A silence somewhere between awkward and contemplative settled across the room at Alter’s statement. It wasn’t just the names that gave them cause to consider. There were sections for birthplaces and family lineage. Training schools and previous combat experiences. Former employers and lasting affiliations. Payment expectations, upkeep and expenditures. A rogues gallery of pitfalls and headaches. The more they tried to answer, the more obvious their lack of knowledge would become. There would be a lot left blank.

“Well then, where do we start?” Riptide asked with an uncertain smile.

“At the beginning.” Alter responded, his voice monotone. “Individual names. Anyone have any strong opinions on how we should handle this?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? We write our real names.” Walross stated emphatically.

“Isn’t it dangerous for us to use our real names?” Pavejack asked tentatively. “Like, wouldn't there be consequences?”

“What do you mean? What consequences?” Walross interrupted incredulously. “What are they going to do with your name? Ask your boss for a personal reference? Call the police? Summon the United States ambassador? Petition the United Nations for an armed intervention? This world and ours are completely separate, our names mean nothing to them. Why should we fear what cannot be used against us in any meaningful way?”

“Because we are surrounded by humans.” Whim responded, surprisingly calm given the strength of Walross’ outburst. “People fear what they don’t understand. If we start using our real names, and for whatever reason they don’t quite fit, then suddenly we’re different. Outsiders. Our gear already separates us enough, we shouldn’t drive the wedge further in.”

“And the names we’re currently using fit in better, do they?” The German shot back icily.

“That’s not–” Whim began but quickly faded back to silence.

“Calling each other by our usernames made sense to begin with. But surely this is the point where we separate ourselves from this fiction.” Walross’ tone became more pleading. “I am not some unthinking, unfeeling avatar. I am me, I am here, I am alive. Why should I have to pretend to be someone else?”

Noone had an immediate response, but just as Alter opened his mouth to admit he had a point, Riptide muttered a few words under his breath in a language he didn’t understand.

“Englisch, feigling.” Walross hissed as his head turned towards the whisper’s source.

“You only say that because you’re happy!” Riptide snarled as met the other man's gaze, unflinching. “You’ve got a good life back there. You’ve got a home, savings, a loving partner. Hope! What about the rest of us, huh? What about me?”

“So, you’re just going to run away? Abandon who you are to play soldier? Pathetic.”

“Enough!” Alter interrupted. “Do you think these walls are soundproof? How would the clerk react if he walked back in to hear that? Now, hand me that paper.”

“Tsch.” Riptide turned his head and glared at the corner of the room. With stiff movements Walross slid the controversial form across the table to Alter before folding his arms and giving him an expectant look. With six pairs of eyes upon him, Alter took a moment to compose himself, his eyes straying to the glass of the window and his faint reflection staring back at him.

“I understand where you’re coming from, Peter. Despite all that has happened I am still myself; my thoughts and opinions have not been replaced by some ‘other me’. However, when I look at my face in a reflection and when I glance at my body, I know that I have changed. We have all changed. So, while I refuse to abandon the man I was before, I also choose to acknowledge the man that I’ve become. Do you see what I mean?” He spoke softly, encouragingly.

Walross relented with a slight relaxation of his shoulders and Riptide’s head began a slow track back towards the centre of the room. With careful, delicate strokes Alter dipping the quill in ink and making his mark. Luke ‘Alterfate’ Ploughman.

“My username is now just as much a part of me as any other. All we have met in this world know us by them, respect that.” He finished coolly and slid the paper back across.

Walross stared down at the form for a few ponderous seconds before following suit. Peter ‘Walross’ Behrens. More followed, Simon ‘Whim’ Foreman, Adam ‘Pavejack’ Lambert, Marcus ‘Boozehound’ Etuin. There was no sound but for the scratching of the nib. Kevin ‘Boats’ Kilne, Harry ‘Vangroover’ Simpson. Eventually, with great reluctance, Hugo ‘Riptide’ de Neve was added, and the list was complete.

“Thank you.” Alter said sincerely. “Now, let’s get the rest of this sorted out with a few less fireworks, eh?”

His quiet plea was taken onboard fairly well and no further arguments were sparked as they discussed how to fill the remaining spaces. The greatest debate was their families, more specifically the issue of their non-existence in the world of Meios. The first lie, then, was to list themselves as all orphans. Their parents and places of birth unknown. As for training and experience then much of the details could be adapted from the game. Warforce’s tutorial level, ‘The Slugbox’, was redesignated as a hidden training camp so secretive that even the squad wasn’t allowed to know its location. Previous combat experience was also adapted from the game’s mission roster. They had already introduced themselves as Freeblades so the employers and affiliations sections were left at ‘None’. If pushed, they’d just say that they were not permitted to talk about their previous undertakings as per contracts signed. Finally, the financial side was left blank. Alter was not about to take a stab in the dark when it came to the by-the-week operating costs of a high-tech mercenary company in fantasy land.

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“This story is about as waterproof as the Titanic.” Whim chuckled as they reviewed what they had written. “I feel like we’re going to start a ‘shadow organisation controlling the world’ conspiracy. But what else are we supposed to do?”

“Then we lean into that mystery, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Alter responded as the door opened and the clerk reemerged.

With reverence, the man retrieved the ink-laden sheets of paper and, one by one, placed them delicately on a drying rack positioned to catch as much of the sunlight as possible. He made no mention nor pulled any faces at what was written and what was missing. For now, it seemed, they would not be questioned on their answers. The clerk uttered a soft word and ushered them back into the main office where the situation appeared to have stabilised somewhat. There was still a mountain of work requiring attention but Oliver’s input seemed less crucial and he had enough breathing room to give them his time.

“You don’t realise how important a lord’s signature is for governance until you disappear for a week or two.” He remarked jovially as he flexed his fingers on his writing hand.

“You’re surprisingly chipper.” Alter commented as he moved up to stand in front of the ostentatiously, horrifyingly, necessarily large desk.

“Allow me this moment.” Oliver replied with mock reproach, closing his eyes for a moment. “I suppose I owe you an explanation as to what you saw on our way in?”

“It’d be nice.”

“Well, you're a smart man. What do you think is the cause? Don’t worry, the men in this room are loyal.” Oliver’s eyes reopened, curious and attentive.

Alter weighed his words before frowning. “I think this is another one of your uncle’s tricks.” He put it simply.

“Go on.” Oliver encouraged, leaning forward slightly.

“If he’s working to destabilise the region, which simultaneously calls your leadership into question, then a refugee crisis would go a long way toward achieving his goals.”

“You’re close, but you're wandering down the wrong path.” Oliver held up a hand to forestall Alter’s train of thought. “Those poor souls you saw outside the gate are immigrants. Salt of the earth workers drawn in by the lies of my uncle and his friends. ‘Come to Jestriff’ the rumours say, ‘there are jobs and homes aplenty’.”

“How heartless.” Walross blurted out.

“Indeed.” Oliver nodded. “When the hopeful travellers began to arrive en masse they soon realised that there were never any jobs, nor did we have the room to shelter them all. We’ve been working hard to quash the rumours as they arise, and while we have managed to slow the flow, every day more people arrive.”

“Will you send them away?” Alter asked.

“Certainly not, they’ve come here searching for a new life, and a new life they will get. They are my people now. Homes will be built, work will be found. But even that is proving difficult, my uncle does not intend for the solution to come easily. His lackeys put pressure on businesses not to hire new arrivals, building supplies are ‘lost’ or redirected. All throughout the city and the camp they work to sow unrest, turning my people against each other.”

“Then the hostility we saw at the gate?”

“The result of rabble rousers and bad faith actors, paid to fan the flames of anger and frustration. Hunting down and dealing with these agents will, incidentally, be one of the first tasks I shall assign you to, once you're all settled.”

“I understand.” Alter responded evenly, that sounded an awful lot like counter terrorism, and that was not in his wheelhouse. But perhaps he would surprise himself.

“Well anyway, enough of that for now. I shall be chained to my desk for some time but you need not join me. One of the staff here will escort you across the city to my estate and show you to your lodgings. Osprey Hall has stood empty for some time, it will be good to see it occupied again. I’ll see you this evening.” Oliver waved them away and with a sigh turned his attention to the next avalanche-risk of paperwork.

Eager to remove as many bodies from the office as possible, they were soon whisked back through the building and out into the square. From there they were led west through wide streets lined with elegantly maintained evergreen trees with thickly needled branches that curled upward like ferns. The Masserlind Estate protruded from the western wall like a grand, aristocratic tumour, complete with its own high walls and well-guarded gatehouse. The interior was a stunning collection of sumptuous buildings and elegantly maintained formal gardens that would put the likes of Versailles to shame. Through this wonderland of gravel paths and water features they were escorted, until they arrived at one of the back corners. There, partially hidden by a row of the same trees they had seen in the streets, stood an impressive two storey building. Waiting to greet them was a head high white marble boulder carved with the words ‘Osprey Hall’. Alter paused to appreciate the rosy coloured stone walls, however something about its construction made him stop entirely.

“Nice looking pad.” Riptide remarked happily, unaware of his friend’s halt.

“Rip.” Alter murmured as the other members of the squad joined him in his concerned vigil.

“What?”

“Look at this building.” Alter prompted. Riptide scanned the stones, confused before his jaw slackened in realisation.

“I know this place.” He uttered.

“Yep.”

“It’s the Cantabria Mansion.”

“Yep.”

Well, at least they already knew the floorplan.