Sometimes bureaucracy sucked. And sometimes it was hell in triplicate paperwork and blue or black ink. Quinn filled out another sheet, pressing hard but still having to be careful and neat. His writing hand cramped and jerked. He swore at the form but finished it enough to toss into the pile of completed documents.

“Why isn’t any of this computerized?” Quinn whined, thumping his head against the table.

Vergil didn’t even look up as he continued with his own pile of documentation, writing as neatly and quickly as a typewriter. “Many local, state, and government systems are not fully compatible. At this time, it is more efficient to complete the forms in hard copy for those locations that require it and then create valid scans for those that can accept digital forms of legal documentation.”

Quinn fully admitted to himself that he’d tuned out Vergil part way through that explanation. The reason didn’t really matter. The process was still dumb. The government should take some of that money it wasted on corruption in the military-industrial complex and use it to update all of the systems in the country to one logical method.

Sadly, never going to happen.

Sighing loudly, Quinn rolled his pen back and forth on the table. Vergil ignored him, but Adam looked up from his share of the work to give Quinn a reproving look.

“Quinn. I know you are capable of assisting with this work. Stop with the melodrama.”

Quinn, adult that he was, stuck his tongue out at his handler in a mature rebuttal.

The truth was that Adam was right. Quinn certainly had the skills and knowledge for this kind of paperwork. He was just restless and heartsick in equal parts. The combination made him want to tear the forms to shreds in a fit of pique. Which, of course, would just mean filling them out again later.

Every form represented someone whose life had been touched by the death mages here. Adam was handling paperwork related to the identified deceased, including some forms to urge anonymous investigation towards the victims so far only found via their ghosts. Vergil was handling legal and property forms.

Quinn was doing internal paperwork regarding all of the people who were helped or employed by the domestic abuse nonprofit. He had the police reports for most of the women, but he needed to add details about their magical involvements and any properties that might need to be cleared of magical contamination.

Yes, the brand new shiny Department of Magic was one of the ones that required hard copy documentation. Fuck mages and their traditional methods. He’d probably be filling out these forms on hides or papyrus or something if the real traditionalists had their way.

“How long are we going to be here?” Quinn asked. Vergil grimaced at him, annoyed at his whining. If they weren’t sharing resources, the man likely would have kicked them out of the room a while ago.

“As long as it takes, Quinn,” Adam said evenly, pen never faltering on his forms, “The paperwork won’t fill itself out.”

Quinn had meant here in a more general way. He’d stuck with the clean up of this investigation because of Riordan, but both he and Riordan were so wrapped up in politics and choked out that Quinn couldn’t manage to teach Riordan anything.

And he really needed to teach Riordan everything. Riordan’s unique condition as a death mage offered Quinn hope for the first time in years. Poisonous terrible hope. Quinn had finally accepted his death as inevitable and incurable. Indeed, death was preferable to a half-life as a mad murderous mage.

Quinn grabbed another form and slapped it on the table in front of him. Pressing hard enough wasn’t a problem in his current mood. His hand ached. He ignored it.

Each form represented a life scarred by a death mage. These people had trusted the wrong people. In neat tight letters, Quinn wrote out codes for depression, anxiety, PTSD, bereavement. All of the ones who had reached the level of full membership into the cult part of the group, the Daughters of the Divine Feminine, suffered from broken faith or delusions. Several turned violent at this external oppression of their beliefs and the “clearly unjustified” erasure of their leaders.

Belief was a funky thing. These people had largely been victims rescued from abuse. In their emotional vulnerability, they were offered safety and community. They were bombed with love and acceptance and the potential of self-actualization and personal empowerment. They had found a home, a faith, a reason to live.

Of course, no secrets were allowed inside the community. All their fears and worries were handed over to the leadership. Everyone was equal sisters and brothers, encouraged to dedicate everything to the greater good.

A greater good reinforced with peer pressure and manipulations of their weaknesses and fears.

Quinn hated cults.

Cults preyed on the very human desire to belong, creating a community that appeared loving and close knit that drew people in. Most paired it with spiritual teachings that gave their believers a sense of purpose in their existence and that helped ease the existential anxieties of the world. Belonging to a cult as one of the favored ones felt good and powerful.

It became easy to view anyone outside the cult as other. Who cared if abusers died? Who cared if a few homeless drifters went missing? Most of the members didn’t even know about that side of the cult until they were invited to a gathering for the divine ascension of their prophet. A gathering that happened to require a live blood sacrifice.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Who could speak out in a setting like that? They were all in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by other cult members who believed in their prophet. If the prophet was willing to kill an outsider, then how much easier would it be to kill a betrayer who spoke out against their divine actions? Fear and longing and peer pressure all united to create a mess of guilt.

The victims needed a hell of a lot of therapy. Drika’s final spin stated that there were drugs in the lanterns at that ritual, creating a mass hysteria and delusions. The normal members of the cult had gotten hit by a berserk spell that certainly seemed like the actions of induced insanity, especially since they hadn’t even stopped when several of their own members got caught in a crush and killed.

The unreliable nature of their testimony made it easy to sweep reports of people changing into animals, strange glowing spirits, and a literal storm of magic under the metaphorical rug. The inner circle of those immediately around the three death mages saw more magic, but they also engaged in more illegal actions.

Quinn ran his hands over his face and suppressed the urge to scream. He hated paperwork. He hated it even more when he was supposed to sit in silence for hours and just keep doing it. Restless energy practically vibrated inside him.

Adam looked up and shook his head. “You just left a streak of ink down your face.”

Quinn dropped the pen he was still holding, groaning. “How does this not drive you crazy?”

“Not all of us have attention issues. Go take a break, Quinn.”

Vergil actually paused in his writing. “These forms need to be completed by tomorrow morning.”

“And if you want them filled out correctly, then Quinn needs a break. We are assisting you due to the unexpected complications we have been encountering, the extra paperwork that has generated, and your own recent injuries, but this isn’t our primary duty like it is yours,” Adam explained, turning back to his own stack of papers. “Besides, Quinn might be a genius in many ways but he still has the attention span of a goldfish.”

“Hey!” Quinn sputtered. “I resemble that.”

Adam, that jerk, just nodded, lips turning up in the slightest of smiles. “Yes. You do.”

Quinn made a show of grumbling. In truth, he was grateful for the reprieve. He needed to settle his mental, emotional, and physical energy before he could focus again. He bounced to his feet, rocking back and forth as he stretched his hands over his head, his spine popping with the motion.

Vergil hadn’t resumed work. The stern man frowned deeply. “Won’t you need to go with him, Ahlgren?”

Waving his free hand, Adam dismissed that. “I can supervise him remotely. Quinn knows how far he is allowed to wander without informing me.”

Vergil’s attitude grated on Quinn. He was used to it as a lowly death mage but it never grew more enjoyable. Quinn played up his childishness. “Don’t wander off into the woods, Quinn. Don’t play with the prisoner, Quinn. Don’t invite all the shifters over for sex and drugs, Quinn, no matter how hot they are.”

Adam’s pen bounced off of Quinn’s nose, a perfect shot. By the time Quinn looked at Adam, the man had already grabbed a new pen and returned to writing. Dang it. He wasn’t supposed to be friends with his handler. The high mucky-mucks frowned on that, given Adam’s ultimate purpose.

Apparently Quinn’s words had alarmed Vergil slightly, or so he judged the wide-eyed expression on the man’s face. “You want to–”

“No, I don’t want to,” Quinn snapped, cutting Vergil off. “That’s the point. I just want to stretch my legs and let my mind wander for a bit so that I can focus again.” He turned, stomping off towards the door. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Quinn didn’t wait to see if they had objections. He knew Adam was on his side and that was the person whose opinion really mattered. Quinn felt a pang of sympathy for Helena, locked up in a tiny if nice enough bedroom, but knew that was ridiculous. She’d done more than just accidentally stumble into death magic. She deserved to be there, under lock and key.

Too bad Quinn was just as much of a prisoner. Only, he’d given his parole.

“Fuuuccck,” Quinn whined as he made it outside. He leaned against the cabin, letting his head fall back with a thump. His dark bangs fell over his pale tired face.

Hope made Quinn irritable. It was easier to be content with his limited lot in life if the only other choice was to become something he abhorred. Now that there was the potential of a third choice? The idea that corruption could be removed while leaving the death magic, allowing Quinn to be a real respectable mage? His gut churned with the conflicting desires.

“Are you alright?”

Quinn rolled his head to the side. Xavier stood nearby, a worried expression gracing his fashion model features. Quinn had no idea how the man always looked so impeccable, from his dark fall of tiny braids to his high burnished cheekbones to his many tailored suits. Magic, probably.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just needed a break.” Quinn plastered a smile on his face, trying to mask his underlying frustration.

He must not have done as well as he hoped. The concerned look remained on Xavier’s face. “Are they overworking you?”

“No more than any of the rest of us,” Quinn dismissed that concern. “We’re short staffed and the paperwork makes the Department go round. I just start bouncing off the walls if I keep at it too long.”

“Ah, well, no one particularly likes paperwork,” Xavier agreed. He moved to join Quinn leaning against the cabin, looking out into the woods. Sun streamed warm into the clearing around the large rental cabin before the shaded woods took over.

“Vergil likes paperwork.”

“Agent Creighton is specifically employed for administrative duties and takes pride in his work. I’m not sure that’s quite the same thing as liking it.”

Quinn pushed off the wall, too restless to stand still. He began pacing around the clear space, dry grass crunching beneath his boots, casting longing looks at the woods. A hike would do him good. Or, it used to. Now it mostly wore him out too quickly, but Quinn still wanted to have that choice.

“Why don’t you go out into the woods?” Xavier asked. “You clearly want to.”

Was Xavier an idiot? No, that thought was unfair. Most people didn’t live like Quinn did. “I’m not allowed to.”

“Oh. Right. That makes sense. Especially after Gloria–” Xavier cut off. “No, never mind.”

Quinn whirled, glaring at Xavier. That restless feeling crawled under his skin again. Was it just nervous energy? He hated thinking about death corruption and the way it made his flesh chilled and blood black. Made him less and less human.

“After Gloria what?” Quinn challenged. “After Gloria escaped, you mean? You know exactly where I was and what I was doing when that happened. I was cleaning up the horrible death magic she left behind and trying not to get eaten by zombies and my handler was right there with me, making sure I was a good boy. What more do you want from me?”

Xavier studied Quinn before asking softly, “Do you hate the Department?”