There was a lot to do in Brum when we awoke the next morning, and while none of it seemed overwhelming as Red and I recited it twice while still in the hotel room, once we hit the streets and I saw the moving crowds of people weaving their way through the town, I became overwhelmed. It was probably no busier than a mall at Christmas time, given the population difference between here and, say, Columbus, but the mall gave me heavy anxiety on an average Saturday evening, nevermind during the busiest shopping days of the year. I took a deep lungful of bracingly cold air and exhaled as much stress out of my body as I could manage. While the bullet points weren’t numerous, what we had on our itinerary was rather time-devouring. First, there was the matter of finding a new place to stay, preferably one with at least a hearth and a second bed. That was Tanis’ task, and the sooner she cleared it up the sooner she could spend the afternoon enjoying the many sights and spectacles of Brum that she cooed over all morning. Second, and the bit Red and I had set out to accomplish immediately since it stood in the way of everything else, was the matter of recruiting a second linked esper to our roster. Third was finally registering to become an official member of the League, and finally Red planned on doing a little scouting on his own once all the other tasks were taken care of. If I was lucky, I’d have a little time alone with the grimoire before Tanis found me again. If not, well… I could think of many fates worse than finally getting to take in the opportunities of a major city.
Finding a suitably thin place in the veil between worlds back in Teren Balt was a mild hike away from town, out in the moors. It took quite a bit longer to reach this location, mostly owing to the verticality of our journey. Red assured me that climbing the cliffs and crags would afford us a better timeline on reaching a suitable spot for recruitment than taking a less arduous path. He at least had the patience to meet me halfway and avoid the more sheer slopes; if we had to get high up, I’d rather do it slowly on the kind of terrain that didn’t trigger my fear of heights, especially when I was also trying to juggle the bundled form of Wysteria snoozing gently against my chest. Eventually we arrived at a plateau with enough of a cave to give us a break from the wind and snow, and I took a seat on the frigid ground. This time I took a different approach to sensing the openings between worlds, keeping my eyes closed. The minutes became lost to me as I cleared my thoughts and extended my feelings, not so much willing the magic to part, but waiting until I felt it do so naturally, at which point I extended my hand. Almost to my surprise, I soon felt a weight upon my forearm. It was almost an effort to let it all go and open my eyes again, but once I did I found a rather large, black-feathered bird lighted upon me.
“Grajo,” he said in a deep, croaking voice. His talons and beak were gray, the right eye a dark brown while the left seemed a shattered, crystalline blue, marked by an old, featherless scar. Three longer quail-like bits of plumage sprung from his head, buffeted mildly by the wind. His posture held every bit of danger any predator would exude, but the intelligence that shone in his good eye marked him as something more than your typical giant avian. I was also surprised by how light he was, despite being almost three feet tall. Hollow bones and fluffy feathers perhaps made him look larger than he really was.
“Is… that your name?” I inquired.
“What?” The bird cocked his head to one side, and I was surprised to hear him speaking something that sounded enough like Spanish to inspire me to respond in kind.
“Your… name is Grajo?” Even stumbling over my words, the language still came more easily to me than it used to. Especially odd in that I hadn’t spoken it in years.
“Yes,” he nodded, proudly ruffling his plumage.
“H-holy cats, chief,” Red almost spat, trotting up beside us, “you can speak Esperlang!?”
“I… guess?” Grajo spread his wings slightly in case my shrug turned into a wilder gesture. “I studied it in school. Back home we called it ‘Spanish’. It was fairly common where I grew up. I take it not so much here?”
“Yeah, not so much. Nothin’ you need to keep under your hat, especially since most non-espers don’t speak it. Just really rare to come across.”
“So… the esper tongue isn’t just animal noises?” My arm was getting tired, but I didn’t want to offend the bird perched on it.
“It is an’ it isn’t.” His expression was still a little wide-eyed, and he shook his head as though recollecting his thoughts. “Like I said, not all of us can speak as well as I do. There’s some natural magic in the understandin’; espers can talk to each other, no matter what sounds they make. But those of us who can talk got a language like any other people. When we first started workin’ with Barbavians, some of ‘em learned Esperlang, but it was a little easier for us to learn Ruben on account’a the magic. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“Why did you call me?” Grajo asked, quirking his head in the other direction. Again, I was stunned the language came to me clearer than I’d expect, but I pushed that aside to make sure I responded promptly. We had been rather rude in ignoring him after I’d gone to all the trouble to bring him here in the first place.
“Uh… I’m a… chainer.” Maybe there was a word for that in Esperlang. If there was, I didn’t know it. “I wanted to know if you’d join my team and fight. For the Grand Championship, of course.”
“Ah! Certainly,” he nodded. “It would not be my first time.”
“Really?” The surprise had me speaking my native tongue before turning back to Red. “Does that happen often? An esper fights in the League for someone, they become de-linked, and sometime afterward they come back into it?”
“Not a lot, but I’ve heard of it before,” Red nodded. “It’s bound to happen, right? Only so many espers in the world, an’ a lot of ‘em end up set free if the chainer retires or whatever.”
“Were you—” I cut myself off from speaking my own native language, switching to Esperlang. “Sorry. Did you win? In the League, I mean.”
“Eh,” Grajo shrugged. “I did well enough. The League is stiff competition, however, and I was not the only member of that team. I can understand a little Ruben, by the way. If that makes you more comfortable.”
“Noted.” I still responded in Esperlang. It felt like flexing a muscle I didn’t know I had. As for his competitive history, a previous win certainly wasn’t a requirement, and his personal experience would likely be of value no matter what his win/loss record was. Beyond just wanting to be out of the cold, I was happy to add him to our roster. “Welcome to the team, Grajo.”
“Thank you,” he nodded with the impression of a smile.
The entire encounter gave me a lot to think about during our way down the cliffs and back to town. I had a very strong urge to crack open the grimoire and read all about my new partner, for one, however not only was the descent a little less friendly to my nerves than the ascent (as it always was on everything from fire escapes to escalators) but the weather had picked up and made visibility more of a problem. The snow we trudged through was only ankle-deep, but I had no desire to mix trying to read in with keeping my footing and bracing against the chill. Already I missed Triangle Road. My improved grasp of Spanish was also interesting, since it both confirmed a theory I’d developed while practicing with thrown weapons and showing a marked improvement over my abilities on Earth, but also in how it applied to game terminology. Outside of skill checks, things in a roleplaying game were fairly binary; you either had proficiency with a weapon, or you didn’t; knew a language entirely, or not at all. Sure, I wasn’t completely coherent like a native speaker, but I knew the stumbling blocks I’d struggled with in school, like quick conjugation of verbs, and they were cleanly ironed out. My understanding of the language also felt a bit… different. Idioms and shorthand I was once comfortable with were evading my grasp, and my word choice felt more mechanical. It was probably for the better in the interest of being understood, but it was different enough to be worth noting. Then there was Grajo himself. The very idea he’d run the circuit before was extremely intriguing, not only in providing me potential insight on the battlefield, but also to hear stories about the ins and outs of the sport I would soon be participating in professionally. However, interviewing him about it seemed a bit more forward than I was comfortable being, and speaking a language that was different from the one I thought in was still a fair amount of effort, even if it came out with greater accuracy and ease than it once did. Perhaps once we got to know each other better I would set aside some time and mental bandwidth to make the effort.
Eventually we found ourselves back in Brum. The surrounding terrain blocked the worst of the snow, so Grajo flew and Wysteria (now wide awake) kept pace with me as we trudged through narrow alleys and wide streets, dodging other commuters and what seemed to be employees of the city charged with sweeping snow to keep a viable breadth of walking space. They were bundled up in thick, woolen garments and pushed long-handled wooden brooms with broad heads. More than our journey on Triangle Road did walking through the city provide me a workable idea of the number of people who could cast magic versus the number of people who could not. In a capital city I expected something as mundane as snow-pushing would be handled by some manner of efficient sorcery, yet here we were. It would also make sense if those who did spellwork found themselves in loftier positions, taking care of similar duties within a place of status like the looming monolith of black stone that was Castle Borngrav, an ever-present mountain of harsh geometry that seemed to always be visible no matter what path you were taking through the city. There was a yearning to gain passage through its many gates and just… exist inside the structure for a while, for no other reason than to be in proximity to the awe-inspiring architecture. The closest equivalent I had was visiting Disney World, so much so that any sufficiently impressive or aesthetically designed building immediately made me feel like I was back in some corner of EPCOT admiring the view. That was little more than a momentary flight of fancy, of course; I had other tasks to occupy my time that were more critical to my future in Barbavia. Sight-seeing could perhaps come later. If I was good.
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The registration office was less of a fantastic building than I expected, merely being one of the many brownstone-style buildings in the Brum’s more popular districts. Thankfully, Red knew the way, and we were soon inside a dismal little waiting room. The city seemed to have a thing for dark stone in muted, cool colors in general, and this office in specific was almost going through an aggressive goth phase with near-black wooden furniture, décor, and support beams breaking up the brick that was softly tinged either lavender or violet, depending on the angle at which you looked at it. One might expect a spectacular display of shifting colors, but unless you were right up on the walls it just looked like cookies and cream pudding. ‘Fortunately’ I had plenty of time to get a close look, counting each and every brick I could see. A bored-looking, short-coiffed clerk instructed us to take a number upon arriving, and then have a seat in the humble lounge. I couldn’t quite tell what we were waiting on, since no other activity appeared to be going on in the vicinity and the only door that didn’t lead back outside was behind the clerk’s desk, but I always found it easier to have some patience for mind-numbing monotony while other people of official status finished up whatever it was that needed finishing. If these were part of the rules I had to follow to earn my registration, then I was content to play along. Again, the urge to break open the grimoire and begin reading about my new companion rose, but even in the relative privacy of an office where the only worker wasn’t paying attention to me, it felt too public.
“Number five,” drawled the az at the desk shortly after the clock struck two. Apparently, our time had come. I rose from my seat, presenting my ticket, and the espers followed after me.
“Hey. I’m Glenn Anura. I’m here to register for the League.”
“Registration fees are a hundred gold standard.” He met my eyes briefly, mumbling lips invisible beneath an impressive moustache. I wondered how many people he got in here eager to register until they found out about the cost.
“Got it here,” I nodded, setting a small pouch on the desk in front of him. It hurt to part with that much money for no immediate, obvious benefit, but I had long since made peace with the investment. The clerk took it, opened it, and nodded.
“Right, then. One chainer, three espers?” He emptied the pouch onto the desk and impressively began counting coin with his left hand while filling out a form with his right. There was no way I could keep track of two different trains of thought like that, and multitasking was something I prided myself on.
“Two espers,” I clarified. “The terramor toad and the, um—”
“Nachtkrapp,” Red helpfully supplied. Not checking the grimoire and not thinking to ask meant I had no clue until now the name of Grajo’s species.
“Right. Do you need their names, or--?”
“Unnecessary. You said your name was Glenn Anura? A-N-U-R-A?”
“Yes sir. Two Ns in Glenn.”
“Thank you. Does the grimalkin hold some kind of official role?”
“Uh…” This time I actually looked at Red, wholly unsure of what to say. We hadn’t really discussed much about the technical of esper battling since I’d broken his chain, and I was unsure what documentation he needed to be on, if any. He regarded my expression for a space of seconds before resolving himself and turning to the clerk.
“I’m a coach an’ translator. Name’s Red.”
“Very well. This status will grant you access to the chainer and his espers during the pre-fight period, as well as limited benefits at any coliseum. You recognize and accept that as an esper not officially part of the team roster you are unable to act as a competitor or substitute in any way during the course of official League matches, ja?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he shrugged.
“And you, Glenn, grant Red responsibility to handle affairs on your behalf, including the surrender of League contests, filing official paperwork, using your name in good standing to access coliseum amenities, et cetera, et cetera?”
“Yeah, he knows more than I do at this point.”
“Very good. Do you want us to schedule a fight against Alexsandr? This would be an entry-level contest, of course, your espers against two of his choosing. Standard League rules.”
“Might as well,” Red responded, then jumped a bit as though forgetting himself. “I mean, if that’s cool with you, chief.”
“Uh… yeah, sure. Sounds good.” It was strange to see him acting with any amount of deference to me, and it made me trip over myself a bit. We were colleagues. Friends. Equals. There hadn’t been any desire to stand on ceremony thus far, so it was uncomfortable seeing him do it now. “So long as we have a day or two to make sure we’re prepared.”
“The soonest appointment I have open is in three days’ time,” the clerk responded without looking up. He finally finished counting our coin, sliding it nosily into a receptacle hidden from view below. Finishing that task apparently opened up the option for polite conversation, as he continued, “you missed the big rush for the end of the season, but we’re still finishing up scheduled fights from the last dregs of it.”
“I hadn’t decided to compete until it was already a little late into Sun’s Retreat.”
“Mm. You came from Teren Balt, I expect?”
“Yeah.”
“Every time,” the clerk cracked a smile, the first expression I could see behind his whiskers. “Nobody ever seems to take the Triangle Road clockwise. Just amuses me, I guess. Some old traditions never die.” I was sure that wasn’t true, and had in fact seen many people walking against the stream of traffic we followed to get here, but I wasn’t about to argue with the man over his own observations, especially when he seemed so delighted by them. “All right, the last thing I need before your signatures is the name for the team.”
“A name… ?”
“Ja, just something for official records. That’s why we don’t take esper names; the teams can fluctuate membership a lot, so to keep confusion low for announcers, media, and internal documentation, we lean toward a species roster and a team name. Sometimes the fans will grow attached to individuals on a team and they’ll become more popular and promoted, like Dannigan.” This was the first I’d heard of any ‘Dannigan’ or celebrity espers in the first place, but as Red nodded sagely along with the clerk’s explanation, I assumed he wasn’t telling tall tales.
The ‘problem’ was that I hadn’t realized I needed to consider a name for our team, and being put on the spot was the fastest way to empty my brain of any and all relevant thoughts. I tried to remember naming conventions I’d used before, but most of them were dumb references or inside jokes. Once in middle school my friends and I joined a volleyball tournament and named ourselves ‘Them’ in order to make the principal say the grammatically incorrect ‘them won the volleyball game today’ over the announcements, but this fantasy didn’t translate to the real world so well, since neither myself nor any of my friends were gifted with physical acumen in excess of our peers, and we never won a single match. I could probably get away with a team name that referenced something from a video game or movie I liked with the added benefit of not needing to worry about irate copyright lawyers or the cringe inherent to alluding to your own enthusiasm about something you’re passionate about, but even then, nothing seemed appropriate. The Returners? D-Generation X? The Court of Owls? Even clever, somewhat generic-sounding band names like Mötley Crüe or Bad Company felt disingenuous, and a little too self-deprecating on deeper reflection.
“Is this… like, a permanent thing? Can I change the team name later?”
“Sure, but it ain’t recommended,” Red answered. “The team name is a great way to keep in the public eye, especially if it’s somethin’ catchy. If you don’t go all the way to the tournament finals, you’re gonna have a hard time gettin’ a contract to sell merch or whatever if you don’t have high-profile… uh… whaddya call it… ‘branding’. An’, like, don’t get me wrong, chief, I think you got what it takes to go far, but shit happens. I’d rather see a cushy landing for you if you fail than to let it all ride on goin’ to the top.”
“It also costs fifty gold standard to change the name,” the clerk added.
“Well, hell.”
I closed my eyes and rubbed my hands across my face, as though the heat from the friction would translate into brain power and vault my thoughts across the finish line. We had a terramor toad and a nachtkrapp… The Crow and the Terramor? No, that was terrible. Besides, what if one of them left for some reason? I’d either have to track down a similar enough replacement esper or rename the team anyhow. What about something with my name, like Prince and the Revolution? Glenn… Group. Glenn Gang. Glenn… Gary, Glenn Ross. No. all awful, awful choices. How had I ever named anything in my entire life? It was a good thing I didn’t have children; their names would be half-assed, un-funny references to plays I’d never seen. Mental shovel in my hand, I dug through my thoughts for something punchy and clever, all the while everything I’d learned about being a chainer from Red circling through my head next to the lyrics to Bad Company’s eponymous hit single, thanks to my good friend attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Of course, the harder I dug, the more I pushed the solution away from me. The Glenn Grift. The Dawn Warriors. Glennsrÿche. … blech, no. Not happening. Something about the path through this process seemed so obvious, like I should be seeing the answer easily somewhere between the sixgun sound and Red’s many crash courses on the ins and outs of the esper battling business… sixgun sound. Didn’t he say six was the optimal number of espers to keep? Five or six, anyway. I could commit to six. Maybe we could do something with that. Six… Six Shooters. Six Pack. Sixx A.M. Avenged Sixfold. No, no, no, no… I was about to give up and just provide a bullshit temporary name, resolve to risking fame, fortune, and fifty gold on a change later down the line… and then, like a clarion call my thoughts parted and converged all at once. There it sat on a pedestal in my mind’s eye, like a grail illuminated in holy light. The Perfect Name.
“Red Company,” I answered, finally.
“Ah, chief, I appreciate it, but you ain’t gotta—”
“It’s a good name,” the clerk interrupted, saving me the bother of having to choke emotion from my voice at the grimalkin being so unexpectedly touched by the name. There was a deep appreciation in Red’s eyes as the concept seemed more real to him, to us both. I offered him a smile, and he blinked rapidly, turning away from me. The clerk looked between us both, making sure that was our final decision. “Red Company it is, then?”
“Till the day I die,” I smirked.