"What the fuck," Zoork said.

Meth smiled with puffed-up lips. He stepped over the broken glass as he neared Arthur, pointing at him and slowly speaking, "No need to thank me, joining my organization will be enough reimbursement. Soooo... what will it be?"

The water stopped flowing into Arthur's mouth and acted like regular liquid, pouring onto the floor or wherever it fell. He attempted to speak but coughed, puking on the floor and onto Meth's shoes.

Meth stared at his shoes and then at Arthur. He twitched his eyes, pressing his lips together. "It's fine."

Arthur puked again onto Meth's shoes, a half-chewed lemur falling onto his feet.

"This is probably not fine," he said, closing his eyes. "Zoork, get us new clothes."

Zoork left the room to get new clothes, leaving Arthur and Meth alone.

"I can help you, Arthur. Just let me try."

Arthur groaned, opening his mouth, trying to speak.

Meth expected vomit, so he stepped back to avoid it, though he slipped on the dead animal. As he fell, he propelled the chewed lemur upwards and onto his face. The glass barely cut him as he dropped onto the ground, but the lukewarm vomit soaked into his clothes. He felt something that only could be expressed as irking.

"You okay...?" Arthur asked, sitting criss-cross on the table and leaning forward, but he shook his head as he looked down at Meth. All he could think about was how Meth left by himself. He shrugged. "The last time I checked, I wasn't wanted."

Meth grabbed the lemur off his face and threw it against the wall. He stood up and looked around. "The last I checked, you were dying. If it wasn't for me, you'd be finished. So let's have bygones be bygones."

"What's stopping you from leaving me stranded again?"

"If you could see the beauty that I glimpse... The plans I decipher... The true magnificence that I see... You too would understand why I did what I did."

"I don't notice what you do. All I see is a man who left me, and I won't fall for that deceit again."

Meth smiled and flared his arms in the air, up then down. "If it weren't for my actions, your powers wouldn't have been triggered."

"So? As you said, I almost died, and that's because of you, yet, you can smile through that. You're not someone I want to have my back. No..."

"Arthur, you too would smile if you could envision my dream future."

"I can't," Arthur said, getting off the table. "So let's have bygones be bygones. I walk my way, you walk yours. I'll do what I need by myself. I don't need to deal with a hindrance like you in my way."

"Fine, fuck it," Meth said as he grabbed a glass shard from the floor and pressed it against his finger, cutting it open. He rubbed his finger on the table, creating a sign of some sort.

Arthur's eyes widened, watching Meth write with his own blood.

"Here you go, a quick lesson on Tuam," Meth said, closing his eyes and pressing them as he wrote on the table. "Restrictions strengthen you, but how do you set a restriction? There are many ways. In fact, the user decides which way they find comfortable. Most like to meditate and create a restriction through mental prowess, but I'm a bit different. I lack any beneficial Tuam, so the only way I can set restrictions is through my blood, or at least... that's the only way I've found so far."

"What the hell are you... Why are you doing this?"

Meth bit his lips and shouted as his finger's bone touched the table while writing, but he didn't stop. He wrote whatever he spoke. "I, Meth, swear upon my life that if Arthur Penfish doesn't complete his goal of putting Lewis Bird into a fishbowl, then I'll not only end my life, but I'll end it before I witness my goal, pursuing The Wanderer's goal!"

Zoork stepped into the room with clothes in his hand, but he dropped them as he opened his mouth, staring at the table. "What have you done? Meth, what did you..."

"I made a restriction. Honestly, more like a contract with Arthur. I will actively help him complete his goal. And if I don't, I'll be forced to kill myself."

Zoork held his head as he looked at Meth, then at Arthur.

Arthur stood there silent, not sure what to say. He knew Meth could lie, but what man would sever their finger for a falsehood?

"You're crazy," Arthur said, closing his eyes and shaking his head. A faint smile grew on his face. "I think it's wearing off on me. I'll accept your contract."

Meth grabbed his cut finger and scowled as his lips curled up in pain. "Zoork, show Arthur around. I'll have the infirmary stitch me up."

"You guys are mental," Zoork said, but he paused. He wanted to speak out and call both of the idiots, well idiots, but he didn't. He looked at Arthur and pointed his head at the door. "You'll need to get accustomed to the mansion since you're one of us now."

"Will he be alright?" Arthur asked, pointing to a fainted Meth; he collapsed unconscious, leaning against the table.

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Zoork shrugged, giving a nonchalant look. "Don't worry, I'll have someone take care of him. We have more dire issues to worry about."

"Whatever you say."

Zoork took out a phone from his pocket and texted someone. He grabbed the clothes from the floor, exiting the office — Arthur followed. They made their way down the villa's hallway and to another room.

Zoork stopped and opened a bathroom, extending his arms out. "Take these and change your clothes."

Arthur grabbed the clothes and entered the room, looking down at his torn tux. "What about my suit?"

"Leave it there. I'll have the custodians clean it," he said, closing the door.

The mansion wasn't any extravagant residence, it was The Wanderer's base. A decked-out crib with numerous enigmas: a weapon and operations room, a garage filled with only the finest supercars, an aquarium with ten albino alligators, and so much more. Whoever made the base was living a child's dream, which makes sense since Meth designed it.

Arthur opened the door, his old attire folded on the floor. He stretched his arms and legs. "These are pretty comfortable."

He wore dark blue shorts with red stripes coming down the sides. He wore this outfit with black leggings and a black shirt that had a white upside-down smiley face on it.

"Take this and put it on your right hand," Zoork said, handing him one black glove. The long armored gauntlet was made of a leather-like fabric, approximately fitting up to his elbow.

Arthur held his arm up, the glove automatically tightening around his arm. "As cool as I look, what's the point of this?"

"You leak too much Tuam. Most of it exits from your right palm, so we'll have temporary protection. Just for now. Don't worry. Also, I plan to have you learn about Tuam and all its intricacies, but for now, this will help you ease your vitality."

"Sure," he said, glancing at Zoork with a confused look.

"Before I introduce you to the team, you need to keep three things in mind. Most aren't in the mood to welcome new members. There have been too many controversies, and recently losing a new member won't help, especially since it was because he betrayed us."

Zoork feared the implications a new member could carry. Considering the recent betrayal and several past incidents, it made sense to restrict recruitment. That's why he couldn't get over Arthur being a part of Trevor's disloyalty. It wouldn't mesh well with the seven geriatrics — the individuals in charge of The Wanderers.

Arthur wasn't sure what to say, so he stayed quiet and turned back, looking a tad upset. He was more concerned that his drippy suit was ruined. Though, he understood what Zoork was trying to convey. He knew he had to be on his best behavior, but before he could do that, he needed food.

The sound of his stomach growling was almost like a roar. He stared at his stomach and smiled, placing his hands behind his head. "Hey Zoork, do you think I could eat before you show me around?"

"Don't worry. I plan to kill two birds with one stone."

Arthur wasn't sure what that implied, but it's not like he was in any position to object. He followed Zoork into an elevator. Of course, the mansion had an elevator. After all, it was seven stories. They stood next to each other as the elevator played some trash underground artists from SoundCloud.

"Made it from the motherfuckin gutters, what you know bout that? Rat mofos all near. What y'all know bout that!? I've been eating your sewage while you were out here, eating all the cheese..."

Zoork closed his eyes, ignoring the music. Arthur tried to ignore it, but he wasn't able to. He listened to the trash, which only a tasteless covid patient could enjoy.

They descended to the third floor and exited the elevator, free from the hellish music. The third floor differed from the previous fifth floor. The third floor was for recreation: entertainment, eating, and "fun." If you know, you know. If you don't, then you don't.

The third floor wasn't busy today. Most members were out on missions or on different ones. After all, being labeled terrorists wouldn't allow enjoyment, but still, there were around twenty members present in the area, around ten dealing with restaurant work.

There were three ways to proceed after exiting the elevator — a hall to the right and left or a path in front. The duo turned to the left and neared the cafe. It was massive, way larger than a mall's cafeteria, and exquisitely designed with the finest materials. A black and white combination made the area look very fancy, and the various options to eat were outstanding.

"You guys have a cafeteria?"

"Yeah," Zoork said, shaking his head and sighing. "It was Meth's plan. He said happy workers are efficient ones."

"Sir, what will it be?" a chef asked, running to Zoork and saluting him.

"At ease," Zoork said, pointing his thumb at Arthur as he looked at him. "Tell him how hungry you are and what you want."

The chef attentively stared at Arthur, almost like he was scared to look at Zoork.

"I'm starving. So honestly, I'll eat anything as long as it's not raw."

"Get him a bulking meal," Zoork said.

"Bulk?"

"A bulk meal is for those who are trying to build muscle," the chef said, walking to his kitchen. "I'll have it ready right away."

"Muscles, that's probably something helpful to have," Arthur said, looking at his biceps.

"You're quite small. You'll need to gain it if you want raw strength," Zoork said. He flexed his arms, his powerlifter-like body illustrating his strength.

Arthur knew he needed to work on his muscles. He needed them. If he had big muscles like Zoork, maybe Reaper wouldn't have been able to cut and humiliate him...

After the chef had finished cooking, he brought the food. He handed Arthur five shopper bags' worth of food. "This is two days of food. When you need more, don't be afraid to come."

"Thank you," Arthur said. He carried one shopper bag with his mouth and two in each hand.

Zoork eyes darted at Arthur, continuing to look at him. He wasn't too keen on helping.

The duo made their way to the elevator. They entered the elevator, shitty music playing.

"I heard you good with them soft lips. Yeah, you know, word of mouth. The square root of sixty-nine is eight something, right?" the elevator music played. That's not a corny SoundCloud artist, just Drake.

The duo made their way onto floor seven. They exited the elevator, walking into an empty hallway with a smell of dark coffee and hints of sweet ink odor. The seven geriatricians operated on this floor, but all the rooms were empty, leaving the hall desolate. Except for one room, an area reeking of philosophy, enterprise, and bureaucracy.

Zoork placed his hand on Arthur's shoulder and nodded his head. "You can't misbehave, not even for a second. These guys are sharks. They'll take any chance to chew you down."

"Luckily, goldfish don't swim in the ocean," Arthur said, joking as he slightly smiled. His joke was more out of discomfort than humor.

"Meth seems to be wearing off on you," Zoork said, shaking his head. He smiled and walked forward as he patted Arthur's back. "Get moving, shrimp."

One room stood distinct among the others, a space with a grandiose door. They opened the door and entered an opulent meeting room decorated with gold and fancy adornments that were entirely illegal, but that's beside the point, at least they weren't the product of child labor. In the middle of the room was a giant circular table with gold chairs. Six geriatrics sat around the table, and one female member was standing next to one of the geriatrics.

"You're finally here," Meth said, sitting at the end of the table. He had his feet on the table with his hands behind his head. "Dear geriatrics, I'm blessed to report that it's finally time."

Everyone stopped what they were doing and fell silent, all eyes focused on Meth.

"We have finally reached the point where The Wanderers' true aim begins."