Before.
Miles ached. He ached in a way he hadn't since the BUDS physical conditioning phase on the endless beaches, palling around with meatheads, blistering under the Coronado sun, enduring brutal, draining tasks intended for one purpose, and one alone.
Give the fuck up.
He hadn't then, and he wouldn't now. That was what he told himself after the proctor assigned the task of ferrying soul orbs. On its face, it was a rather simple form of torture in the form of labor. Pedestrian. Nothing he couldn't handle. Miles was ordered to sift through the small mountain of orbs at the landing station. All he was told was that the red orbs were irrecoverable and had to be carried by hand up a long stairway to the obliteration platform, little more than a wide square pillar with a metal indent in the center that acted as a scale. The corrupted orbs were small but dense, spread out amongst their lighter, uncorrupted brethren, naturally sinking to the bottom of any pile they were in. The powers that be were even kind enough to grant him a bucket.
But the simplicity of the task and granting of tools was where the kindness ended, and the cruelty began. His "work area" was little more than a section of Bastille wall emerging from the dark blue waters of an endless ocean. The nights were cold, damp, and brutal, while the days were windy and bathed in sweltering sunlight. There was no shelter. And while he was free to work at his own pace, a floating hourglass in the faraway distance constantly drained sand. It was half full now. Not that much time had passed. As far as Miles could tell, he'd only been here about two days.
It was an early mistake that cost nearly a quarter of the timer. He'd loaded his pail with approximately twenty orbs—around two-hundred pounds—and began the long ascent up the stairway. The weight was no problem. In his mind he was taking it easy, taking on the sort of burden he could have easily carried even before the system. But there were two factors he didn't account for that he probably should have. The round, thin, metallic handle, and the way the wind grew unnaturally unpredictable towards the top of the summit. He'd been less than five steps away from the scale when the thin handle's slow bite suddenly grew insufferable just as his foot hit a wet patch. Miles stumbled, nearly losing his footing completely and halting himself moments before tumbling ass over teakettle off the side. A few corrupted orbs tumbled out of the pail, plunging into the ocean below, their glow disappearing almost instantly. He righted the bucket, releasing the handle for only a moment when it toppled with a gust of wind, sending a cascade of red orbs down the stairs and over the side.
That was the third factor. The one he couldn't really blame himself for. Because the pail was the first thing he'd checked. It appeared fully metal. The handle was solid, unlikely to break. And when he'd filled it with a few orbs and sat it flush, it had remained upright. Only, the insidious part was that the bottom did have flex. Not a lot. With a few orbs, the difference was barely perceptible. But with more—say twenty, for instance—the bottom rounded out and became convex. Meaning he could load the pail with as many orbs as he wanted.
But he could never set it down until those orbs reached their destination.
Now, he panted after a successful trip, bucket tossed to the side and overturned. Small boats helmed by shadowy figures occasionally arrived, unceremoniously dumping cargo that consisted entirely of orbs onto the loading platform, undoing any potential sorting in advance he could manage.
He wouldn't give up. It wasn't in his nature, never had been. But not knowing how close he was to either his deadline, or his goal, was slowly driving him insane.
The outline of a white door appeared on the far end of the loading area, and a smug male voice called out, distorted as if over an intercom. "User, present yourself."
"I told you—" Miles stopped as his voice cracked, licked his lips, and tried again. "I told you. No breaks. I don't need a breather, don't need to eat or drink anything that wasn't already supplied within the provisions."
"Really? Shame. This is something of a boring post. I get lonely. Take a few shots of tequila with me, and who knows? I might be able to scrounge up a bottle of sunscreen."
It was more tempting than it should have been. Miles had ditched his shirt in the early hours, confident that the weight of sodden clothes from the crashing waves would slow him down more than the temporary discomfort of exposure. His elevated Toughness stat was supposed to help against that sort of thing, and it had. With the constant sunlight, he should have already been redder than the kool-aid man. He'd endured the first day mostly unscathed. But time had a way of highlighting the cracks in your armor. Now at the beginning of day three he was thoroughly burned, blisters already forming on his shoulders and back.
"What's the ABV?" Miles asked, suddenly.
"Hm?"
"The alcohol by volume. There should be a percentage on the corner of the bottle."
"Ah, I see." There was a pause, before the voice proclaimed. "Seventy-five percent."
"Go fuck yourself." Miles scoffed. "Not even tequila at that point."
"The bottle says tequila." The voice replied petulantly.
"Well, it's not. It's fucking mezcal. And a few shots of that will dehydrate the hell out of me and introduce the possibility of more stupid fucking mistakes. So, respectfully, no thanks."
The voice sighed. "You're all so gods damned boring."
Miles perked up. "There's someone else there?"
"Yes," the boy acknowledged. "A visitor, dead-set on seeing you. But I've told him you're fully committed to not taking any time away from your task, so there's nothing to be done. Tragic really. He won't drink with me either."
"You gonna tell me his name?"
"You gonna take a shot?" The voice challenged.
"No."
"Then I suppose all shall remain a mystery." It sighed, mocking him again. It did this from time to time, popped up to tempt him away from the task, offering false respite. As far as Miles could tell, the boy had never lied to him. He'd omitted, taunted, and twisted, but never outright lied. Which meant there probably was someone out there looking for him.
There were really only two possibilities. Miles kept the list of people who knew where he was intentionally small due to the exorbitant bounty on his head. The overworld entry-point to this realm was in neutral territory, making it painfully easy to set an ambush, so the secrecy was a necessity until he cleared it. Kinsley—the child leader of the merchant's guild—had secured the services of a high level priest, helping him arrange a method of clearing his bounty through a deity called Char. And while he had no doubt the Priest had reported back the outcome, including the destination for his "service," he was reasonably certain Kinsley was wealthy enough to make the bounty on his head paltry in comparison. She was also busy, which meant if she did need to talk to him, she'd probably sent someone.
But Miles was pretty sure the visitor had nothing to do with Kinsley. Directly, anyway.
"I'll take five." He announced.
"Shots?"
"Minutes." Miles somehow wrung a polite tone from between grit teeth.
"But you were so intent on not wasting your precious time." The voice mocked.
"Five minutes, in and out. Whoever it is, I'm guessing this won't take long. Come on. Let me out."
"As you wish." The voice replied, vaguely sing song. After a moment a brass handle formed, and the white doorway grew more solid.
Miles took a deep breath, forced himself to stand up straight, then turned the handle and stepped through.
Conditioned air hit him first, pouring over his exhausted figure and drawing chills. The Proctor's office was as luxurious as it'd been before, lacquered wood flooring covered in plush throw rugs, long leather couches ample enough to lie down on. The scent of Indian food cooking on a distant stove top caused his stomach to rumble, almost completely covering the undercurrent of incense that seeped through his nostrils and calmed his mind, urging sleep, slow and provocative.
"See? He's fine." The proctor said, speaking to someone else. The boy's sneakers were still parked on his desk, as he leaned back precariously in an over-large leather office chair, pose and demeanor almost exactly the same as the way he was the day Miles had met him. Either the advanced necrosis that covered over half of his face and—from the looks of the way it trailed down his neck without tapering off—most of his body didn't actually cause him pain, or he was completely masterful at covering it.
Across the desk, a shadow stood with its arms crossed. It wasn't even that dark in the half-study-half-lounge, yet somehow, he was still difficult to make out, silhouetted features giving the appearance of a void within an otherwise colored photograph. "Really? You call that fine?"
"This is nothing." The boy drew a file out of a nearby drawer and set to work shaping the unhealthy brown nails on his almost entirely necrotic left hand. "It could have been far worse. Would have, if the merchant girl hadn't offered our lordship such a charitable donation. So yes. All his bits are still intact and he's still able to form coherent sentences. Don't be unreasonable."
"He's right." Miles agreed, caution beating out exhaustion. The understanding they'd reached didn't mean shit. It was a temporary respite. Once either of them were more than capable of throwing away the moment it grew inconvenient. "Compliments to Kinsley, all they really have me doing is hard labor. More than fair. Like I said in the messages, I can handle it. You're better off handling business elsewhere."
"See, that's the problem." Myrddin turned, pale, nondescript features drawn into a scowl. "Personally, I'd love to screw off and mind my own business. Really, I would. But you're generally more convincing. And even less persuasive in person than over text. So I'm getting the sense that whatever this is, it's kicking your ass."
"Fuck you."
"Put a shirt on before you poke someone's eye out." Myrddin shifted back to the proctor, who suddenly shrieked and recoiled, losing his devil-may-care attitude and dove to the floor, yanking the middle drawer clear out of the desk, coming away brandishing a Blackwood wand. The proctor held it out in front of him protectively as he scrambled back across the ground.
"Touch me with your power again, and I'll finish what we started during the last transposition."
Myrddin raised his hands non-threateningly, to little effect. Because everything Myrddin did looked threatening. "Relax. Just testing the waters."
The boy chuckled, his voice unhinged, never taking his eyes from Myrddin. "Uh-huh. Miles knows a thing or two about testing the waters, don't you, Miles? So far, he's been lucky. If you'd like it to stay that way, the best thing you can do for him is get the hell out of my office."
"The priest said it's not uncommon for a User to bring in outside help to clear a bounty—"
"Well, the priest can suck my cock and nibble the nads while he's at it." The boy pushed himself up, leaning against the bookshelf for leverage, keeping the wand trained on Myrddin. "Miles chose not to bring in help at the beginning. And that choice was binding. No mulligan, no take-backs. And if you think I'm gonna make an exception for you of all people—"
"Man," Myrddin cut in, his voice suddenly cruel and abrasive. "They really fucked up your face."
Slowly, Miles closed his eyes and put a hand to his head.
God dammit, you're making this worse for me.
"It's... nothing." The boy's expression grew hard. "A little temporary discomfort that will fade with time."
"Maybe." Myrddin nodded, immediately switching tact, tone soft and understanding. "Necrosis is a serious condition. For mortals, at least. Constant burning pain, swelling. Worse part is, it doesn't just stay put. Spreads, like cancer. And from what I understand, there's no cure beyond surgery. Debriding the flesh. Excruciating. You should really get treatment soon."
The boy trembled "If you think I won't fucking kill you—"
"Ah, but I do think that." Myrddin walked away from him, paying no mind to the tip of the wand that still followed him, idly picking up the bottle from the desk and studying it before placing it back down. "I think you got scapegoated for some of the duplicity directed at me during the transposition. They drew attention to your more direct and obvious intervention, using your 'crime' and subsequent punishment as a distraction from the shit they were pulling, and made you suffer the brunt. How am I doing?"
"You have no idea how close I am to turning your existence into a living hell." The boy seethed.
"Emphasis on living. And I'm sure you are." Myrddin shrugged. "Angry, I mean. I outplayed you, got your face fucked up, your body stricken. Yet here I am, alive, well, and unafflicted."
"Myrddin, for fuck's sake—" Miles started, but the boy immediately talked over him.
"Are you... trying, to die?" The boy asked, his expression alternating between enraged and perplexed.
"Not particularly." Myrddin studied him. "Seeing as how you haven't brought the wrath of the gods down on my head, gotta assume you can't. Which, I guess, is why I'm confused on why you'd let this rare opportunity slip." With that, Myrddin turned and walked, unhurried towards the exit.
Internally, Miles scoffed. It was a power move. As classic and cliche as they come. A way to show you're willing to walk away from the table. The boy was older than he looked, and while he wasn't quite a deity, he was far closer to that status than Miles, or Myrddin for that matter. There was no way it worked—
"What opportunity?" The boy snapped flatly, taking the bait.
Myrddin stopped, not bothering to look back. "We both know you don't particularly care for the rules. That this station is beneath you. And Miles—well, Miles is nothing to you. Just another User who shot a gun when he should have used a crossbow, dipped when he should have dodged, slow-rolled the white line when he should have stopped. It's arbitrary. Petty. And you know it doesn't matter."
The wand trembled. "I will perform the duty I have been assigned to the best of my ability."
"I'm sure you will. And there's wisdom in that." Myrddin nodded, and faced the boy, puzzlement playing across his lips. "But what I can't understand is why you're not willing to bend the rules a bit. Especially when you clearly can't touch me in any other way."
"Okay. We're done. Hole in the sternum time." The tip of the proctor's wand began to glow red.
"Sure. They'll kill you, or bury you so deep you'll never see a fertile world again." Myrddin grinned, staring down the embering projectile. "Or... you could just give me what I've asked for."
"And why the fuck would I do that?" The tip of the wand grew white from a heat so intense Miles could feel it from where he stood, yards away.
"Well. You know what I am. Ordinators aren't generally strong in the traditional sense." Myrddin gestured towards Miles. "Hell, he outclasses me on practically every level in terms of physical stats, and despite that, he's a foot in the grave. I'll fare far worse. So sure, you could kick me out, kill me. Or you could show a nobody some mercy, and, in the meantime, channel a fraction of your undue suffering to the person who deserves it most."
For a long tense moment, Miles believed Myrddin might have crossed the Rubicon. Whatever their history, the boy was pissed, and judging from his reactions, he was the type to get stupid when he was angry rather than smart. The first fingers of
And then the wand's light faded. It remained in place, aimed at Myrddin's chest. But drawing comparisons to a firearm, the proctor's finger was no longer on the trigger.
"Ignoring, for a moment, that he already opted out." The proctor spoke through clenched teeth. "I can't assign a transgressor assistance he hasn't asked for."
"Fine." Myrddin said. He crossed his arms again and waited for Miles.
I don't want your help. Frankly, I don't want anything to do with you. The only reason you're here is because you've decided I'm an integral part of the bigger game you're playing, and now that I'm in the shit and you think you've turned me, you're worried about losing all the time and effort invested. Like I said before, you're in over your head. And the last thing I want is to owe you anymore than I already do. Full stop. Fuck all the way off.
For all intents and purposes, a solid sendoff, if a bit crass. And Miles had every intention of delivering it, with gusto, until he realized he couldn't. Something sat ill in the pit of his stomach, a seed of despair he'd either ignored or suppressed, grown malignant with the burgeoning difficulty of the task, utterly despondent at the idea of turning away anything that might lessen it. But Myrddin was too much of an unknown.
And he was about to say as much, when he found, that, again, he couldn't.
Myrddin was an asset. An unreliable one, but still an asset. An unreliable asset with an eye for detail who was textbook anal-retentive. Miles wouldn't have to worry about him losing orbs, or handling them carelessly. He'd help more than he hurt. And with the unproven but almost inevitable Kinsley connection, Miles had to assume that Myrddin wasn't hurting for money, either. Maybe—
"Guess... I could use some help." Miles admitted, almost as surprised at his own sentiment as the proctor pretended to be.
"Really? And here I was under the impression—" The proctor trailed off, his irises disappearing in a swath of golden light, mouth moving in inaudible utterances before he came back to consciousness. Once he did, his mouth pulled wide in a cunning smile. "Well. As it happens, we're not the only ones in agreement." He spread his hands wide, pleased with himself. "I've received assurance that there will be no further punishment if I massage the rules a bit, and even better, my budget cap is lifted."
"Meaning?" Myrddin prompted, annoyed, clearly tired of the proctor now that he had what he wanted.
"Misappropriation, naturally. I've needed a bigger cooler for a while." The proctor inclined his head towards the small, desktop computer sized mini-fridge plugged into the side of his desk. Then he tilted to look at Miles, proffering a smile that was anything but kind. "Also, your bounty is now ten million selve."
"Sorry, what?" Miles asked, his head spinning at the number.
"Bullshit." Myrddin put both hands on the proctor's desk, intruding into his space. "He hasn't done anything. Hasn't committed any further infractions. Why are you raising it?"
"It's common practice." The proctor blinked innocently. "If a bounty isn't completed within a certain amount of time, it only makes sense to throw more money at the problem. Surely it worked similarly in your world, did it not?"
Myrddin spoke slowly. "Is. He. Safe. Here?"
"Absolutely. No one gets through that door unless I allow it."
The Ordinator's voice dropped another octave. "And if a bunch of assholes just happen to show up with torches and pitchforks, looking to bag this stupidly inflated bounty? Are you going to allow them in, Deseric?"
Something wordless passed between them, a tension almost as thick as when the sub-deity was holding Myrddin at wand-point. Miles had a sense—almost entirely instinct, but it was there—that this exchange had less to do with the bad blood between them, more to do with the use of the proctor's name. He'd never bothered introducing himself to Miles. Didn't seem to care to. But the moment Myrddin called him by name, it was like a switch had been flipped.
Why?
"That would be a gross violation of my duties." The proctor clarified evenly, doing a very obvious version of what feds called talking to the tape. "We attend one transgressor at a time. One per adjudicator. My office is closed until Miles either clears his bounty or fails to do so. With the addition of a subordinate, Miles may no longer receive visitors. So as of one minute ago, this office is on lockdown unless the transgressor or subordinate announce their intention to leave prematurely." Finally, he broke eye-contact. "As you established. I'd rather remain with the living."
"Glad we understand each other." Myrddin said.
"Just pointing this out." The proctor spun a pen resting on the desk and watched it swirl. "He's still in danger."
"What danger?" Myrddin leaned forward further, and this time the proctor didn't rise to meet him. Deseric remained lounged in his chair, completely in control.
"You tell me. The task is arduous, that's the point. People die in these things all the time from exertion alone. And—no idea why this is the case—apparently the higher ups want this bounty cleared. It'll keep climbing. In three hours, it will be twenty million. In six, well, you get it. You'll be working together, sleeping in cramped quarters." The proctor leered. "Let's just say you wouldn't be the first subordinate to get ideas."
Myrddin scoffed, standing upright and taking a step backward. "Good luck with the face."
"Fuck you very much."
////
Miles exited the portal door, arguably more troubled than he'd been before. The ocean spray slapped him across the face before he could shield himself, stirring the countless orbs at his feet before the overflow drained through the grates at the center.
Moments later, Myrddin stepped out beside him and froze stock still, almost transfixed by the choppy water. "Great," he said, quickly covering the lapse.
"Complaining already? Really? You just got here." Miles observed, glancing at the giant hourglass on the horizon, before he started shoveling scarlet orbs into his bucket.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
"Yeah, yeah. Give me the rundown."
"We're sorting." Miles announced matter-of-factly. "Good orbs stay here, red orbs climb the stairway to heaven. Well, probably not heaven, but you get the point. We transport them to the basin up top. The buckets work well enough for that, though they'll tip over once you set them down, so don't take on more weight than you can realistically carry. Once it's adequately full, we're done."
"'Adequate' remaining ponderously undefined?"
"Yep."
"Great." Myrddin repeated. With that, he stooped down and silently worked, shoving red orbs into the bucket. "Jesus, you didn't mention they're like thirty pounds a piece."
"Guess I didn't." Miles answered, following suit. "So. Not to make this awkward, but uh. If they're gonna keep raising this thing, I'd really love to have a general range of when you'll start getting antsy."
"I won't." Myrddin answered, plopping another orb into his bucket.
Miles snorted. "Come on. Ten million's already a lot of Selve. Maybe you have more than that, but it's still a chunk."
For a long moment, Myrddin seemed to consider that. "Thirty million. That'd cover a full set of legendary gear, supplies, shelter, more hired help than I could shake a stick at. Unless something changes with the pricing, that'd be more than enough to leisurely speedrun my way through the rest of this horseshit. I'm not saying I would, but I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't think about it."
A system notification popped in the corner of Mile's vision.
From the way Myrddin looked into nothing, he'd received a notification too. Miles tensed, staring at Myrddin's posture, waiting for sudden movement.
Myrddin cocked his head, completely still. "Well. I thought about it. Moving on." Then, cradling the bucket in his arms, he turned and took the stairs two at a time, channeling a level of energy Miles had been lacking since the first day.
"Pace yourself," Miles called after him.
"You're totally right. The longer I drag this out, the higher the bounty goes."
"Anyone ever tell you, you're kind of a prick?"
"Not really." Myrddin raised his voice, still barely audible over the churning water. "I get asshole, asshat, dickhead, and smug C-word way more often than prick."
"C-word? What are you, twelve?"
"I'm neither Australian nor a woman, so it's not my word to say."
"That's... unexpectedly decent." Miles returned, quietly enough that Myrddin likely hadn't heard him. As it stood, and as reluctant as he was to believe it, 'unexpectedly decent' summed up a lot of Myrddin's recent behavior. He'd taken submachine gun-fire—and at least a few of those bullets had to have hit him, then pulled the man who shot him out of serious shit. And was apparently worried enough after the fact to swagger into the proctor's office and dance all over the kid's toes. The last one was more significant than it appeared, because Miles had something of a talent for telling the difference between a truth and an educated guess, and he was confident within a margin of error that until the proctor put the wand down, the danger to Myrddin was very real.
Having already concluded that passing each other on the stairway was a stupid idea, Miles rested his loaded bucket between his calves and waited for his subordinate to return.
Myrddin took his time, testing each step for slippage, going out of his way to keep his gaze fixed on the lower platform.
"Heights or the ocean?" Miles asked.
"Come again?"
"What you're afraid of. Heights, or the ocean?" Miles repeated. In truth, he already knew the answer. Myrddin hadn't broken a sweat once today until he stepped out of the portal and got a face full of sea-level blue. But people had a tendency to get defensive when you pigeonholed them on topics as personal as deep-seated fears.
Predictably, Myrddin scowled, walking as far away from Miles as he could, towards the back of the platform. "And talking about this helps us how?"
Miles shrugged. "Well, we're gonna be here for a while. Gonna get boring if all we have to talk about is the weather, such as it is."
Myrddin didn't budge. Just planted himself at the back of the platform. Miles cursed inwardly as he realized the other man had picked up on his reluctance to traverse the stairway while he was already up there, well within shoving distance.
Fair enough.
His waist and lower back complained as he leaned down, preparing to lift the bucket.
"My father—" Myrddin stopped, hesitated, then started again. "My father had a speedboat. Might still, far as I know, we've been estranged for a long time. Most of my childhood, he was obsessed with them. It was the dumbest thing. On the road, he was a reasonable driver. Cruise-control on straightaways, never went more than ten percent over, you know the type."
"Yeah." Miles said, grateful for a chance to delay the never-ending climb. He grinned. "Usually blasting my horn at them for clogging up the left lane."
"To his credit he was a center lane guy, but yeah. Strict, disciplined." Myrddin cocked his head. "Until he sat his ass down in a boat. Then we were zooming across the lake, and I was in the passenger seat, bouncing up and down like someone spiked my fruit punch with espresso."
"Familiar with that guy as well." Miles nodded along. "You were young?"
"Young enough to be scared. Arguably not scared enough. One day we stopped in the center of the lake so he could fish. I uh—" Myrddin grimaced. "I undid my seatbelt, because I had this thing for the water."
"Define thing."
"Don't get me wrong. I'd been subjected to enough horror stories about children drowning in riptides that I knew the dangers. But secretly, I thought it was beautiful. Mysterious. Something about how vast it was, how sometimes, if the sun was in the right place you could see to the bottom. I guess I liked it because it felt calm, peaceful." He smiled unpleasantly. "And then dad reeled in his line, packed up his pole, sat down, and gunned it."
"Jesus. You go flying?"
"Not right away. Might have been better if I had. But no, I held on screaming my lungs out. My father told me later, when we were safe, he thought I was having the time of my life. Never did quite forgive him for that. It wasn't entirely his fault. If it wasn't for the upswell, I probably would have made it." Myrddin raised a hand, mimicking something flying high at a wide arc, before it crashed back down. "Hit the water feet first, at an angle. Shot straight to the bottom. Started drowning, blacked out and woke up on the shore with some chain-smoking off-duty EMT sticking his tongue down my throat."
Something about the story ticked wrong. It felt mostly truthful, almost deliberately so, but there were aspects that felt like a convert. A version of a past event retold with the details redirected and sanitized. Still, the trauma behind it felt authentic, so Miles let it go. "You gonna be okay out here?" He looked around over the wide expanse. "If you don't think you can do it—"
"There's no problem." Myrddin emphasized through ground teeth. "If anything, I'll be more careful. The only reason I'm going on about this is because I don't need you spending the next however-long getting ideas about why I'm on edge. I hate large bodies of water, and I hate small bodies of water. That's it."
Again. Oddly decent.
"Okay."
/////
By the sixth day, Miles had come to accept two simple truths. The first was that Myrddin was, at the very least, unlikely to push him over the side no matter how high his bounty climbed. It had nearly doubled by now, climbing to a hundred million selve over the last eighteen hours, finally falling static overnight.
The second, was that he'd been overly optimistic with his original evaluation of the task. And for that matter, not only was it simply too much brutal work for any single person to handle, two probably wasn't going to cover it either.
They'd worked doggedly over the first day, mutual dislike driving competition. As soon as someone's feet touched the bottom platform, the other guy was already on his way to the top. Begrudgingly, having someone to spur him along had helped. Collectively, they'd achieved more progress over a single day than he had over the two he'd worked alone. Myrddin had slipped only once, foot catching on a patch of seaweed that sent him stumbling to his knees, but miraculously, despite dropping it, his bucket had remained upright, retaining every orb.
After that he'd finally ditched the ridiculous, billowing dark apparel, stripping down to athletic shorts and a tank top. His form, face, and identifying details still varied greatly, shifting and altering from time to time, but he was no longer prone to bouts of growth or shrinking, height remaining just under six feet.
"Check in." Miles announced, propping his half-filled pail up against the retaining wall as Myrddin returned. He'd been favoring his left side on the descent, an unpleasant expression plastered over his face.
"Light-headed. Vision narrowing near the summit, mostly back to normal. Legs in a bad way, one-side worse than the other."
"Yep." Miles pressed a waterskin to his chest insistently until he took it. "Gonna need a little longer than the time it'll take me to get up and down that thing."
The other man glowered at him darkly.
"Relax. It's not a dig, it's a fact. Drink."
Myrddin stalled, prodding fingers testing the volume of the skin. "Less than half in this one. How many do we have left in the provisions crate?"
"Doesn't matter. Drink, asshole." Miles waited until Myrddin had taken a long pull, his parched throat aching with envy. "There are a couple skins left. But..."
"But?" Myrddin raised an eyebrow.
"Turns out the crate isn't temp controlled. So..."
"They're evaporating in the heat." Myrddin finished, replacing the skin's cork. "Bastards."
"Sucks." Miles agreed. "But on the other hand, no point in strict rationing. We can drink more."
"Until we run out."
"Yeah." Miles agreed.
Myrddin absorbed the news silently, ragged breathing slowly giving way to meditative inhales and exhales as he seemed to forcefully center himself with the same method he'd used over the last few days.
A notification pinged. They both pulled it up, scanned the contents, and seeing the same repetitive sort of bounty increase message they'd been inundated with over the last few days, dismissed it without comment.
Almost.
Miles took the skin as Myrddin passed it back, taking a long pull, watching the Ordinator cautiously. "Hundred million... the numbers are getting harder to wrap my head around."
"After a certain point it's all abstract." Myrddin mused, still cycling the same, intentional breathing. "The sooner we finish this the better. Once they establish no one's biting for selve, it gets nasty."
"What I can't, for the life of me work out," Miles grunted, retrieving his pail and filling it with another corrupted orb that somehow felt heavier than the last. "Is why if the gods—deities, whatever—overseeing this whole thing hate you as much as you believe, why are they willing to hand you everything you need to win?"
Myrddin grimaced. "Well, for one thing, despite earlier comments, I'm not sure any quantity of selve is enough for a full sweep."
"No?"
"A hundred million in my pocket means nothing if I can't spend it. If everything stayed exactly as it was, sure, I'd have a shot—but they proved definitively in the early hours they're capable of altering the rules of commerce. People tried to sell all kinds of shit in the early days for selve and got scammed for it. Anything pre-dome. And if they can blacklist items from being traded, they can blacklist people. There might be rules against that, but they've broken rules before when the stakes are high enough."
Miles thought that through. "Stakes aside, if they could do that, wouldn't it make more sense to do it at the beginning, before you built momentum?"
"It would." Myrddin admitted, drumming his fingers on his knees, lost in thought.
"And even if the selve is worthless, they're spending resources to test you—even if your class, abilities, whatever, afforded a degree of anonymity from the beginning—"
"It didn't. At least a few of them have been aware of who I am from the jump."
That was unsettling. "How would you even know that?"
"Early fuckup." Myrddin admitted. "Stumbled into a dungeon before I understood the gravity of the situation, lacking the tools to shield myself I have today, and was informed via title that something was monitoring me."
"And the title's foolproof?" Miles asked.
"Solid enough that I'm willing to bet on whatever it tells me."
"Then maybe you should reconsider your story. From where I'm standing, it's not connecting. Because if Ordinators are as reviled as you believe, if I was a deity, I'd spend a lot less time trying to test you and a lot more effort trying to kill you." Miles crossed his arms in silent challenge. He half-expected Myrddin to blow him off, tell him to kick rocks.
Instead Myrddin leaned back and crossed his legs. "Here's what I know. We're not the first world to undergo this crucible. Far from it. Barring a consistent and near universal effort to misdirect—which frankly is somehow more difficult to believe than the alternative—we're only the latest in a long line of hundreds, maybe thousands of worlds."
"Okay." Miles nodded, thinking back on the overseer's address and the cryptic comments his own patron had made. "With you so far."
Myrddin continued. "Branching out more to theory here, I also get the impression it wasn't always like this. At some point they were actually trying to help, interceding on behalf of doomed worlds in an altruistic manner. Think Starfleet with Kirk in charge of policy decisions."
It was difficult to imagine, especially with how sour the system's most recent "event" sat in memory. There wasn't much heroism going around during the last transposition. People fought over territory in the same manner they always had. More to the point, the overarching chaos and pandemonium created a lot of cover for heinous, Blood Meridian levels of fucked-uppery the office was still getting vague reports of up to the current day.
That being said, Miles could kind of see it. Some prehistoric version of this never ending carnival ride spun up to save a failing world, rather than inflict punishment and parade the subsequent suffering as entertainment for bored, bodiless deities. But that left an obvious question.
"What happened?"
"Dunno." Myrddin's brow furrowed. "Half-convinced it has something to do with the Ordinator, but it's a chicken or the egg situation. Maybe the Allfather of Chaos tired of existing flaws with the system and created an antagonistic class that worked against it as a protest. Maybe he just got bored with the tidy business of saving failing planets and threw a wrench in things, creating the flaws as a byproduct. Either way, Ordinators spent a long time—possibly centuries—fucking up the system process and ruining everyone's fun. The Allfather is eventually ousted from his position, exiled to the fringes, where he spends countless mortal lifetimes planning a move. Why he chose me was never revealed. All I know for certain is I'm the first in countless cycles, and that return alarms many of them."
"For good reason, if the footage they showed is accurate." Miles said. He took in the ever churning ocean, eyeing Myrddin in his periphery. His first instinct was to keep the man talking, hoping to glean more information. But on second thought, Myrddin would see that coming.
Pump the brakes a little, see if he bites.
"Broadly speaking, I've found that the few of us—most lucky, some less so—who have deistic patrons are generally careful not to name them, let alone voice allegations they might find offensive. It's a little surprising you're not exercising a similar level of caution." Miles said, keeping his voice curious and inoffensive.
Myrddin scoffed and waved dismissively. "Please. Talked to him once. Barely long enough to establish he's dying and unlikely to offer further help. Put that together with the centuries of bad blood he dropped in my lap like a murder piece, and I'm guessing he doesn't care much what I think of him." His jaw clenched for a moment before he sought the center again, cycling his breathing. "The others I've met, the ones that have helped, I generally show more deference to."
"You've met others who haven't smited you outright?" Miles clarified flatly.
"Supposedly they can't. Not that I'm trusting that any farther than I can throw it. Any rule that can be bent can be broken, and it's only a matter of time before they do."
Miles nodded along, slowly forming another theory. "Which, again, brings us to square one. Why?"
"I mean, look at the greater context." Myrddin held a finger out, enumerating his points. "It's easy enough to piece together that previous Ordinators were monsters. Everyone I've met who knows the history paints them as calculated psychopaths who sought power long before the system ever came into play. They were dealt with when the Allfather was exiled, and that counter-measure was effective enough that there hasn't been one for centuries, only now, suddenly, there is. And this time, the Allfather casted against type.
Slowly, Miles pulled a hand down his forehead. "They're fucking curious."
"Some of them, yes." Myrddin nodded. "Generalizing a bit, but it seems like there's three camps. The stalwarts, who want me gone no matter what. The spectators, who are happy with any influx in drama and chaos no matter the source. And the curious, enterprising gods, who see the potential in a grounded Ordinator but aren't willing to put their necks on the line until they confirm I am, definitively, what I appear to be."
"That being?" Miles prompted, unable to help himself.
"Just—a fucking guy." Myrddin hissed. "Some guy who was plodding through life with no delusions or grand plans. Maybe not a good person, but not a terrible one, either. Won't say I never wanted power because that's a lie. No one wants to be powerless. But the sort of power I wanted—the ability to make the people I'm responsible for comfortable, the breathing room to be comfortable, the security to just take a day without worrying about everything crashing down around me—barely registers on the scale they're worried about."
It suddenly struck Miles, that he wasn't the only one this sudden outpouring of raw frustration was meant for. Myrddin believed he was being tested. Hell, Miles wasn't sure he could contest that if he wanted to, given the ever-increasing bounty and the fact that there was only one person present who could feasibly claim it. It followed that he knew he was being directly observed, and he was using this opportunity to make his case.
And it put Miles in a rather gilded position to put the screws to Myrddin, in a manner he simply couldn't before.
"And that's how you've operated after the Ordinator class landed in your lap? As just, some guy? Because, to me, it seems like you've spent a lot of time and effort working your way into the vital gears of groups that could easily end up as future power structures. Sure, maybe the Adventurer's Guild fell through for now, but there are still obvious ties to the Merchant's guild, now the Order. And those are just the ones I know about. Maybe you're as well meaning as you claim, but you can see why others might be cautious."
"Regardless of what I wanted, it's mine now. My responsibility. And if I don't use it to end this thing as quickly and humanely as possible, then I am a fucking monster." Myrddin shut down, frustration suppressed as quickly as it appeared. The thin puddle of water that covered the platform rippled as he stood to his feet, studiously ignoring Miles, kicking up more ripples as he gathered orbs into his pail. "We done?"
"Sure." Miles grinned, feeling as if he was making progress on several fronts. "What's another fifty trips up the stairway between friends?"
/////
It was on the seventh day Miles found his breaking point.
The weather was dark, steady torrential rain hammering the platform and coating the already slick stone ruin, thick roiling clouds completely covering the distant hourglass. As before, he knew the stairs at the top would be the most treacherous. This time he didn't fall.
But if he took another step, there was no doubt in his mind that he would.
Slowly, painstakingly, keeping a tight grip on the pail and a protective arm over the top, he turned around, looking for his companion.
But Myrddin was already dealing with trouble of his own. His pail had fallen to his feet, corrupted orbs floating in a swell of tide beneath him as he convulsed, eyes white and luminous, mouth moving silently—just as the boy deity's had. Myrddin was receiving a message, and while Miles had no way of piecing together the specifics of said message, he had a sinking feeling he knew the purpose.
Once they establish no one's biting for selve, it gets nasty.
There it was. The universal issue with leaning on an asset too heavily, literally playing out before him in a manner that was more Aesop than Grimm. You can uplift them all you want, coach, build a rapport. But leverage, like all things, is temporary. And as soon as either the leverage is gone, or the offer is good enough to nullify its value entirely, they'll start reviewing every way you've failed them in stark clarity, leaving the positive by the wayside, abandoned.
Most of the time, they'll find more than enough reason to put the knife in your back if it means they can get away clean.
He could see ruthlessness in Myrddin's expression as the Ordinator came to, swaying on his feet, the calculation. The hatred Miles had always believed existed, suppressed under the guise of apathy, finally laid bare.
It's over.
The smooth-glass feeling of finality crept in as Myrddin took his first steps up the stairway at a measured, methodical pace, breaking their unspoken arrangement of distance. To this point, he'd been remarkably consistent. So it stood to reason there was only one reason to break it now. It was like rewatching a movie you already knew the ending to, but couldn't quite recall how the preceding scenes had tied up to that final, climactic moment of betrayal.
He might not be able to change the ending. But he could make the best of the time he had left.
So despite the burning ache, rampant cramping in his thighs and calves, Miles refused to give in to the temptation to crumple onto the stairs behind him. If this was his end, he'd meet it standing.
"What did they offer you?" Miles asked, almost afraid of the answer. Because Myrddin appeared anything but elated. His eyes were vacuous and cold, as if something in the unheard discourse had rent his very soul.
"Doesn't matter." Myrddin answered, taking another step. Lightning spider-webbed through the wall of clouds behind him, illuminating the grim rictus of his expression before it disappeared, nothing but a silhouette.
"It mattered to you." Miles tried, eliciting no response as Myrddin continued to climb towards him.
Quenching the fear outright was impossible. But years of mental conditioning and field experience went a long way to numbing the panic, creating pathways to make the energy behind it pliable, useful. If Miles was going to die—and he genuinely believed he was—he was going to do it on his feet, playing every card he had until there was nothing left.
"Maybe you're right. Either way, I've been thinking, it's probably time to cut the rope." Miles managed, not entirely sure if he was still capable of making sense.
"What?" From the exasperated expression that took up most of Miles' vision, he wasn't.
"Free-climbing group, once upon a time. Climbed in tandem. Buncha agency guys, a few from the bureau. Spent more of our time haunting the bars than we did climbing mountains. And as cop humor is practically synonymous with dark humor, it didn't take much for the conversation to turn macabre. We talked about what would happen if the one at the bottom lost their grip. Risked dragging the others down. The conclusion was—"
"For once, spare me the story." Myrddin interrupted, voice harsh.
Miles tried again, doing his best not to measure the distance between them in steps. "This is important. What we came down on was, in that situation, is that it isn't fair to expect the guy above you to do it. We all decided if any of us were sloppy enough to get into that situation, we'd cut our own rope. Save the others. So this is it. I'm calling it. Cutting the rope."
For a moment, Myrddin stopped, peering up at him through a veil of rain. "Why would you even do that for me?"
Because I'm dead anyway.
Miles forced an aloof smile and spoke aloud. "Because I got myself into this situation. You tried to de-escalate, made an effort to explain yourself after I'd already tried to ambush you, when that was already more than enough justification to defend yourself. Despite that, you wanted to talk it through. But... I was terrified. Scared I'd believe you only to get it completely wrong again. So I drew a weapon and tried to kill someone purely out of fear, committing the cardinal sin of any swinging dick with a badge. Better to end this with a good turn, rather than a bad one, right?"
"We have no idea how much time is left." Myrddin murmured, his inflection off, whatever took place in his meditation with the deity still clearly affecting him.
"I'm guessing there isn't much. Also, isn't hard to put together that whoever you spoke to probably confirmed that."
Myrddin shook his head. "No. It confirmed they're desperate. They'd never make that sort of offer if the window of opportunity wasn't closing."
The argument fell flat, lacking conviction. Entirely too late—which was becoming a trend over the last few weeks—Miles realized he might be finally gleaning rare insight into Myrddin's modus operandi. The AG kills had been rushed, messy, done out of necessity and mutual conflict, giving the impression of a brutal, uncaring methodology. But judging from the way Myrddin was acting now, trying to set him at ease, arguing against the inevitable? He got the feeling Myrddin was the sort that preferred that the people he ended never saw it coming.
In a vacuum, it was better than the alternatives.
But in actuality, it was really fucking with his angle here.
Miles switched tact, letting exhaustion seep through. "Being completely honest, I can't do this anymore. Back isn't what it used to be. Need to rest, but I know my limits. The second I sit down, it's gonna be impossible to get up again. And you're barely in better shape than I am. So let me cut my own rope here. Take the money along with whatever else they offered you. And if you can find it in yourself to look back kindly on this oh-so-noble-sacrifice, try to help Hawkins and the rest—"
The words died in his throat. Because in the time it'd taken him to speak, Myrddin had closed the distance, and placed a hand on his chest.
A grim reaper come calling.
The end was close now. He was sure of it. His footing and battered legs were so unstable, the stone below them so slick with seawater that the slightest movement would send him tumbling over the side.
This was it.
Was he ready?
Miles wasn't sure. On the grand, metaphysical rap sheet, he'd arguably done more good than bad. But everyone made mistakes, and Miles was no exception. At the very least he'd been a terrible husband. Failed his families. He'd always hoped that his contributions to the greater good helped balance the cosmic scale, when it came to tallying up the litany of smaller failures. Missed graduations, recitals, forgotten anniversaries. Neglected people suffering endless disappointment.
And here, at the end of all things, those small failures felt a lot more significant.
Cliche as it was, Miles saw the faces of his children flash before his eyes. Most resided outside the dome, relocating either after the divorce in question or after they graduated. He'd tried to keep in touch, and was happy to crack open his wallet if they ever needed anything. It wasn't enough.
Not even close.
I should have been better.
Miles closed his eyes and waited.
The long pause stretched on for an eternity. When Myrddin finally spoke, agony tore at his voice, completely unexpected vulnerability seeping through. "You... have no idea... what I'm giving up. That's fine. I-I-It's probably not even real—they'd just find a way to cheat me, or twist it somehow."
"If it's something you want so badly, no one would hold it against you if you chose to gamble." Miles said, mouth on rapport auto-pilot when he was at an utter loss. The last few days had proven his impression at the transposition wasn't a one-off. Myrddin was tough as nails. He'd watched him work until his body refused to function, collapse, wake up hours later and do it all over again.
What the hell had rattled him so badly?
Slowly, Myrddin lowered his head, looking as damned as Miles felt, "Just... know that passing it up was the hardest thing I've ever done. And that's a high fucking bar. So please. Please. Let this be worth it."
For once, Miles had nothing to say. No comeback, no witty rejoinder. Because in the wake of endless misdirects, double-speak, and lies that had passed between them, this was perhaps, the one time—the only time—he'd been completely confident that Myrddin was telling the truth.
He managed a nod, barely noticing as the frigid metal handle of his pail was carefully pried out of his grip, and Myrddin began a slow ascent towards the summit.
"What did they offer you?" Miles tried again, squinting into the never-ending sheet of rain. Only this time he wasn't asking because he was fishing for leverage, but because—surprisingly—he actually cared.
Near the last step, Myrddin said something over his shoulder. It was difficult to hear with the worsening storm, but Miles was almost certain he'd made it out.
"A childish dream. Nothing more."