Atticus Miller frowned.
Erasmus, Ace’s Lieutenant Knave, was a formidable mage who specialized in Sensing skills. A good Sensor, and he was reporting signs of a mage with low levels of magic making their way to Rook.
Which was not a huge wrench thrown into their plans, but it was a wrench nonetheless.
“Eras, thoughts?”
The more important thing was that Atticus trusted Erasmus, almost as much as he did Glenda. They had met a couple months after the Firefight - although Ace had founded the Rebels, Eras was their sword just as Glen was the brain and Satya was the pen.
But Glen was Glen, and the somewhat petty disagreement meant that she wasn’t going to be having any large responsibilities anytime soon. Liabilities.
“They seem like a formidable mage, likely dual-elemental,” Erasmus guessed. The duo were in the war tent. Erasmus cleared his throat. “But, er, Ace, Glen-”
Ace shot him a look. “What about her?”
It did come off a bit snappish, as the dark-haired, fair-skinned lieutenant moistened his lips, smiling sheepishly.
“She reminded me to remind you to visit the other people in the camp,” Erasmus said after a while, “you know, check in with the others so they know you’re there. People’re getting a bit skittish.”
Why should I care if they’re getting a bit skittish? Atticus bit the response back, but sighed. “Fine. Right now?”
“Yeah, preferably. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with the mage, and handle scouting the town before we make our move.”
Atticus frowned, but left Erasmus to it, opening the tent flap and wading out. It was the period between afternoon and evening, the sun was still out although a bit dim. The weedy grass and the tree stumps that scattered themselves over the camp’s ground added to the wild - others would’ve called it rustically scenic - wood-patch they had leveled. Atticus was used to weeds - working in the fields as a simple farmer had certainly left him numb to the simplistic beauty of nature.
They had settled here in the particular spot the camp occupied a couple weeks ago, Ace noted, after they had cleared the area of trees and set up the tent. There was bland but admittedly filling potato stew served out in bowls in a larger beige tent, which he himself consumed as lunch, breakfast, and dinner with the occasional meat, wild berry, and herb. But Atticus observed the hundred-some people receiving them with an agitated look on their faces - the portions were probably getting smaller. Another thing to add to the list.
As the campers noticed him, their heads started to rise. Some of them even saluted him. Ace acknowledged them with a polite nod, wondering how exactly his appearance was supposed to ease their minds. Back when he was a farmer, the appearance of his lord only meant more taxes.
Sighing, Atticus headed over the beige tent.
The stew distributor, one of the non-mages under his wing, was a woman by the name of Amarilla. A decent swordsman, a decent enough person as well. A bit on the rough side, but none of the rebels were under the refined category. As he waited in the queue, he heard whispers.
“Why’s Ace out?”
“The kids...where are the kids?”
“We can rest easy, now, he’ll sure as hell do something about the food.”
“Jack keeps saying that it’s just the supplies, but now Ace sees it in person…”
Atticus waited as the rough-clothed farmers in the line received their food. One of them even struck up a conversation.
“Heya, Leader Ace.” Silas, Atticus remembered the name was. Another non-mage under his wig.
“Hello,” he greeted.
He was a fighter, and he had killed before. Ace liked to think his capabilities were above average - managing to injure Carnage’s Captain was more luck than skill, but it had won him respect. Kingdom-wise, the Rebels were a respected group, it hadn’t taken much convincing for a couple hundred other commoners to join. Ace had left one of his Lieutenants behind to take care of things on that end and make sure his departure hadn’t been leaked - it was a solid plan, one that had been in the works for...quite a while? A month? A couple weeks?
Silas continued, “Pleasure seeing you.”
“You, too. How’s the kid?” Kids, plural? Atticus wasn’t good with names.
“Rina’s doing alright, I suppose. Learning her letters,” Silas replied, “How’re Lieutenants Jack and Knave?”
“Glen and Eras?” Ace pondered the question for the sake of small talk. “Eras in the marquee, doing prep-work for the invasion, and Glen…I don’t know where she is.” He was careful not let her expression darken, but Silas looked as if he knew he had broached a sensitive subject.
Atticus added, “So how’s the camp doing so far?”
Silas hesitated. “The food...supplies are getting low,” he admitted, a bit hesitant. It was strange, the way Silas carried himself. He was a veteran, Ace was sure, but he walked...strange was the only word for it.
Ace could only smile, say, "I'll take care of it," and promise the liabilities that he cared about them.
And so Atticus Miller smiled.
----
To: System of Corporate Affairs
Cc: [None]
Subject: System Requirements For Choosing Cross Players
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
System of Corporate Affairs -
Congratulations on your new Authority Tier Promotion.
I am reaching out to follow up on your provided feedback on revising the System Requirements for Choosing Cross Players (SRCCP).
I assure you that my requirements have been drafted and revised most thoroughly by my subordinates and many of my coworkers, all of them with much experience in the field of cross-players.
My superiors in the department of Human Resources, as well as the Systems of Morality, Karma, and Reincarnation, have also approved this specific document.
In accordance with your latter queries, I have received your feedback and have changed the wordings of the areas you have pointed out need improvement. However, as some of them can seem perhaps a bit unnecessary, I have replied to them in the attachment below. Each of them have been thoroughly addressed by myself and my team.
Please feel free to contact me with any further questions.
Thank you for your time.
- The System of Drafting Regulations
Authority Tier No. 5
Human Resources Manager
[attachment: LOADING....]
System Requirements for Choosing Cross Players (a private copy)
Owner: The System of Drafting Regulations [nickname: DR]
Shared With: The System of Corporate Affairs [nickname: CA]
1. The cross player must willingly consent to soul transfers across Worlds. The aforementioned consent comes in the form of [System Boxes], which have a clear [Yes] and [No] option. Whether or not the cross player is in any state at all other than deceased, a button must be chosen.
----> CA - 'in a state'... like being intoxicated or mentally unstable? anything other than dead? did that really make it past all the execs of HR? it's not very politically correct, is it?
----------> DR - we already didn't care before, it's just in written format now. the approval forms are filed under 'approval 7-8' in the System Archive - the marketing systems take care of our image, anyways, so i don't really see your point.
2. The cross player must have a clear desire to leave, either by demonstrating multiple proofs of either currently being unfit for their origin world, or feeling a sense of belonging and demonstrating immense compatibility with the other world.
-----> CA - how's the compatibility calculated? and the proof?
----------> DR - see 'the Analysis Department.' are you in need of directions?
3. The cross player must demonstrate being proficient in one of these categories: strength, intelligence, speed, or luck. Proficiency will be measured according to world-decided standards.
------> CA - i thought this didn't need to be written down? and what's world-decided?
----------> DR - i would call you an idiot, but the new regulations state it as workplace harrassment. email the Analysis Department.
CA - overall note: i think you need to be more detailed.
DR - i think you need to go fuck yourself. i don't care if you tattle to HR, how the hell did someone like you get promoted?
----
Sixteen-year-old Aidann Ehwa wasn't used to being called a monster.
But when he and his parents went home after that day in that year in the doctor’s office, with all the stiff smiles and questions and half-hearted answers, he was surprised.
He was a talented artist. A good musician. But that would never make a career, his parents had repeated, until he had sold his first painting for a thousand dollars. Then, the disappointment in their eyes had been replaced by greed, and they had given him good paintbrushes instead of affection, art supplies instead of love and time and ‘how was your day?’ But did Aidann need their love?
He wasn’t sure, but Aidann did know that his parents didn’t love each other, and surely didn’t love him, either.
His mother got to brag to her hometown friends that her son was a rich bigshot, and his father got a source of money for his failing real-estate business. Painting made Aidann happy, so it was a win-win for all three of them.
“Chromesthesia.” It wasn’t a big thing for him, just a diagnosis for the colors he already lived with, but the greed in his parents’ eyes had been replaced by fear. Fear of being outcast by others like before when they had been poor and helpless, fear that their good luck had come to an end and their son was now a…
“Monster,” they had hissed.
A monster for being different?
A monster for taking away their chances that he had given them in the first place?
A monster for being born?
Aidann wasn't sure.
Uncertainty was sometimes good, sometimes bad. He liked painting, but he hadn’t loved it until it had been his only act to cling to. After his diagnosis, he had been ‘allowed’ to still paint, his parents had said, but they had pushed his music career even further, enrolling him into singing and dancing classes as if they hadn’t understood that music was the source of the colors.
And he had been talented. Aidann had been extremely talented. Perfect pitch, going on shows, winning awards, selling paintings, and pushing his parents upwards on the societal pyramid. They were grateful to him, Aidann supposed, in the way that someone would be grateful to a demon who granted wishes.
He was still a monster, to them.
Still a demon.
When had the realizations started?
When his parents had returned home from a gathering, and had been scorned as mere parvenus.
“Do you not understand how good you children have it?” his mother had said, her voice strangled. Her paisley blouse had been stained with wine - probably a wealthier mistress had taken it upon herself to ‘discipline’ her lessers. Aidann knew how their minds worked - if something went wrong, it was always his fault. He had asked only for more peas, and that had transitioned into a lecture about how hard they had worked for a better life, a better apartment.
Without his paintings, how far would they have made it?
“You should be grateful you haven’t grown up yet,” his father had chipped in. His suit was similarly wet with a dark red water, which meant he had met the same fate as his mother. His father wasn’t the type to deflect a barrage aimed at his wife - no, there had been two perpetrators.
Without their monster of a son, where would they be now?
Perhaps he had snapped, that day.
“The ungrateful ones here are you,” he had replied.
“Excuse me?”
“Without my paintings-” Aidann had been filled with a surge of anger, a flicker in his usual stony impassivity, “-how much would you have made? They’re my paintings, my creations that you auction off, and you call me a monster? I am your child. I made you money, and you have the audacity to claim that I should be the one grateful to you?”
He had been kicked out, that day, Aidann remembered, and changed schools.
He had slept on the streets, leaning on a trash can until they had found benevolence within themselves and ‘allowed’ him to come home.
Allowed.
Rules.
He hated them.
Aidann hated rules, the rigid regulations controlling members of society - had he been allowed to exist? He didn’t need to be fixed - why did people keep calling him broken? He wasn’t a monster. He just wasn’t. He wasn’t one of those heroes in movies either - he hadn’t worked past his differences and united with his parents in a damnable happily-ever-after of a sobbing, heart-wrenching reunion - what, just because they were his parents? That was just being plain soft. Weak. Forgive and forget, everyone said. Be kind, everyone said, you don’t know what they’re going through.
If they didn’t care a single bit, if they didn’t give a single fuck about what happened to him, why should he care if they dropped dead one day?
Sixteen-year-old Aidann Ehwa was not used to being called a monster.
But he had the feeling that he would get used to it very soon.
----