At 06:21:44 AM, after a sleeping period that had lasted precisely 8 hours down to the millisecond, Torch opened their eyes. They slid out of their twin-sized bed in the corner of their quarters. They flipped the switch installed next to their bed to turn the lights on. They opened their mouth and spent 5.37 seconds pushing their upper left canine back into their gum, since they could feel that it was beginning to come loose. Nothing else obviously felt like it was in the process of detaching, so they started their day.

A small, battery-powered CD player sat by the door, on a tray behind a toast-covered plate and a glass of water. The canary-yellow CD player was currently 26.19 seconds deep into playing one of the ‘morning time’ songs that Torch had been instructed to request from their domestic attendants, for the sake of adequate mental stimulation. Today appeared to be Habanera by Georges Bizet (1875). Friday, then. Not that Torch had to be informed of such a thing. They kept track.

Torch picked up the tray and carried it to their desk in the exact center of the room, setting the CD player to the side and taking a seat. Each of the slices of toast was consumed in 7 bites of 32 chews each, with each bite taken in such a manner as to leave no crumbs on the plate. The water was chugged in 4.81 seconds and the glass was placed in the center of the empty plate.

For the entire duration of breakfast, Torch did not take their eyes off of the floor-to-ceiling glass cabinet of miscellaneous memorabilia on the wall across from them. Torch individually scanned each of the 73 items in the cabinet from left to right, top to bottom, for 5.89 seconds each, so that they finished observing the last one at the exact same instant that they finished their meal.

Torch stood up and stepped away from the desk, pushing the chair back into place and taking the glass with them. They turned to the left and strode towards the mirror and washbasin that had been set up for them on an otherwise completely bare concrete wall.

They set their glass to the side of the table the washbasin rested on, picked up their toothbrush and applied a dollop of toothpaste 1.25 times larger than the mean average volume of a pea, as determined according to typical specimens formerly found in the inventory of grocery stores within the country of Italy.

Torch spent exactly 1 minute brushing their teeth at a rate of 120 brushstrokes per minute. Once finished, they filled their glass to 12.5% capacity with water from the washbasin and washed the remaining toothpaste down their throat.

Torch looked into the mirror to examine their haggard, scar-covered reflection. They dipped three fingers into the washbasin and rubbed water onto the dry, flakey skin on their face, making sure to attain a uniform density of water coverage. They immediately took a paper towel from a roll next to the washbasin and dried their face. A small patch of skin on their left cheek tore open as the towel moved over the area, leaking blood into the washbasin. Torch had evidently been mistaken about nothing supposedly coming loose. They mentally chastised themself.

Torch turned around, walked back to the desk and switched off the CD player, which had played Habanera by Georges Bizet (1875) 2.29 times over the course of Torch’s morning routine.

Torch placed the CD player back on the tray, turned around and took two steps forward. They now faced the coat rack next to the door, from which hung their pearlescent mask, jet-black cloak, longsword, and armor pieces. They whistled curtly, and all the individual pieces flew from their positions, leaving a faint trail of bright blue light as they locked into place on Torch’s person. As their mask attached to their face, it pulsed with more blue light, and the weeping gash on their cheek was sealed shut.

With the exception of the jumpsuit that they had worn to bed, it had taken 0.81 seconds to get dressed for the day. Slower than usual. They would have to examine the equipment’s glyphs for aberrations due to cumulative abrasions.

Torch opened the door, picked up the tray and headed into the halls of Alcatraz.

They handed the tray to the first Servant that they passed by. “Kitchen.”

The Servant, who had been carrying an important MO as part of the coordination center’s internal sneakernet, sighed and nodded. “Right away, Torch.”

Torch turned away from the Servant and continued down the hall. As they strode, their eyes rested on the view outside the windows.

Five rusted cargo ships drifted through the dark ocean towards the city’s docks, the foremost one already slowing down as it pulled into place. Dozens if not hundreds of Servants scurried along the deck of the vast vessels. On either side of each of the ships, the flag of Tanzania was roughly spray-painted into place, marking where the ships had set off from.

Passing under what remained of the vast bridge fencing off the bay were six more ships, these ones leaving the bay to moor somewhere a few miles away and not clog up the bay. Doubtless, they had arrived not hours before, disgorged their passengers and cargo, and the remaining skeleton crew was now simply making room for the new arrivals to do the same, a single link in a vast chain of logistics that would see the world emptied but for the one continent where the Servants’ work was not yet finished. Most of that process had already been finished, by many reckonings.

Torch looked away from the window and moved on. They had not been created to concern themself with logistical trivialities.

-

“Status update on the Colorado account, sir.”

Prime Senior Huntmaster Suleman turned his head to the radio operator who had just called him. “Call it in.”

The Servant listened to their headphones for a moment. “…Current volunteer rates are at an estimated 41 percent, up from the 27 percent from pre-publicity tour, and with around seventy to eighty civilian personnel still accounted for. As of September, the state command post has been recording a net loss in scavenging output and is requesting a decrease in tithes as a result.”

Suleman sighed. “Request denied. They know what needs to happen before we can stop asking so much from them.”

The radio operator nodded and swiveled in their chair so that they were facing their ham radio again. “Request denied, as per standard protocol that states that current tithe grades be maintained until HVT Beta-One has been sufficiently…”

Suleman turned and walked away from the station, examining the dozens of other cells within the cell block, each of which had been converted into an individual radio station. The logistical capabilities of the prison-turned-tourist attraction-turned-HQ were, considering the resource and manpower limitations, truly something staggering. And nowadays, it was almost entirely dedicated towards stopping one Primus.

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Speaking of, Suleman spotted his partner doing the same thing as him on the other side of the cell block.

Leader of the Indian Domain (a fact known to, as far as Suleman knew, a total of two Servants), Kuravaan’s willingness to assist Torch in whatever it is they actually wanted out of this whole operation had netted the Primus a spot next to Suleman as the two were seemingly arbitrarily promoted to more and more senior positions and further and further into Torch’s inner circle. Indeed, positions like ‘Prime Senior Huntmaster’ had been made up by Torch on the spot in order for their inner circle to now consist exclusively of an old Turkish man and the world’s smartest Primus. None of the three ever seemed to be pleased with the arrangement.

Kuravaan, currently masquerading as a human, noticed Suleman looking at him and strode across the cell block to stand in front of the human. Kuravaan’s height, which broke six feet even when human, combined with his habitual formal attire, made Suleman in his drab jumpsuit feel smaller than ever whenever the Primus was nearby.

Kuravaan folded his arms and looked down at the human before him. “…So. How are things on this side of the block?”

Suleman brought a hand up to the rusty railing and looked down at the floor below. “Oh, same as usual, good news and getting better. Yes, um, more Huntsmen than ever to finally take down the Burning One and finally finish the…” He trailed off.

Kuravaan narrowed his eyes. “Yes, we understand you were there when the Burning One first revealed its power to us, correct?”

Suleman nodded curtly. “It’s true, so how are the… How are the kids?”

“Never call our Domain that,” said Kuravaan coolly.

“S– Um, sorry,” mumbled Suleman, trying to think of a way to change the subject that wouldn’t make things worse still. “But still, I heard that some were–”

“News,” said Torch.

Suleman and Kuravaan both recoiled in surprise when they noticed Torch silently standing behind them both, a shadow of black fabric save for the reptile eye-shaped mask covering their face and the sword slung over their shoulder.

Suleman clutched his chest, checking for the big one. “Oh, um… Torch! Hello! I, um, didn’t see you there.”

“Hence your reaction, yes.” Torch’s mask shifted by the smallest of degrees, the best indication one could get that indicated they were now looing at Kuravaan. “Mister Kuravaan, are you more willing to make a more productive use of my time?”

Kuravaan nodded, not entirely certain if he understood what Torch actually meant. “Yes, well, so far we have received updates from three additional full-jurisdiction states: Arizona, Oklahoma and Kansas. Ac–”

“Also Colorado and Nebraska on my end,” added Suleman, pronouncing the names of both states wrong.

“…Also them,” continued Kuravaan. “Across the board, all states have been reporting major increases in Huntsman recruitment since the publicity tour that we and Prime Senior Huntmaster Suleman planned and mandated. By the end of the month, an additional six cadres are expected to be equipped and oriented by November.”

“It will be ten,” corrected Torch.

Kuravaan blinked. “We… We’re afraid that a maximum of six cadres can be fielded while still adhering to minimum manpower thres–”

“I instructed that there will be,” replied Torch. “Not that there presently are.”

“I–We don’t see how we could gather enough volunteers to do such a thing without organizing another tour, which would be only two weeks after the last,” said Kuravaan. “Indeed, several cadres and garrisoned Huntsmen across the country are still activel–”

“This information is irrelevant,” said Torch. “The United States’ Servants will produce ten additional cadres by the end of October, with at least triple that number brought in from South America and overseas.”

Before either Kuravaan or Suleman could respond, Torch breezed past them both, footsteps completely silent on the concrete and body below the neck invisible beneath their all-encompassing cloak.

Once Torch rounded a corner and passed out of sight, Kuravaan huffed. “What does someone like that know about what we can actually do?” he muttered to Suleman.

Suleman glared up at Kuravaan. “It’s not our place to tell Torch what they can and cannot do, Primus. We were appointed in order to manage the rest of the Servants of Reckoning, while Torch works with forces that only they understand in order to reverse the damage that your kind inflicted on the world. I would recommend you stop questioning their decisions, when it is thanks to them that you and your family were not gunned down like the rest of the world’s Primoi.”

Kuravaan sighed. “Whatever you say, old man. We just hope you remember tha–”

Torch returned from the corner, striding towards Suleman and Kuravaan with a gaunt-looking Servant in tow. Torch stopped in front of their two subordinates and nodded at the Servant behind them, gesturing minutely for her to stand next to them. “Repeat.”

“Um, yes.” The messenger stood next to Torch and looked at Kuravaan and Suleman. “We’ve received reports that a group of Primoi, who were detained and awaiting elimination in Salem, Oregon, were broken out of our custody by Beta-One. The group of escaped Primoi has so far managed to evade the response force of containment cadres, but tracking efforts place them on a northward trajectory up the I-5. Is, uh, is that everything?”

“Correct,” said Torch. “You will leave.”

“…O–Okay.” The Servant hesitantly backed away from her three superiors.

Kuravaan stared into the slit in the middle of Torch’s mask. “We assume you’re personally going to deal with them?”

“Correct. You are to assemble one cadre’s worth of manpower from San Francisco’s garrison and are to then both accompany me on the trip to Portland, Oregon.”

Of course they were both going with them. Kuravaan nodded. “You are certainly confident about the direction the Primoi are going.”

“They intend to cut through the city so as to avoid being tracked by containment cadres with sufficient precision to warrant use of our stockpile of atomic weaponry,” explained Torch.

“And you know that how, exactly?”

Torch gave a curt whistle through their mask before answering. “I am familiar with Primoi.”

“…Alright then.”

Suleman warily raised a hand. “Isn’t Portland one of the cities that’s too irradiated for us to enter?”

“Correct,” said Torch. “You are to dispatch an order to all Huntsmen within a radius of two hundred kilometers of the city, instructing them to encircle the city as soon as possible, blockade any entry or exit to or from the area, and dispatch teams into the area in order to locate the Primoi. Atomic weaponry is not to be–”

“But that woul–” Suleman’s attempt at cutting Torch off proved fruitless, as they continued speaking as if they had not heard him at all.

“–used if the Primoi are found in such a manner. Instead, all efforts are to be focused on limiting the Primoi’s range of traversal and maintaining an unbroken blockade until I am able to arrive and personally resolve the issue.” A gauntleted hand emerged from the depths of Torch’s cloak, as if to wave.

A small black mass flew through the air, whizzing between Suleman and Kuravaan before landing in Torch’s outstretched hand. Torch unfolded the mass to reveal a pair of nondescript leather gloves.

Torch began pulling off their gauntlets and slipping the unfamiliar gloves on. “I expect my instruction of accompanying Huntsmen to be fulfilled by the most statistically competent individuals on duty within the city. We are to depart in one hour, twenty-seven minutes and eleven seconds.” They turned around and drifted down the hallway, gloves vanishing into their cloak.

Suleman looked down at Torch’s old gauntlets, which had been dropped on the floor at some point. “…Weirdo.”