Everyone was gathered from the measly little town. Jon personally knocked on each door and told—no ordered—them to move to the scene on the rise in front of Keya’s hut.

They stood impassively looking at the restrained men and Keya. A sorry bunch, poor peasant folk either too old or too young to be drafted. The women and Gillian’s gang were exceptions. These boys had either serendipitously or purposefully avoided the 'honourable' call to arms. Several towns were in notably similar states during his scouting. The group numbered twenty or so, malnourished and grimy.

As he paced up and down a dusty path wore into the arid soil. The four culprits had awoken, but they sat bound and resolute on the ground.

“Who amongst you is in charge?” he asked.

The ringleader, one leg still rooted in the ground, opened his mouth to speak but-

“Shut the fuck up Gillian. I meant people who actually care about consequences.”

Then after a deathly pause, the humourless woman he saw earlier on a porch hobbled forward.

“How may I address you, ma’am?”

She looked about as if to gain assurance from the others (none was forthcoming). “My name is Hilda. I am the village elder.” She croaked.

“Alright Hilda, my name is Jon.”

Scanning the reticent bunch, he pressed on.

“I am a traveller who was assisting the kindly Ms Ces on her trek back to this humble hamlet of yours. Goblins kidnapped her, you see, a terrible business that.” Pause for effect. “We returned only to find Mr Ces here in less than ideal condition, ostensibly in the care of these four lads.”

Smiling sickly sweet, he continued.

“What pray tell is the punishment for murder in this proud, law-abiding community?”

Keya was still kneeling on the ground with Ralfen’s head in her lap.

Hilda stared on unyielding. “This,” she glanced impassively at the captives, “is a local matter, outsider. It is of no concern to you how our kingdom metes out justice.”

“No concern you say!” Jon huffed out a forced laugh that turned maniacal. He covered his eyes. ”Oh, how mistaken you are. These noble youngsters are a fucken big problem for me!” It was soliloquy time. "You see, we find ourselves in a story that no longer has a hero, but numerous villains might still appear, or we might unintentionally create them.

“Indeed, I could kill them. We are, after all, in a state of cold war and under quarantine. No correctional facilities, so capital punishment may be the only justice available. They represent a threat to the mission, and it is well within my power to make the call.

“But,” taking a breath “what of their loved ones? Say I kill them and then their father, mother or perhaps a sibling swears bloody vengeance on Keya and me. Alas, my actions have birthed the monster I wished to avoid, an all too common trope; trust me on that.

“So let us perhaps ponder your way.” Jon ruffled one boy’s hair and stared him down. “We pull these men in front of a local lord, and I would be more than happy to do that civic duty, rest assured! And what would this lord do? It is wartime as we all know, coincidently here are four able-bodied young men. Why kill them when you could instead send them to die?

“Again we have a quandary; my journeys will undoubtedly take me to the front lines where I least wish to find familiar adversaries. Not to mention that however lowly in character these individuals are, they’re still robustly healthy members of a community entering winter.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

“To be rid of them is to punish you. And we’re back where we started.”

Crouching in front of Gillian, he met his eyes. An unrepentant smirk was plastered across the fool’s face.

“Instead of vengeful retribution, how do I inspire cowardly shame?”

That smirk quickly faded into uncertain terror.

“Fortunately for you, even in this lawless backwater, I am a creative man of means!”

Jon pulled out a pen and wrote on his hand. “Keya, can you read this?”

She looked up. “Yes.”

“Please read it for me.”

“It says: ‘Murderer: Ralfen’ in Common.”

“Wonderful! You guys read English.” No one made further comment.

Jonathan activated the accelerometer rings on his fingers; they were nothing but thin skin coloured bands on each digit, barely visible. He typed a chat message with his fingers using specific combination taps on his thigh.

“I’m gonna speak to the spirits now.” He said to the crowd, which naturally prompted murmurs.

“Lee, are we clear for a Snowcrash conviction?” The speaker-phone on the sensor buoy activated.

Instead of AR chat, Lee’s voice was heard by all. “Yeah, Evy registers extrapolations with the least chance of antagonist cascades.” His voice projected quite well in the vicinity along with his distinctively Australian tang.

Jon made a point of keeping his mouth clamped shut throughout the reply, and the theatrics got him a few startled jumps and whimpers.

“Cunt, did you just put me on speaker?”

“That I did, Lee. Get the patches printed and sent.”

The exchange prompted the village elder to kneel, and the rest of the clearly frightened folk followed suit.

Hilda spoke. “We had no idea you were a mage, Lord Jon. We meant no disrespect.” She was almost prostrate. “Please! Do not set your vengeful spirit upon us.”

He rolled with it, shock and awe were useful allies in this ruse. Also the more they wrongfully assumed of him the less they actually knew, making later descriptions of this event further misleading.

In another world—another universe in fact—an idle printer was sent instructions for fifteen characters on two lines in Times New Roman font with the first word in bold capitals. It printed and cut four copies in seconds and dropped the finished products through a very similar iris, falling through a few more rifts until they made it to a shelf full of cylindrical recesses. It was like a wine cellar but with varied circular sizes far larger, and a few smaller, than most bottles. The strange shelf bisected a cluttered concrete room and was accessible from both sides. Jon stuck his hand in his bag through his iris and grabbed the ready-made white rectangles, having arrived only seconds ago, from said room. Each plastic adhesive pad had the identical, made to order, mirrored writing on them.

Lee chimed in. “I’m getting coffee; set the discharge to standard 12 Volts DC. I better not be on loudspeaker when I get back; else I’m putting on porn.” Jon flinched, he’d made good on that threat more than once. By contrast, his audience quivered in fear at the ‘spirit’s’ outburst.

With little ceremony, he stuck the adhesive pads to the foreheads of each culprit and fed them power with is gloves. As electricity surged through conducting plates, thousands of microscopic plastic needles extended past the dermal layer. Pressurised ink, encapsulated behind the hollow needles, flowed through and deposited itself below the skin. The resulting activation made each person grunt from the sting. Gillian struggled the most. Finally, he ripped them off like duct tape, revealing a freshly bleeding tattoo that read:

> 'MURDERER:

>

> Ralfen'

Turning them about, the crowd gave out surprised gasps as they witnessed the change.

“Welcome to your new lives, boys! To all who know you and all who will stay near you for the next ten years: friends, family, and lovers. They will read of your sin. You will wear it day and night. You may hide it behind a hat or cloth, but it will always be there, weighing on your mind as it were." Jon tapped his forehead for emphasis. Fear my puns peasants!

“Fear the lawmen, for if they see it, they may ask questions. These are your shackles. The ink is of a special type, and it will fade with time, by ten years it will be all but gone.”

Gillian spoke up. “Why should we believe you!”

“Oh, you doubt a mage’s word?” Haughty huff. “Believe me or don’t, that is up to you. But the ink is pretty close to the scalp. You’d have to cut or burn to the bone to remove it.

“My advice: wait the ten years. Either way, you’re marked for a decade. But with my way, there’s a chance you’re not marred for life. It’s a lenient sentence, trust me.” He squinted then turning to the elf, “Is this sufficient Keya?”

She was silent for long moments. “It will have to do.” There was a chill in her eyes that he knew all too well.

“Well, you heard the lady. Get these boys outta here, and someone dig this arsehole out of the ground. If I see any one of them nearby again; I’ll kill them myself.”

He cut their cable ties, carefully hoisted Ralfen and walked with Keya back to her cabin.