It took Wiz far more time than he’d like to admit, but he came to a realization that he might be the only normal person at the Eightfold Pact Office.

Normality, as many other factors are, is a relative statement. Drop Wiz in a crowd of civilians and he’s a freak, albeit with impeccable taste in jackets. Drop Wiz in a crowd of Relic Hunters and he’s the guy with a stable job and is an upstanding pillar of society, a stunning haircut to match.

Wiz had been dropped in the gathering of outcasts of outcasts and was at that point in the night where he was questioning his life decisions, unsure if he got it really good, or really really bad. If he was in a bar, this was about the time he’d either try to drum up a chat with the other patrons or start playing with the security systems and do something fun like slamming some rockin’ hard smooth jazz through the speakers. Swap the feeds to a bloodsport, try to sell others on his favorite band, maybe find a way to make some quick Es if he was really hurting on cash.

This place had typewriters.

Fucking typewriters.

By the time he finished his third beer of the night, he already built up a general impression of the people he was going to work with. The good? There were a few big names here, people Wiz would like to network with. The bad? Everything else.

Take Exhibit A, for example. In the commons room that didn’t even have a table to sit at, a mechanical man practiced his sword dance while a nearly naked kid held a one-sided conversation with him.

Exhibit B, an actual lizard passed out snoring on a couch.

Exhibit C, one of the big names already spirited away into the street, and the creepy sniper girl working under him acting like the victim of a lobotomy.

Exhibit D was his worst, yet most plausible way of trying to redeem the night. Exhibit D was the irredeemably rich girl drinking herself into a coma, rambling lines from some obscure poetry Wiz has never heard before.

There are visible rich people, the type that spend millions on private planes and entire ploughs of real estate, and then there are smart rich people. The smart ones keep to themselves. They look like any passerby on the street; they live their entire lives without putting a target on their back, which is a very smart move when half of the populace have effective means of wealth redistribution with little effort and consequence.

Sier Yuan Taria is one of the smart ones. She had the potential to be one of the biggest names in the Frontier, yet hid herself away until she could handle the pressure. If she had the brains to do that, maybe Wiz could get along with her. Engage in some real brainiac-to-brainiac communication, if you would.

Then again, Wiz had something in particular he’d like to bring up with her.

He, Jaxl, and Sier were the only people drinking tonight. Jaxl was already out cold. Therefore, he quietly collected all the drinks, announced he was retiring to his office, and wandered off.

Five minutes later, she came running at him with a crushed beer can in one hand, and a mage’s sword in the other.

Upon entry, Wiz tossed a silver vial at her. The next moment, there was a glass sword pressing into his jugular and a faint mist in the air, glass shards suspended mid-fall by black strings and pointed suspiciously towards his skull.

“Talk,” Sier said, “or lose your fucking head.”

A familiar set of grey eyes burned holes into his forehead. Wiz smiled, raising his hands in surrender. “Sober yet?”

“Who sent you? What are you after? Poison won’t work on me, so if you want to live, tell me everything.”

A twist drew blood. The glass blade burned like a match against exposed skin — Wiz winced and balled his fists together. “You were doing a pretty good job poisoning yourself,” he said through grit teeth. “That Clear Body Tonic cost me a few. And I’m not stupid enough to want you dead.”

Slowly, Sier stepped back and looked around, clarity burning in her eyes. For the first time since they got back, she seemed to be aware of her surroundings — and was probably now aware that she stank of cheap, hoppy ale.

“I’m Wiz,” he said, pushing the blade away from his neck. These were less than ideal conditions for getting acquainted, but Wiz could work with it. “For the benefit of yourself and society at large, try not to drink in the future. You seem to be one of the worst drunks possible.”

“I’ll do whatever I wish to do, thank you very much.” Though the scowl remained on her face, her blade disappeared into her suit. Seems like she had enough sense to realize Wiz just did her a solid.

“Then in that case, I’d like to propose a conversation. I have something you want. You have something I want.” Wiz dug his item of interest out of his pocket and placed it on the counter. “You dropped this on the way in, by the way.”

Her gaze snagged on evidence Wiz presented. In the moments that followed, she patted down her pockets and chest, visibly relieved to see that nothing else was taken from her.

“By you dropped this,” Wiz clarified, “I meant you literally dropped it. Earlier.”

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The object in question was a used syringe. A questionable object to keep on oneself, but more questionable in this case were the circumstances in which it was obtained.

He picked up the syringe again and spun it in his fingers. “I know this doesn’t belong to you. But I’m pretty sure you know who it belongs to, and I happen to know what this is.”

“If this is your attempt at blackmail, I’d improve your craft.”

The glass nails moved closer. He wasn’t free yet.

It was at this moment that Wiz remembered a crucial detail: Sier’s family may have Frontier roots, but she was as corporate as they came. Shit, she was practically bleeding the refined cool that came from private blades — the only reason he wasn’t shitting bricks from her raw intent to kill were the little microbes embedded into his adrenal glands and little Arts he did know being entirely dedicated to cognitive processing power and emotional stability.

He needed a different approach here; his mysterious Frontier digital cowboy schtick wouldn’t work against somebody with an overinflated ego.

“I ran a chemical trace,” Wiz said, turning the display on the tool used. A hand-sized ChemTag, fit for any self-respecting Hunter to lug around. “Found traces of neuroleptics and NMDA receptor antagonists, mixed in with a whole bunch of other fun things.” He held it out to Sier. “In more common terms, you’ll recognize these as antipsychotics, sedatives, and opiates.”

She scanned through the ChemTag’s results several times. Her brow furrowed further on every consecutive pass.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” she said, finally lowering the shards of death. “Those aren’t combat drugs. They’re the opposite of combat drugs — you’d inject this into somebody if you wanted to knock them out.”

“I figured you might want an early warning,” Wiz continued. “You’re the daughter of the Grey Scholar. Consider this part of an old debt I’d like to settle.”

Both of Wiz’s cards were down. Both of them hit where he wanted them to.

Sier’s hostility dwindled as she appraised Wiz for what felt like the first time. He could finally breathe again.

“That Owl girl, she’s harbouring a Stigmata. Not a problem in and of itself, but I’m getting a bad feeling about this entire gig.”

“Stop mincing words and get to the point.”

So impatient, this girl. “I want you to help me. You have your resources. I have mine. Let’s do our own research separate from the people leading us around and figure out what’s really going on here. Call it my Hunter’s sense, but something just ain’t right around here.”

Being candid may have helped avoid Sier’s wrath, but it certainly didn’t help him seal the deal. She bristled and took a step back, like the mere suggestion of cooperation could physically hurt her.

Not that Wiz expected anything else from corporate.

“It would be foolish to squander an opportunity like this one,” Sier said, gesturing to him. “Especially with the stakes as they are. Pray tell, what allows you to draw a conclusion from a single piece of evidence?”

This was good. The more she was talking, the less likely she was going to cleanly remove his head from his neck. Wiz capitulated on his big sell and instead moved towards a more modest method of trust-building; he withdrew a small, perfectly round stone from his pocket, smooth and ice cold to the touch, and flicked it into her waiting palm.

“The only time you’ll really need an umbrella is when it rains,” he explained. “This is your umbrella. A piece of pure, refined Starstone. Soulstone, if you would prefer. You could probably kill everybody here, but the most dangerous things in the Frontier don’t affect the body: they affect the mind.”

A blink of recognition from Sier. “Is that their formal name?”

Wiz clapped his hands in delight. “No explanation needed, then.”

Everybody in the Frontier had seen them, once or twice or maybe even thrice. They were embroidered in clothes, framed in platinum jewelry, sometimes even embedded in the pale, engineered flesh of the Frontier’s legends. But nobody really knew what they were. There were many rumors, but no evident truths.

If they learned the truth of this stage, everybody in this damned world would want one. And there are only so many to go around.

Sier seemed to recognize the weight of the tiny miracle in her hand. It quickly vanished up her sleeve.

“It’s a pleasant sentiment,” she said. “Gracious, even. But I do hope you’re aware that I cannot lend my aid unless I know of your intention.”

“Health and dental,” Wiz replied, without skipping a beat.

Sier blinked. “Pardon me?”

“Listen,” he said, “You’re the very young and not-so-impressionable CEO of a big and powerful company overseas. I’ve gotten to that point in life where all I want is a retirement license and maybe a nice cushy apartment somewhere with running water. Electricity optional.”

Sier was stunned silent. Her mouth was slightly agape, her eyes were wide. The only time she could look more shocked was if Wiz managed to sucker-punch her in the gut, and he had enough worldly knowledge to know that he couldn’t touch her in the next century or two.

To an outsider, this scene may have seemed ridiculous. A powerful artifact that could shield the mind had no equivalent to a simple retirement; it was the same as exchanging diamonds for dirt. Then again, there wasn’t any inherent worth to diamonds in the first place, but Wiz had no intention of downplaying the value of his offer.

Stay around here long enough and anyone would understand. The Frontier was a place filled with humans, yet there was no humanity to be seen.

Maybe he was the one who was wrong. Maybe he was too deep in the muck to see the light of day. Maybe he did this all to himself.

Only time could tell.

“Sleep on the deal,” he eventually said. His knees cracked as he stood up. “Let’s get acquainted with our new friends; we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us, you and I. Best not think too hard until the job’s done.”

So much for the enigmatic air he had hoped to cultivate. And he had so much going for him. The skills, the history. The mystery. It could’ve been perfect. Alas and alack, he lost his nerve and showed his hand too early. It was up to Sier to actually play the next move.

He had backup plans, of course. Many backup plans, many contingencies — any spirit jacker would tell you that if you could’ve come up with at least 5 ways out of a given scenario, you were as good as maggot-feed.

There was a long night ahead. Many secrets to be pried, many drinks to be shared; there was an interesting cast here, and he was happy to join the ensemble. But after tonight, he was on the defensive.

Those in precarious occupations develop a sense of how their jobs will come. Wiz never held down one job long enough to gain that so-called ‘sixth sense,’ but even somebody like him could smell when the blood was already in the air.

There was no backing down anymore. Everybody here, they were all in, and their fates lay in the cards. He just hoped the stage they were set to perform on didn’t have too many trap doors to fall through.

He and Sier rejoined the party and drank the night away without further incident. Yet it seemed that only Wiz caught onto a crucial detail, a detail everybody else was happy to ignore.

In the room already locked and barricaded, all around this office and all around its people, was most certainly the stench of fresh blood.