Mike sat down in the chair on the other side of the table, reaching out to scratch Monroe's ruff.

"Morning," Mike offered with a grunt.

Bob nodded, his mouth full of scrambled eggs.

He'd asked Yorrick to relay to relevant parties that he'd head back to the Empire to finish his tour in three days, so it wasn't too surprising that someone had found him on the morning he was supposed to leave. He was just a bit surprised that it was Mike.

Either Mike didn't have anything to say, or it wasn't pressing, as he sat across the table petting Monroe while Bob finished his breakfast.

"What's up?" Bob asked as he pushed his plate away.

Mike shrugged uncomfortably. "I came to make sure someone welcomed you to the world's shitiest club."

"Yeah," Bob replied, his shoulders slumping.

"Yeah," Mike agreed. "Look, they've got shrinks and shit for this, but they don't understand," he snorted, "shit, they can't understand. Another human being damn near killed you. They tried to end your life, and only luck, fate, or whatever provided you the circumstances that allowed you to survive. Those shrinks? They've never been in combat. They've got no frame of reference." Mike shook his head. "They've never felt that terror."

"I keep having nightmares about it," Bob admitted. "Sometimes Yorrick isn't there, or sometimes he just stands there," he clenched his fists, "sometimes that asshole kills Monroe right in front of me and makes me watch."

"I'd like to tell you that it gets better, but I don't lie before eight pm. You'll carry this shit with you, and it'll keep sucking. But every day, every week, every month, every year, it'll suck just a tiny bit less. You'll still have nights where it full-on sucks, just as bad as it was from the start, but they won't be as frequent."

He grimaced, and Bob could see the hardened detective, graying stubble, spare tire and all, underneath the fresh-faced exterior of the nineteen-year-old face.

"I know I should feel bad about killing him, but I don't," Bob replied. "He was cowering in the corner, but I didn't even think about it, I just had Jake rip his head off."

"That's the second part of the club membership," Mike sighed. "You've killed a shitload of monsters, but killing a person is different, and it feels different. Society has told you that killing is wrong, that every life is sacred, that you should feel terrible about killing someone."

He leaned forward. "Bob, look at me," he ordered.

Bob looked up, catching Mike's gaze.

"They're fucking wrong. They're telling you a lie and dressing it up all pretty. They have to tell you that lie because if they don't, society starts to break down a little bit." He shook his head, his eyes still locked on Bob's. "Human life isn't some sort of sacred miracle. People are just people, and most of them aren't villains, nor are many of them saints. But when someone tries to harm you and yours, you take them out like the trash they are. That guy was a grade A fuckin' villain. He was the one in charge of those poor fucks, and I'd bet my left nut that there were far worse abuses happening than what little we saw. So, yeah, you did the entire world of Thayland a favor when you killed him."

"It still sucks," Bob muttered.

"Yeah," Mike sighed and leaned back, "it does. But you aren't alone," he continued. "Everyone in the Old Guard has been through it. You know you are always welcome at the Redoubt, always have been, but I think it might do you some good to visit once a week or so. The shrinks will go on about it, but the fact of the matter is that there's a sort of comfort to be found, just being around people who've been in the shit."

Bob tried to grin but wasn't sure if he succeeded. "I don't quite fit in there," he replied.

"Fuck that," Mike shook his head. "You never served, which is a damn shame as you'd have made one hell of a Marine, but every single member of the Old Guard knows what you did for us. You could have just chilled here on Thayland, keeping a low profile, living the good life, but you stepped up and shouldered the burden of saving the damn world. Then when the government wasn't willing to help us, you stepped up again. You've done it over and over again, never asking for a goddamn thing. We have words for that in the Corps. Words like 'Honor' and 'Duty.' You never swore an oath, but you're living it anyway. So, never doubt for a moment that you're just as welcome in the Redoubt as anyone who has served."

Bob nodded.

"Anyway, welcome to the club. We don't have membership cards or a secret handshake, but whenever you want to share a meal or a story, or just relax around people who get it," he shrugged. "You aren't alone."

"Thanks," Bob replied.

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"How are you doing?" Yorrick asked as he approached the table.

"I've been better," Bob replied. Mike had been the first of several visitors who'd found him at the Adventurers Guild in Holmstead.

"I'm afraid that the awakening of mana in your world is going to reveal certain truths about human nature that your people have tried very hard to overlook or cover up," Yorrick shook his head. "You shouldn't have been caught by surprise by Torlin, as he was clearly acting aggressively."

"I had thought," Bob ground out, "that the Empire had laws that prevented people from attacking each other."

"We do," Yorrick sighed, "although, as I've said, the laws governing the behavior of the Noble Houses and the Pillars are more complicated. You ran afoul of that when you interfered with Torlin and by his sworn service, House Colvern's administration of their indentures." Yorrick raised a hand to forestall Bob's reply. "I absolutely agree that they were in the wrong and that the indentures needed to be removed from their custody, but by healing them, you stepped outside of the legal process, which opened you up for retaliation, or it would have if you weren't an Envoy."

"So if I saw something like that as I walked down the street, I'm supposed to just keep on walking? Go find someone to report it to?" Bob asked incredulously.

"Yes," Yorrick replied. "Yes, that is what you are supposed to do. We have laws in place to deal with those who abuse their power, stronger, stricter laws than those that exist in Greenwold, but our laws are also particular about who is allowed to act." He shook his head. "Part of accepting the darkness within is acknowledging that you have to control your impulses, or are you telling me that there wasn't just a tiny hint of Wrath motivating you when you healed those people?"

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Bob opened his mouth, then closed it. He'd been angry, no, furious when he'd walked into that barracks. How much of that was righteous anger? When did that turn into Wrath?

Yorrick nodded slowly. "Honestly, you feel less than most, which is both a blessing and a curse. Because you've repressed your emotions, when you do express them, they're stronger, more overwhelming because you have less experience in dealing with them. Please understand," he laid a hand on Bob's shoulder, "you did the right thing, you simply went about it the wrong way."

Bob closed his eyes and focused on his breathing for a slow count of ten. Opening his eyes, he asked, "Am I likely to see any other atrocities?"

Yorrick hesitated for a moment before replying. "That sort of depends on where your definition of atrocities falls," he shrugged. "I don't think you'll have an issue with the arenas, the buffets, the drug parlors, or the orgy halls, but there are some aspects of prostitution you'll find..." He trailed off before shrugging again. "Let's just say unsavory."

"Great, more nightmares," Bob muttered.

"Hopefully not," Yorrick said, in a manner that was not at all reassuring. "Before we leave, I have something for you," he added, pulling out a slim black wallet, which he flipped open before passing it to Bob.

Bob accepted it hesitantly and looked it over. The wallet contained a slim rectangular metal plate. The plate was embossed, rather than etched, with the design of a seven-pointed star. Above the peak of the star, he found his name, as well as a series of numbers.

"Your citizenship plate," Yorrick explained. "Simply push a bit of mana into it to bind it to your signature. It also functions as your ATM card, allowing you to pay for goods and services directly from your account."

"I don't have an account," Bob said idly as he inspected the plate more closely.

"Yes, well, we set one up for you," Yorrick began, "When the Emperor seized the assets of house Colvern, your actions in uncovering their illegal activities ensured a small percentage of the revenue generated by the sale of the forfeited assets, and we needed someplace to put it. So we set up an account and used a portion of your share to pay your taxes for the year."

'Trebor,' Bob projected, 'is this plate some sort of trap? Am I agreeing to be bound by some terrible contract by putting my mana into it?'

'Yes, and no, but mostly no,' Trebor replied. 'You're agreeing to the responsibilities of citizenship, which are paying your taxes and obeying the laws, but the only difference between this plate, and the ones carried by every other citizen of the Karcerian Empire, is that it marks you as an Envoy, which is similar to an ambassador on Earth. You have a limited sort of diplomatic immunity, which will help to smooth over any blunders you might make, legally speaking, as you didn't grow up on the Empire, and cultural misunderstandings are almost unavoidable.'

Bob pushed a tiny flow of mana out of his matrix. He could feel the plate absorb it and was surprised when the plate shifted from its prior color, which had been a dull metal, to a deep black, covered in a sheen of dark blue, with more solid blue streaks and swirls throughout.

"Great, I'm not sure how far along we are with selling off House Colvern's assets, but we can check your account at the Church, who are responsible for our banking," Yorrick smiled. "I suppose I should ask if you're even considering giving us your endorsement?"

Bob grimaced. "Objectively, the problems I've seen with your indenture system are minor," he admitted, "but I'm having a hard time remaining objective due to someone snapping Monroe's neck and ripping my spine out of my chest."

"Well, being able to identify your own bias is one of the keys of objective research, or so I've read," Yorrick replied. "Regardless, we should be going, it's dawn in the Empire."

"Also, we need to record your plate so we can start summoning you every hour," Yorrick added as he began to cast a ritual portal spell.

----------------------------------------

Bob winced as a woman kicked her opponent in the groin, then took off his arm with an axe. The crowd around him roared its approval, some of them chanting the woman's name, which was apparently 'Heavare.'

The Arena reminded him a bit of the historical depictions of the coliseum. Gladiators would fight each other on the sands below, although there were spell casters on hand to make sure no one actually died.

Yorrick was tapping away at his tablet, ignoring the spectacle.

"Ok, so I've seen a match, and I don't really feel like I need to see another," Bob had to shout to be heard over the crowd.

Yorrick nodded and stowed his tablet before standing and leading Bob out of the Arena.

"I thought you wouldn't be particularly enamored with the Arena, but it's one of the things that your people will definitely want to be aware of," Yorrick explained as they walked down a hallway, the camera crew hurrying behind them.

"I'm not sure why anyone would want to fight other people," Bob replied, "if you need to work out some aggression, there isn't a shortage of monsters to kill, and those are at least profitable."

"True," Yorrick replied.

He'd explained to Bob before they entered that you had to pay to fight in the Arena, and there were no rewards or prizes. You could climb the rankings ladder, and that did serve a purpose of sorts, as someone who was highly ranked could be expected to have exceptional combat skills and thus would be welcomed to a party that was delving a Dungeon.

"What's next?" Bob asked.

"Now that we've gotten the messy bit over, I figured we'd head to the Buffet, as it's almost lunch anyway," Yorrick grinned. "Even if you don't favor Vorax, you'll love the Buffet. We just need to stop at the Black Cathederal first."

"Why?" Bob asked.

"Two reasons," Yorrick began, "first and foremost, is to have a citizens plate made for Monroe." He reached over and rubbed behind the big cat's ears. "It's a little different than yours, but it will identify him as your familiar and a citizen of the Empire. It will also carry the mark of the Envoy, which might help him keep out of trouble."

Bob nodded, reaching up to give his buddy a ruff scratch. "The second reason?" He asked.

"To check your account," Yorrick said, "we're going to be headed through the market, and if the impulse to buy something came over you, it'd be easier on everyone if you purchased it with your own funds, from your own account."

"Two birds, one stone, I suppose," Bob replied.

There was no such thing as walking in silence with a group of over ten people, but Bob tried to ignore the hushed conversations held by the camera crew and focused on studying the city of Karce instead.

If he had to identify a single thing that set it apart from a city on Earth, it would be that people didn't go anywhere. Even in comparison to Harbordeep, there wasn't a lot of foot traffic.

"Where is everyone?" Bob asked Yorrick after a few minutes.

"What do you mean?" Yorrick asked in return.

"There's no one on the streets," Bob replied, gesturing around them.

"Ah, well, they're either in their shops," he motioned toward the store fronts that faced the street from the bottom of each building, "or they're off to work or delving. We don't really have an all-day, all-night society, at least not yet. When night comes, work ends, when dawn breaks, it begins. So you'll find most people moving about at those times. Even those who delve the night shift operate on the same schedule, simply reversed."

As they approached the Black Cathederal, Bob was surprised to see a familiar figure standing just inside the doors.

"Just the man I was looking for," she said, her voice echoing in Bob's ears, a whisper of darkness, tempting and inviting.

"High Priestess Cascadia," Yorrick nodded his head in greeting, and Bob realized why she'd seemed familiar.

"My dearest High Warlock," she smiled as they approached, her slightly elongated canines visible. "While I'm always looking forward to a visit with you, it was Mr. Whitman to whom I was referring." She turned and leveled her smile at Bob.

"High Priestess," Bob nodded his head respectfully, "how can I help you?"

"Such a gentleman," Cascadia murmured quietly as they entered the Cathedral, the temperature dropping as they stepped into the shade.

"I have something for you if you'd follow me," she said before walking down a staircase behind the statue of Mor'Noctum.

Bob looked to Yorrick, who gestured for him to follow, which he did. Through long hallways and four more staircases, he followed the High Priestess before she finally came to a graceful halt in front of a door which seemed no different than the hundreds of others they'd walked past.

When Bob arrived, she smiled at him again and opened the door, revealing a barracks or dormitory. It was large and was filled with hundreds of people, most of whom were sitting on their bunks, chatting, or playing board games. It was clear that they were clean and healthy.

"Your property, Mr. Whitman," Cascadia whispered, and Bob could feel her breath on his ear. He had no idea how she'd gotten that close to him, but he was going to chalk it up to her being a tier nine, thousand-year-old vampire.

"I'm sorry, my what?"

"Wait, I have the perfect phrase for this," Yorrick said excitedly, then he intoned in a gravelly voice, "You keep what you kill."