Mallory walked out the door into the city. A few others he had gotten to know said “hello” as he stuttered by them. He tried his hardest to put on a brave face – he even said “hi” back a couple of times. However, his heart was hammering as he went by. He felt like a fraud – he was no longer the person they knew. He had changed.
“Joseph.”
Mekke's voice cut through his inner thoughts. She was already in full armor, arms crossed over her chest.
“Hey, Mekke,” Joseph said, “Good morning.”
“Walk with me.”
Not a question, or an offer. An order. And Joseph knew better than to disobey her. Mekke led him out to the garden.
“Look, I don't feel like training today, alright?” Joseph began. Mekke shook her head.
“Here,” she went over to the fountain. By it were two drinks. She handed one to Joseph.
“Did you really set these up, then come find me?” Joseph said.
“Just drink.”
Joseph looked down at the cup. A maple-colored liquid was inside. It burned his throat as it went down.
“It is an alcoholic drink from my homeland,” Mekke said, “For those who have gone on a dangerous mission and survived.”
“Thanks,” Joseph said, “But I don't feel like I really did much.”
“Becenti says otherwise. You performed admirably out there.”
“If it's all the same to you, I feel like I was shit.”
“You killed a man.”
Joseph glared at the fountain. Mekke's accusation – no, more of a statement – hung in the air between them. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Chadwick leaping across the bushes. The cat stopped, staring down at him as if waiting for an answer.
“I... I did.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Joseph glanced over at her. Mekke usually wasn't like this.
“I didn't ask for therapy,” he said.
She shrugged, “Whether you want it or not is up to you. I remember when I first killed someone. I think everyone in the guild does. People like Rosemary – she probably remembers the face of every person she's killed.”
That fact hit Joseph like a train. The fact that even Rosemary, someone like her, was a killer sunk deep into his stomach. His old self might have judged them – might have accused them of being hypocrites. But he was the same as them, now. The guild had brought him to their level. Joseph took another sip of the drink.
“What was…” he thought for a moment, “What was…”
“My first time?” Mekke asked.
He nodded.
Mekke ruminated on that, looking out, her gaze a thousand miles away, “I was a soldier from Beritale Landmass. The woman I killed was a rebel in a small village on the edge of the frontier of the Morenhai Empire. She swung at me with an improvised scythe.”
“And then what happened?”
“I swung back. I was wearing armor. She was not.”
She was silent for a moment, looking out towards the city beyond Castle Belenus. Then she snapped her gaze back to the present, “I remember feeling much like you do. Disgusted with myself. Disgusted that I had been tricked. That being a soldier wasn't a glorious calling. I was helping an empire maintain its control over innocent people.”
“You were the villain.”
“I was. I was a monster. My commanding officer justified it, saying that the woman would have killed me. That I wasn't responsible for her death, that I was just another hand of Morenhai. But her words did not reach me. They never did.”
She glared at the middle distance.
“They never will.”
“So why do you keep doing this, then?” Joseph said, “I feel like I want to just quit. If I have to kill to get home, then I just won't go home.”
“That choice is yours to make,” Mekke replied, “But I left the Morenhai Empire because of that act. I decided, if I was a killer, I would kill for a more righteous cause.”
“For the guild?”
“For a guild that protects, and guides, and helps,” Mekke said, “We get to choose what we fight for here. You fought to keep that Dragon egg, didn't you?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Why did you fight on the space station?” she prodded.
“I'm-” he was surprised by the question. It took him a second to figure out what she was talking about. Joseph sat down on the fountain's edge. A bird had built a nest in one of the bushes, a nest Chadwick was now looking down on, his patchwork tail weaving back and forth.
“I fought at the space station because Becenti told me to.”
“You weren't just following orders,” Mekke said, “There's more to it than that.”
“Alright,” Joseph said, “I wanted to not die.”
“A fine reason. A fine justification.”
“You say that,” Joseph said bitterly, “But it doesn't feel good. It sounds selfish. I didn't-”
“Why else did you fight?”
Joseph glared at her.
“I fought…” he mulled over, “I fought because Becenti was fighting. This is going to sound really smarmy, but I like him. He's helped me figure out my powers. He’s… I didn't want him to go at it alone. He was...”
He looked up at Mekke, his eyes watering a bit.
“He was relying on me.”
“And you were relying on him,” Mekke said, “That's why you fought. So that he wouldn't die. Becenti wasn't just fighting to get the job done. He was fighting so that you wouldn't get killed, either.”
“He didn't say anything like that,” Joseph muttered, “You should have seen him, he's-”
“Ruthless. Cold. Like ice covering stone,” Mekke nodded, “I've seen him. He becomes... something else. Something not altogether kind. But that's just how he is, it's how he copes.”
“So, I should fight – and kill – because people need me to fight and kill,” Joseph said, “Real nice, to be honest.”
“You fight to protect those around you,” Mekke said, “That's it. That's the justification. That's the therapy. You may do whatever you wish with this information.”
“Thanks, Mekke,” Joseph said. He felt only a smidge better - her words weren’t exactly reaching him. But the fact that she was trying made him feel better. Enough to eat breakfast, at least.
“I will speak with Wakeling,” Mekke said.
“No, I'll talk to her myself,” Joseph said, “Talk to her about... about the future.”
Mekke nodded, finishing her drink and walking off. Not even a goodbye, though that was her style. Joseph stretched, and went inside.
***
“Well, Mr. Zheng,” Wakeling said, “You've had quite the eventful week, haven't you?”
Joseph was quiet, nursing his glass of wine in both hands, his head bowed down in thought. Wakeling was taking a sip from her own cup, waiting for an answer.
What could he tell her? That it had gone alright? That everything was fine?
“I'm quitting the guild,” he said.
The guildmaster choked for a moment (which was an odd sight), setting the glass of wine down and barking out a wheezy cough. She shook herself out of her shock before settling down.
“Well,” she said, “I certainly didn't expect that.”
Joseph let out a sigh, leaning back on his seat. Wakeling gave him a sympathetic look.
“That station really did a number, didn't it?” she said.
“...Yeah,” he said. His hands shook as he took a drink of his wine. He felt a breakdown coming, pieces of him threatening to fall away, and he didn't want to reveal whatever was underneath. Visibly sniffing, Joseph squeezed his eyes shut.
Pull yourself together.
His vision was blurry as he opened his eyes again. Wakeling was still there, pretending not to notice his reaction.
“I can't-” he took a deep breath, settling himself down, forcing whatever was overtaking him down. His soul, burning in his heart, collapsed into his stomach. Wakeling was still looking at him, expecting an answer. Joseph forced out a laugh.
“Yeah,” he said, “That was... a bit.. a bit much.”
“And your response is that you'll be quitting the guild?” Wakeling asked.
Joseph nodded.
“I almost died, Wakeling.”
“You almost died before, with the Dragon at Lake Oval.”
“That was...” Joseph thought for a moment, “That was different.”
“How?”
He didn't want to say it out loud. But Wakeling gave a sigh.
“Myron told me what happened,” she said, “What you were forced to do.”
“You must think I'm pretty pathetic, huh?”
“Quite on the contrary, Mr. Zheng,” Wakeling said, “It means you still have a heart.”
He was surprised – touched, even – by her answer. But he still shook his head.
“If this is guild life, then it's too much.”
“An understandable reason,” Wakeling said, “To be in a guild is to live dangerously. To be forced to do things you wouldn't normally do. It's not all adventure and hi-jinks. Many guilds are purely mercenary in their work.”
“Glad I'm not with them,” Joseph said.
“I am too,” Wakeling agreed, “Tell me, Joseph, where will you go?”
“I...” Joseph hadn't quite thought of that, “I'll find something.”
Wakeling gave him a pity-filled look.
“Mr. Zheng,” she said, “Normally I would agree that such an attitude is a good one. But leaving a guild, especially with no other prospects ahead of you, is not such a good idea.”
Joseph thought.
“I'll go to Prime,” he said, “Get a job there. It's like Earth, right? There's gotta be apartments. Stupid jobs, like at a grocery store. Maybe I can go to school again, until I find a way to get back home.”
Wakeling nodded sagely.
“Tell me, Joseph, what's your social security number?”
Joseph blinked.
“Do you have your birth certificate?” she asked.
“No, but I-”
“Green card, then?”
“Alright, I see your point,” Joseph said, “If it's like Earth, it's got all of Earth's bullshit, too.”
“Indeed,” Wakeling said, “You'd be an alien there – and Prime doesn't always appreciate outlanders, even if they look like the locals.”
“Don't have to tell me twice,” Joseph said, “I mean, what other planes are there?”
Wakeling pursed her lips.
“Not many, Mr. Zheng,” she said, “To be frank, Joseph, you've arrived in the multiverse at a difficult time. There's a recession out there, and not too many people would want a drifter from an isolated plane.”
“I don't bring too much to the table, you mean,” Joseph said.
“Save for your metahuman abilities,” Wakeling said, “Which are powerful, if I might say. Most likely, if you left us, you would wander the multiverse, scrounging at the scraps and living on the edge of society.”
“I'd make do,” Joseph said.
“How?” Wakeling asked, “Save for perhaps finding work as a temporary farmhand, or something akin to that, you'll only have a few career options.”
Joseph's heart sank, though with that sinking came a bitter anger that circuited through his body.
“The multiverse's most common job, particularly for outlanders, is mercenary work,” Wakeling said.
“I'd be right back where I started.”
“Exactly.”
“I'm still,” Joseph glared up at the guildmaster, “I still have to try. I'm sorry. I can't- I can't be like Becenti. I can't let it become easier.”
Wakeling gave him a sad look. The two were quiet for a long time.
“Alright,” she said, “Well, at least... think on it. I don't want you to make any hasty decisions.”
Joseph nodded.
“We have all the resources you need to get you home, Joseph,” Wakeling said, “I don't want them to go to waste. I don't want you to leave us, if I'm being honest.”
“Why?” Joseph asked.
But Wakeling was quiet.
“It's for my grandma, isn't it?” Joseph said.
“...Aye, Mr. Zheng,” Wakeling said, “I'll... I'll tell you what. I have a job lined up – a simple one! The Amber Foundation has been hired to escort a being known as the Kimao to a ritual on Nesona.”
Joseph's eyes narrowed, “What's the catch?”
“Five of us are set to go,” Wakeling said, “I'd like you to fill the fifth slot.”
“Who else is going?”
“Nole, Shetavalk, Archenround, and G-Wiz.”
“No.”
“In exchange,” Wakeling continued, “You get full pay. Six month's worth of credits, if you do decide to leave us after the job. Should be enough for you to... figure things out. I might be able to even pull in a few favors, get you sponsored in the Silver Eye – as long as you don't reveal your metahumanity, of course...”
Joseph rolled his eyes. But the offer was a good one. He wasn't so keen on the 'sponsorship' part – it sounded to him like indentured servitude of some sort. But the six months of pay...
“And all I have to do is go on a job.”
“Yes,” Wakeling said, “You've seen guildwork at its lowest, fighting as a mercenary on the edge of the unknown. Now, you should get to see the highest, making the world a better place.”
“Smarmy words,” Joseph said.
“True words,” Wakeling said, “The Kimao is a powerful figure on Nesona. Only one is chosen every generation. Nesona in its natural state is a wasteland, but the Kimao carries the seed of life within them, and through that power creates ecosystems. Landscapes. Places to live and prosper. Without them, the entire plane would be dead.”
Joseph was quiet at that.
“Now, the role of Kimao is one of the most important in all of the plane. Without them, nothing lives. As such, there's very little political turmoil involved in their journey. The dogs only begin snarling at each other after all is said and done. The escort is a ceremonial position, and one traditionally fulfilled by outlanders like ourselves.”
“Ceremonial,” Joseph said, “So... no combat.”
“Nothing like that,” Wakeling said.
He mulled it over in his head.
“...Fine,” he said, “I'll think of what I'll do after it's done.”
“Excellent,” Wakeling said, “I'd shake on it, but...”
“Yeah, yeah,” Joseph said, “When do we leave?”
“In a week,” Wakeling said, “I'd suggest you get prepared.”
***
Distant and away, the Grim Walker heard the sound.
The sound of stepping on stone. Footsteps. In dress shoes. A man from the multiverse. His breathing quick, his hands cold and shaking. He was approaching the guildhall's entrance, that rounded thing, a vault door, to keep out the radiation and to keep in the life. A bygone gate, from a bygone age.
He was surprised that someone would come here. Especially one in dress shoes. Usually his clients were more secretive. They loved the shadows and their games, and sent messages to him accordingly. A thousand reasons whirred in his mind as the Grim Walker strode forward. Unlatched the gate. Opened inwards with its whining snarl. A pencil-like man stood on the other side. His forehead was caked in sweat – from fear, from the world outside and its dangers.
“Come in,” the Grim Walker said.
“O-of course,” the pencilman stepped in, shivering a bit. The Grim Walker liked his home cool, cave-like.
“What brings you to my home, Man of Neos?” the Grim Walker asked.
“Oh!” the pencilman stammered, “You know where I'm from.”
“Of course,” the Grim Walker said, “Your scent is of rain and bureaucracy. Now, what brings you to my home?”
“Right to business,” the pencilman let out a high chuckle that whined at the Grim Walker's ears. The Grim Walker considered this annoyance for a moment, before letting it leave his system. He led the pencilman deeper into the guildhall, past the circular entrance and into the great caverns of his home. This was designed to make the pencilman feel more comfortable, at ease.
But it did not work. The poor man seemed to shrink as he glanced around the place, eyes widening at the sight of the Grim Walker's trophies of war.
“Oh! I had no idea...” he said.
“You do not need to be afraid of me,” the Grim Walker said, “You are not my target.”
“Of course not.”
“But you are here to give me one,” the Grim Walker said.
“I-I am,” the pencilman stepped forward. He produced a tablet, handing it to the Grim Walker. The Grim Walker read it over once. Then twice. A third time, to be sure.
“We don't know who it is yet, of course,” the pencilman said, “But my employer – he needs them gone. Dead. As a doornail.”
“Not alive?” the Grim Walker asked.
“I just-” the pencilman said, “No. Dead.”
“Odd, for your corporation to request this from me,” the Grim Walker said, “Usually, when Agrippa has hired me, it is to bring them to Neos alive.”
“Dead this time.”
The Grim Walker was quiet at this. He mulled over the news, letting it settle into his head. Then he stood up to his full height.
“I ask for double the pay,” he said, “I do not like killing.”
“Of course,” the pencilman said, “Double it is.”
“I will escort you off of this plane. Then I will begin.”
“No need,” the pencilman said, “I can make it home myself.”
The Grim Walker considered those words. Roil was a dangerous plane. A broken one. Near dead and dying.
Yet the man had come alone and had been fine...
“Very well,” the Grim Walker said, “I will leave at once, then.”
And he did.