Weekends had started to come and go, never long enough to leave her feeling satisfied. She hadn’t much in the way of study that kept her from enjoying them to the fullest; it was a problem prevalent in her class but far removed from herself. But that still left her with work for her mother at the agency, the menial tasks from day to day that comprised the ‘P.I’ portion of their lives.

Sometimes, a client’s personal matters would lead them down a rabbit hole, with nothing but organised crime and loan sharking as the light at the end of the tunnel, but it was chump change compared to the state contracts they received. Potential for violence, matters of intimidation, and owning a face—or rather mask—that the streets recognised and respected was what allowed Evalyn to corner her market.

And that respect went both ways, although rather tepidly. It was why their front door hadn’t been gunned down yet by an angry mob out for revenge.

But that was another tangent, Iris reminiscing about a time when her mother wouldn’t hesitate to bring her along on such a job. Nowadays, taking Iris’s recent moods into account, Evalyn had been reluctant to bring her along on anything that involved more than wrangling a stray cat.

She appreciated the sentiment and indeed the act itself. But it was the alternative that she had problems with.

“I have problems with this. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“So why do you keep doing it?”

The difference in their energy levels wasn’t even laughable, and as Iris sat there, slumping over Evalyn’s desk, she wondered if Crestana had stolen her share of their daily enthusiasm. Sweeping the bookshelves with not so much a spring in her step as a one-tracked determination. Whatever she was trying to achieve by dusting the shelves in her place, it was going to be done, whether Iris liked it or not.

“Because I want this,” she said as frankly as possible. “And I know it’s taking time out of your day…nor do you particularly enjoy it. A favour for a favour.”

She followed Crestana across the room with her eyes as the girl moved her attention from the bookshelves to Iris's desk. One feather of that duster on it and it would be personal, a favour she was directly indebted for.

“Stop!” Iris announced, stretching her palms wide and arresting Crestana before her duster could touch the desk and create a favour she couldn’t talk her way out of. “That isn’t what I mean.”

Crestana’s body stuttered. She lowered her duster, and Iris breathed a sigh of relief.

“But it’s my choice. You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do,” Crestana said matter-of-factly, turning her attention back to the desk.

“Stop!” Iris reiterated. “Then why are you trying to make me help you? You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”

“I can’t,” Crestana agreed. “But I’m hoping I can do something about that.”

“Then why can’t I?”

“Because I won’t let you.”

If she had a mouth, she’d be smirking. That’s how the words came across, but the part that irked Iris the most was that, knowing Crestana, she was playing the words completely straight. Alis, someone with little experience with people, who read them instinctively, much like she did, agreed with Iris’s assessment.

The girl was serious. Dead serious.

Iris sighed a shaky breath. She didn’t have the distance to shoot down Crestana’s requests as Evalyn did. Crestana was a friend, and she wanted to oblige a friend wherever possible, but obliging wasn’t always helping. That was a new lesson she tucked under her belt, one that sat uncomfortably, with sharp edges that dug into her side.

“It’s not something you want to do with your life,” Iris said, but Crestana didn’t respond. The duster finally touched Iris's desk.

She winced but continued. “It’s a lot of hard decisions. You hurt a lot of people. And…it makes you choose between things, and it makes you feel evil.”

Like choosing between hostages and freedom fighters. The life of a few innocents, or those who chose to die for a cause they never saw realised.

Crestana continued to dust her desk, and Iris felt her counter for unpaid debts slowly creep up by another digit.

“You’ve already been through so much. Why can’t you just leave it all behind?”

That finally stopped the dusting, but Iris didn’t feel relief, the panic instead turned into fear.

Beaks barely had facial expressions. With Evalyn, at least she could tell if she’d gone too far with her words.

“We don’t get to make choices like that, do we? I mean, you should know that better than anyone.”

Crestana placed a hand on Iris’s desk, following the length of the grain with her fingers. Her nails were long again, and she was overdue for a haircut. It fell in long strands over her shoulder, like a waterfall drifting into a void.

“Evalyn told me what kind of work the Council would give me if they found out. Killing people like you who they can’t control.”

She turned to Iris, walking up to the desk and coming face to face with her, as though to show off the vast divide in levels of energy again.

“I have watched people die. You know that, right? So I’m not letting anyone tell me I have to go and hunt you down, nor am I letting anyone else do that to you. If they’d ask me to hunt Wizards and Witches, I’d tell them good luck trying to find anyone who could defeat both of us.”

It was a strong statement, one that left Iris speechless. Crestana, perhaps sensing that her job was done, smacked the table and returned to work as Iris helplessly coiled into her field jacket.

“Today,” Iris muttered, just loud enough so that Crestana could hear. “After this, we can see if Alis is home, and I’ll let you do some training.”

Crestana continued to dust Iris’s desk without a word in return, but Iris could see now a small spring in her step that her friend struggled to keep under wraps.

“I’ve told her to do some of her warm-ups for the moment,” Iris mumbled. “I’ll start teaching her how to shoot.”

“Mrs Hardridge won’t notice there’s ammunition missing?”

“I’ll say I was the one shooting.”

Iris found her backside glued to her well-worn spot on the living room couch. Slumped like a cat over the armrest, she watched Alis indulge in a book from over the folds of her jacket sleeves. The radio was chatting in the background, yet it seemed as though the words in the air weren’t messing with the ones on the paper. Stepping one foot outside, he’d be keenly aware of his surroundings, eyes reading windows in a building like words on a page. It didn’t seem that way at that moment.

Maybe that meant he felt safe, and was finally dropping his guard. Iris hoped so.

She dismantled a sliver of her hair as quietly as she could and, from her dangling fingers, produced a spindle that crawled across the ground towards his bare nape.

“What are you doing?” he asked, nose still in the book.

“What am I doing?” Iris lied.

“Hm,” he said, closing his book. Iris retracted the spindle with a zip, hoping he hadn’t really noticed just yet. Maybe he was just acting off of instinct.

“So you’re on board with it now? Crestana.”

“No,” she said, “but I don’t want to keep arguing with her.”

Stolen story; please report.

“I see,” he said. “It’s a little indulgent, but I can’t say I don’t understand.”

Iris felt her brow furrow. “What do you mean indulgent?”

“I just mean that you might be risking her safety just so you don’t have to argue with her anymore.”

“Yeah,” Iris said, sinking even deeper into her jacket and feeling the sweat cling to her neck thanks to her overdressing. “But she made a good point. She thinks she can’t go back now, so she has to do everything she can to go the other way.”

“Fully buy into it, huh?” he muttered. “Want to read this book when I’m done?”

“What’s it about?”

“A man who turns into a big bug. It’s very philosophical.”

Iris crinkled her nose, and Alis, sensing a ‘no thank you’, dropped the subject.

“All right,” Crestana announced, stepping through the open glass doorways, “I think I’m ready.”

Iris groaned, disassembling her hair and reforming them into two tendrils protruding from her back. They snaked across the room and grabbed the coffee table, shifting it out of the way before flipping the rug over as well.

It was subtle, but one floorboard had a small notch in which nails could just about fit under. Iris didn’t bother, filling the notch with enough purple matter to displace the entire plank.

“Now you know where the guns are,” Iris grumbled. “I don’t really care if you know because you can’t get teleported here unless I hold the door open for you, but still. Don’t take anything.”

She rolled off the couch as she spoke, bare feet pitter-pattering over the hole in the floor the other two were peering down into. She plucked out a handgun with her tendril and gave it a once over. Dust, rust, any ware or spare round left in the chamber, but Iris was happy enough with its condition. She passed it to Crestana, who caught it with both hands.

With no visual references to go off, it was natural she had no clue how to hold it. The design was intuitive enough, but Iris considered that it wasn't as instinctual as she'd imagined; she’d just been exposed to it enough to believe it was.

“Like this,” she said, finding another handgun and holding it. “Keep your pointy finger on the trigger guard, okay?”

Crestana nodded, doing as she was told. Iris passed Alis the gun who held it as though born with one in his hand. As expected.

“All right, outside,” she said, finding a loaded magazine in the ammunitions box and taking the lead onto the balcony.

She didn’t bother with shoes at home, even when stepping outside. The grass was remarkably pillowy, and the ground soft and malleable. But also, shoes would get in the way of her armour.

“What’s that for?” Crestana asked as Iris’s armour crawled across her body and locked into place.

“Put the magazine in the handle,” Iris began, pointing from one implement to the other. Crestana looked at her, and then to the weapon, hesitating for a moment but nonetheless doing as she was told.

“Did it click?”

“Yes, it did.”

“All right. The top of the gun, pull it back. Yeah like that. Now the hammer, the thing that’s sticking out near the back, pull that back too. Okay.”

Fearing Crestana’s lack of barrel awareness, Alis tucked himself directly behind her as Crestana held the gun exactly as though she had no clue what to do with it. Admittedly, it even made Iris nervous.

“Now there’s a switch on the side, it says on and off. Flick it to off.”

“All right. What do I do now?”

“Shoot me.”

“…sorry?” Crestana asked.

“I’m your target. Shoot me.”

“But…that’s dangerous. Even if you’ve got your armour—”

“I’ve stopped worse,” Iris insisted stepping further back. “If you can’t even do this, then there’s no point.”

The shutters on Crestana’s mask furrowed, the eyes in her mask growing remarkably narrow. She looked down at the gun in her hand for much too long, probably seeing past the metal and the leather. That was what Iris wanted.

This is a gun. Her mother had once said that, and first given her an idea of what it could do, what it meant, and how it was ultimately just a tool. A symptom of the person who wielded it, their intentions, their resolve, their ambitions. In that way, it deserved great respect, and more importantly, fear.

If Crestana couldn’t point it at someone in full armour, then the symptom would be indicative of the user’s intentions, their resolve, and their ambitions.

She watched as Crestana levelled the gun’s barrel at her, and closed her eyes.

Iris heard the shot but barely felt the impact; a glancing hit against her right abdomen, the bullet ending up somewhere amongst the grass.

Iris nodded, trying to swallow her conflicted feelings in favour of indifference. “All right, do you want some targets?”

Crestana’s shoulders relaxed, and she lowered the handgun. Her finger was off the trigger, and the safety switch was turned on once again. As much as Iris wanted to whine, it pained her to admit that Crestana was an extremely fast learner.

At the heart of the Vesmosian capital was much less a landmark but rather a constant phenomenon. When every borough had skyscrapers that stretched towards the sun in the same pathetic way a moth might to a flame, and streets so caked in grime and human blood that it created a calloused scab on the earth, locking away the soil for the next millennia, landmarks weren’t held to such high regard. The organisation of streets was different, the faces, the buildings’ facades, yes, but what tied the entire hellscape together was meat.

Human meat.

Provenance, before ever seeing his first warzone, had not truly realised that the human body was nothing but a moving carcass made of meat until he had seen one without its head.

With all significant identifying features whisked away with the face, all that was left was meat. Separated limb from limb, gutted like a pig, it did not matter. Humans were meat, more so than Spirits. So perhaps it was fitting that Vesmos, a capital of the race built upon greed, would evoke the same feelings in him despite the moving carcasses keeping everything from the neck up relatively intact.

The human meat grinder called war brought the philosophy that was its namesake to the city itself. Whether it be factory assembly lines or locked away behind one of the millions of windows nailed into the hundreds of buildings, humans were meat.

For the rich, for the employers, for the gangsters, for each other.

Provenance could gaze upon Excala from a distance even without any sheer cliffs or high mountains to perch upon. The city was well-defined, and tapered into the grasslands at a leisurely pace, slowly taking it over one year at a time.

Yekreni City had, at some point in its history, been disembowelled as it continued to grow. While the concrete rebar skyscrapers at its centres, with all their fake gold and mass-produced mounted statues, continued to grow, the urban hellscape spilt out of the wound in the city’s stomach in all directions, infecting the landscape.

Grime, pollution, a buildup of wasted souls and cartilage—whatever the city couldn’t consume—spread through the rocky, mineral-rich outcrop like a fertiliser, and from it grew more and more and more and more.

At night, the millions of windows transformed into lanterns, the oil and electrical lamps burning on whatever little life each window’s occupants had left. Like fireflies stuck in the mud, ensnared by spindly, evil fingers, the little fireflies without any clue of what else to do or how to break free, continued to shine. They continued to burn until one day, they could no longer. Then, the city, in all its generosity, would replace one flame with three.

And so, the spill continued.

Provenance, afforded the luxury by the stamp in his passport, glided through it all like a bullet flying through a headless carcass. Vestiges of wealth, of the other fraction of society, moved like veins pumping blood through the dying corpse, however weak the flow was.

Money. What passed as ‘social services’ to desperate, dying people flowed along such train lines he travelled on.

Red, and grey. Red, grey and black. Red was the most common, most recognisable colour after green and blue. Red dictated green, it showed mercy yet gave its punishments. For them, it was the face of authority. Grey functioned in the same way but for the blue.

Then black, a colour stamped on, accented, and adorned by the weightiest decrees in society. The final say in law and reform, the last seal on public infrastructure, the highest honour on any medal.

The same weight would never truly make sense to him, but by the expressions of fear and awe on every face that saw the black stamp adorning his passport, he could at least gain a sense for it.

As long as that black stamp didn’t fade into grey, he had no use for his magic. Every move he made was an imperial decree in and of itself.

After hours of listlessness through Vesmos’s vast countryside and three major cities on one train line alone, he found himself suspended high in the air by pillars of concrete that cut through the neighbourhoods below like powerline towers. So high up, with half the city below and half above, the gradient between overpopulated slum and sheer walls of glass and concrete was clear. The space between buildings expanded upon by indulgent balconies, skywalks and terraces filled out the spaces like a canopy of leaves, and blocked the sun from ever reaching the first civilisation below. Five of his seven stops were suspended on platforms connected to towers.

The final two were built atop more solid foundations, but no less artificial. There was no true tangible heart to the city, but the administrative district could be mistaken for one. To Provenance, it was less of a heart and more of a worm inside it; a parasite. A base of operations in the centre of a warzone whose only purpose was to replay and enact the policies decided upon by people far away and far removed.

High society had built itself a mountain out of buildings and concrete, and its face atop it. What lay inside the mountainous heap of buildings and windows and ladders and staircases and tunnels and train networks was a mystery to even him. Like a termite mound, it was probably impossible to navigate. Whatever was important enough for him to know about filtered up to the top anyway.

“The next stop is Fairview Gates, Administrative District. All passengers, please follow the allocated guidelines to your correct identification stations.”

Provenance moved to step off, having found himself an empty row of seats at the border. Passengers had fluctuated, but never by much. Red and grey made up a fraction of the population after all.

The train halted, the engine resting as the doors slowly hissed open. Provenance stepped out, separated from the main body of blue passengers by several carts, a mass tide that he would want to avoid if he stood any chance of getting to his destination on time.

The administration’s overground complex was downright glamorous when compared to what it neighboured. Somehow staving off the dirt and grime, trees dotted a massive circular garden adorned with ornate iron fencing: a final, symbolic barrier.

A final toll box waited for him, where the three coloured lines—green, red, and grey—converged.

“Identification please,” the officer asked. Tall, slightly undernourished, and shrunken eyes crested with wrinkles. But by virtue of his uniform, job, and clean-shaven face, it was clear he was nowhere close to the bottom.

Even then, calling him middle class didn’t quite do his situation justice.

Provenance handed over his passport, opened to the page where the all-important stamp had been placed and waited for the man’s reaction.

He watched the man’s eyes widen, and his eyes flick back and forth from his face to the stamp. Not the most dramatic reaction Provenance had been treated to, but that wasn’t surprising. Plenty of high dignitaries filtered to and from the administrative district, but perhaps rarely on the train in.

“Thank you, sir, I was warned of your arrival. I’m told their Majesties are waiting for you.”