Chapter VII

Thirty-third was in the sticks, but the same could be said for many of the precincts that existed on the outer rings of the city. The further one went from the central business precinct, the more land one found – most of which was dedicated to agriculture and the rearing of animals, except for the places home to the factories and warehouses that produced most of Joudai’s goods. The citizens living near the city centre also tended to forget the unyielding supremacy of the defensive wall that ringed Joudai proper, a great behemoth of steel, concrete and stone that stood around ninety feet high separating the docile citizens of Joudai from the creatures that wandered the Wilds. The wall was just visible in the distance, ringing the neighbouring fiftieth precinct of patchwork farmland.

The lack of noise was the most disorienting thing about thirty-third. No quiet ambience of people, nor the hum of buildings and their inner workings. Just the occasional distant shout or rumble of machinery, now largely quiet and sleeping during the evening. Thirty-third was primarily comprised of factories and vast, quiet residential areas nestled amongst grassy plains and groves of trees. Few paved streets and even fewer teleport pads meant the corporal and Morgan had to wander for quite a while from where the portal had spewed them out before coming across the precise street from the address Rhiley had given them.

It was the sudden onset of rallied voices that let the officers know they were close to their destination. Wedged in by a pair of sleeping electronics manufacturers, Reggie’s was an underground bar placed on the map by a neon-pink sign of the owner’s name in italics, next to which lay the neon crest of the man himself: a coiled dragon eating its own tail.

An apt symbol for an illegal fighting ring where the contestants were known to kill each other before admitting defeat, and often for the entertainment of patrons.

‘What’s the plan, sir?’ asked Shalia as the pair strolled up to the line waiting to be admitted into the inside.

‘You know me by now,’ he said, scanning the crowd for a familiar face – or a threat.

‘So no plan, then.’

‘I’m working on it.’

The din and heat of the press of hundreds of bodies grew stronger the closer the pair got to the head of the line until eventually the bouncer at the entrance waved them through.

‘Security is pretty lax,’ remarked Shalia as they descended into chaos.

‘Well. If there’s a threat, there is a bunch of jacked-up prize fighters ready to go.’

‘Good point.’

Calling Reggie’s a ‘bar’ was an understatement. Reggie had to have been using magic of some kind, because the joint was far larger than the single-story entrance above ground would suggest. The walls and floor stretched on into darkness for several hundred feet opposite, the mirrors placed on the ceiling giving the place the illusion of even greater height. The centre was dominated by a massive octagon with walls of steel and chain-link fencing from floor to distant ceiling, this illuminated by floodlights of alternating colour that left little of the stage in darkness. Smaller fighting rings were arranged near the walls, these not nearly as showy or as popular as the one in the middle. A long bar dominated the wall to the right, where densely packed people fought for the attention of the barkeeps.

Morgan was more interested in the table to the left of the entrance occupied by two people with computers in front of them. Concierge, or bookkeepers, he guessed. He went over and joined the line of people waiting for the two, the corporal in tow. She was as inquisitive as ever despite the general lawlessness of the whole affair.

‘Next!’ came the voice of one the bookkeepers. She had to shout to be heard over the crowd and thudding bass of music.

‘Hi!’ shouted Morgan as he desperately tried to catch a glimpse of the bookkeeper’s laptop.

She wasn’t impressed. ‘Bets?’

‘Huh?’

‘Who’re you betting on?’

‘No one! I’m looking for Reggie!’

The bookkeeper snorted. ‘You and me both, buddy! He owes me for this!’

Shalia bodily shouldered him out of the way and shouted in a watery voice not used to being raised, ‘Is Red Wrath on tonight?’

The bookkeeper shook her head.

‘Is there someone we can talk to that works under Reggie?’ Morgan yelled. ‘The organiser or something!’

‘You can try Ling! He’s in his office! Good luck getting anything out of him though!’

Morgan’s throat was too hoarse to scream; he mouthed ‘thanks’ instead but before he could go the bookkeeper grabbed the edge of his jacket.

‘At least place a bet!’ she yelled.

Morgan rolled his eyes but whipped out his Glass anyway. ‘Five thousand on…I don’t know, whoever you like!’

The bookkeeper flashed a salesman’s smile and pulled a scanner from beneath the table. He paid the girl and the pair joined the throng of people moving deeper into the venue. There was no clear organisation to the traffic; the frustration of getting nowhere prompted Morgan to take the corporal’s hand and, with his sheer bulk and height, carve a path through the horde.

There was no one fighting at the moment in the main ring, but the smaller rings were concentrated points of people while their occupants tore each other apart; Morgan avoided those. He almost missed Ling’s office; a battered door in the corner of the bar with ‘Ling’ written on a bit of masking tape over its eyehole was the only indication Morgan had. He didn’t knock.

‘…I said I’ll be out in a minute. Can’t a man get a bit of privacy around –’

Morgan closed the door behind him and turned the lock just in case. Shalia had her hand at her hip, where her Austere was normally holstered.

Ling was snorting through a straw a line of white powder on a low coffee table. He was an older man with a shock of white hair that looked as though he had just stuck a fork in an electrical outlet moments before, and wore clothes that were flashy and leather and had too many buckles and sequins to be called fashionable. After a long silence, he leaned back down and finished the line. When he popped back up, his nose contorted this way and that. ‘Can I help you?’ Ling peered at Morgan over a pair of pink sunglasses.

‘I’m looking for Reggie.’

Ling studied him critically, taking his time as his eyes moved from toe to head. ‘Are you now? And what do you need him for?’

‘Is Red Wrath here?’ asked Shalia.

‘Red? No, he isn’t here today. Reggie would’ve been pissed if that’s all you were going to ask him.’ Ling gestured them over to a red leather sofa opposite. Morgan took a seat, but Shalia didn’t move from the doorway.

‘We’re looking for Red Wrath,’ Morgan clarified. ‘Got something to straighten out with him.’

‘You and about a hundred other people, I bet,’ said Ling. ‘Trouble is, that kid makes me a lot of money. So I can’t just hand him over without some kind of incentive.’

Morgan’s gut twisted itself in knots. ‘What do you need? I’m not exactly rolling in money.’

Ling threw his shaggy head back and laughed. ‘Please! Do I look like I need handouts, boy? No, I’ve got a better idea.’ He leaned forward and gestured Morgan closer.

Morgan leaned in and quicker than he thought the old man possible Ling reached out and grabbed his right arm. Beneath his wrinkled but firm fingers the yellow and red bracer pulsed with a dull light.

‘Now we’re talkin’.’ His smile was a devilish, hungry thing. ‘I can bargain with this.’

Morgan yanked his arm out of the old man’s grip. ‘That’s not for sale.’

‘I don’t want the brace, you dumb boy. I want you. B-class is as good as it gets in the ring. A-class assholes are too up themselves to fight – that or they kill everything. It’s bad for business.’

‘S – Morgan.’ Shalia was near the sofa now, one hand on Morgan’s shoulder in a warning squeeze. ‘Forget it.’ She turned her burning gaze on Ling. ‘He can’t fight. Bracers ping the JNDB when they get past a certain heartrate. They’ll be on this place in minutes.’

Ling grinned. ‘Please. Like we don’t use jammers for that exact thing. Tapes make the best fighters. You think we’d throw them away because of something like that? It’s their problem if they break it.’

‘Jammers?’ echoed Shalia in horror.

‘Oops. Guess I shouldn’t have told that to a couple of badges, huh?’

Shalia drew her Austere half-way from its hidden holster beneath her jacket.

Morgan wasn’t particularly concerned. Ling knew what they were the second they busted in; it echoed in his drug-muddled thoughts. ‘What gave it away?’

Ling wasn’t the least bit perturbed by the sight of the gun. ‘Please. I knew when you barged in. Criminals have the decency to at least knock.’

Shalia fingered the trigger but drew the gun no further. ‘If you won’t help us, we’ll look somewhere else. Right, lieutenant?’

‘What do you want?’ asked Morgan.

Ling spread his hands in a placating gesture. ‘Not much, really. You fight in the ring, just one match, then I’ll tell you where you can find Red. Don’t even have to win, just make me some money. That sound reasonable to you, officer? The bureau won’t have to know.’

‘You’re not serious,’ said Shalia. And after Morgan said nothing, ‘Lieutenant? You’re not serious!’

‘It’s alright corporal. If it means finding this guy it’s worth getting a little beat up.’

Ling’s eyes flashed devilishly beneath his sunglasses, the greed and amusement there barely contained. He pulled a massive logbook bound with leather from beneath the coffee table and turned to a page bookmarked in the middle by a red ribbon. Ling pulled out a pen and wrote a few lines, then placed the book on the table; in its yellow pages were lists of names, signatures and dates, and some more details that Morgan could not decipher.

‘There, at the date?’ Ling pointed to the most recent entry. ‘Put your name and signature. A consent thing, y’know. In case you die we aren’t responsible, yadda-yadda. You can put a stage name next to your real one, if you don’t want it getting out there.’ He handed the pen over.

Morgan took the pen slowly and hovered over the entry. It felt almost like making a deal with the devil – except this time he had a choice in the matter.

He felt rather than saw the corporal’s disapproval over his shoulder. But she didn’t stop him as he put pen to paper.

When Ling turned the book around for review, his eyes widened – and his mouth split with a wicked grin. ‘I should’ve asked for a whole night’s worth. Ah well. I’m not one,’ he snorted, ‘to go back on my word. You want us to use your stage name, I’m guessing.’

Morgan swallowed past the lump in his throat. ‘Yeah.’

----------------------------------------

‘After there’s an internal investigation I’d like the record to show that I did not approve of any of this.’

Ling had left fifteen minutes earlier to prepare Morgan’s opponent and the fighting ring; his voice could be heard every now and then shouting nonsense into the loudspeakers, rallying the crowd. His absence left Shalia to fill the silence.

Morgan slid out of his jacket and unclipped the Austere’s shoulder holster. He handed both over to the corporal. If looks could kill, Morgan would have been a pile of ashes on the floor. He started stretching out his long limbs, muscles flexing with a pleasant ache.

‘You don’t have to worry so much corporal,’ he muffled from the ground, where he was reaching for the tip of his boots.

‘It’ll be hard to explain to the chief how her lieutenant got the living crap beaten out of him without mentioning the, I don’t know, the whole fighting ring!’

Morgan arched his back and his spine let out a warning crack. ‘What, you don’t think I could win? Have a little faith.’

‘That’s not the point! If we’re caught, or worse, if you’re injured…’

He straightened and met Shalia’s concerned gaze. ‘If we’re caught, we’ll say it was part of the investigation. And even if I’m injured, I heal quick. Besides, I trust you to have my back if it all goes to shit.’

Her scowl deepened. ‘Fine. But don’t let it come to that.’

He was about to reply when Ling busted into the office. He was typing away at a message on his Glass when he said distractedly, ‘You’re up, kid. The big stage, right in the middle.’

Butterflies began to flutter in the pit of his stomach. ‘The big one? Why?’

Ling gestured him out the door. ‘Because you’re gonna put on a big show and make me a big heap of money! What else? Now hurry up!’

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Morgan hurried outside. The corporal didn’t move to follow. She stood in the doorway, her arms filled with his things and her lips pinched with worry.

Morgan paused. Reached out a hand for her. ‘C’mon, corporal. I can’t win this without you.’

Shalia sighed. Then, like sunlight through storm clouds, a small, watery smile as she moved his things to one hand and took his hand with the other.

The three of them, Morgan, Ling and Shalia, pushed through the crowd, keeping to the sides where the finished small cage matches now waited for the main event. Ling fished a microphone from thin-air and whipped it about with a flourish.

‘And who is ready for the main event?’ his voice emerged from hidden speakers set in the walls. ‘A match between two B-class titans! And just who will our fighters be?’

The crowd roared, too distracted waiting for the contestants to emerge in the central octagon to notice Ling moving amongst them. The central octagon had a ramp that led to only one gate, currently shackled tight, that faced the entrance to the building, and inside that an elevated section of floor that had contestants fighting one another just above the crowds. The hungry audience pulled at the fence, shaking the chain-link in a wave of anticipation for a blood match. There were no security guards here, only the bouncers of Ling’s entourage.

‘Tonight, we have a bout between monsters, everybody. Don’t forget to place your bets quickly before the match, or you’ll regret it once you see these stars go out!’

Ling led him up the ramp. The corporal fell out of Morgan’s grip. He turned back to find her clutching his jacket to her chest.

‘Don’t lose!’ she yelled.

He flashed her a smile and a salute.

Morgan ducked inside the gate, Ling close behind – and behind him Morgan’s opponent.

He was just a kid. Could not have been more than seventeen: a young, unmarked face and frantic eyes too white to be called grey, the pinpricks of pupils standing out in stark relief to the white around them. His hair was a shock of white too, and had a strange floating quality about it as though it had trouble keeping still, like a nimbus of clouds. The paper whiteness of his features was set off by the black of his clothes, the only colour the bright glow of yellow and red from a freshly minted Tape bracer.

Ling flashed Morgan a grin and locked the pair of them inside. ‘And here they are folks!’ The crowd roared, the tugging of the fence growing more frantic.

  Morgan felt suddenly like a lion in a cage, the sides pressing in, the scent of sweat and alcohol heavy on the nose. And, underneath it all, the hardy aroma of blood.

  ‘Which star will wink out first?’ Ling stood on a stack of crates just outside the ring, a makeshift stage, three bodyguards in black carving out a wide space between him and the crowd. ‘We have the young prince of stars in one corner, a first timer to the big stage!’

  The kid tightened his fists at his side, narrowed eyes somehow both terrified and determined at once.

  ‘You may have seen him in the small matches. Beat everything we threw at him! He hasn’t lost a match yet! We might just have the next Red Wrath here, everyone. Cheer for your fallen star, the Star Prince!’

  The crowd’s cheer shook the mirrors on the ceiling.

  The Prince kicked off his boots.

  ‘But don’t think that means he’ll win here! We have a veteran among us…a legend that used to make even this cold old heart shake once upon a time! My depraved ladies and gentlemen, your boss may have threatened you with this boogieman, it’s the Burning Butcher himself…!’

  The crowd faltered.

  Then thunderous, screaming applause.

  Morgan kept his eyes trained on his feet, face burning.

  ‘Back from the grave, the Butcher has returned for his first match, convinced by yours truly! What carnage will we see from the Grim Reaper’s right-hand man?’

  ‘Hey.’

  The Prince’s gaze was steady despite the shaking in his hands. ‘Don’t hold back on me. Because I won’t hold back on you.’

  Morgan went still, taken aback by the voracity in the kid’s tone. Then he nodded. ‘Alright. But we don’t have to kill each other, either.’ The roar of the crowd became a distant thing; the fence carved out a new, almost serene world where only the two of them existed. The eye of the storm, surrounded and threatened by chaos.

  The Prince cracked his knuckles. ‘You won’t be able to kill me, anyway.’

  ‘And get ready, everyone! The match will begin in three, two, one…Go!’

  Morgan didn’t even see him move.

  A white blur, so white that it left an afterimage on his retinas, was all the warning he had before the Prince struck him in the jaw in a basic but no less vicious left-hook. Morgan went careening into the cage and was bounced back by the crowd at the fence. He steadied himself and spat out a glob of steaming blood.

  Mildly, ‘You’re fast.’

  The Prince scowled. Hunkering low, bare feet flat on the stage, the Prince pushed off once again into a blur of white, this time going for a low kick to Morgan’s ribs.

  But Morgan was prepared for the speed this time. He grabbed the kid’s ankle before it could strike. The strength behind the kick was intense and the skin underneath was swelteringly hot, even for him. With a snarl the Prince twisted his torso around, using the momentum to slam his free heel into Morgan’s nose. Morgan’s grip loosened as he fell, and the kid twisted out of his range and landed on all fours. He was wickedly fast, a white-hot blur of heat and adolescent rage. Like a dying star.

  Morgan adjusted his glasses. It was out of the question to open his mind to hear the kid’s thoughts – there were too many people and the noise would simply be a detriment rather than an aid – but he didn’t necessarily need to. Although he was fast, the Prince’s moves were flashy and easy to read, especially if Morgan burned more of his Sleight. He willed his blood to warm, just a little. No need to show his entire hand just yet. He could see how the Prince had won most of his matches. With supernatural speed and strength his opponent would no doubt be unconscious seconds after the match began.

  That would do no good for him here, though.

  ‘What a clash!’ came Ling’s voice. ‘I’m sure the Prince didn’t expect his infamous speed to be stopped! But’s that’s the Butcher for you.’

  Playing defensively for the entirety of the match was also out of the question. No doubt the Prince could and would beat him to a pulp, as the corporal succinctly put, but Morgan had little desire to fight with all his strength. He had not been expecting to fight someone so young; even if there was only perhaps fifteen years between them; the Prince reminded him a little too much of Rhiley and Morgan’s younger brother. And besides, he didn’t have to win, just survive the match – although forfeiting was also impossible. Ling wanted a show and a mound of cash, after all.

  ‘Just what will the fallen star do?’

  The fallen star in question was still hunkered low to the ground, those white-hot eyes appraising Morgan like a particularly difficult puzzle, nimbus of hair whipping to and fro in an unseen gale like a tongue of white flame.

  Then, like a shot from a gun, the Prince burst into action. He appeared on Morgan’s right side; Morgan put up his arms in an attempt to block the incoming attack, but the Prince changed direction at the last second. His body somehow twisted itself in mid-air into a feint against Morgan’s left side. The Prince’s fingers were straight daggers when, like an axe against a tree, he drove the side of his palm into Morgan’s ribs. It was a fantastic blow – the bones there shattered like so much splintered wood, the sharp edges embedding a lung. The Prince skipped away on light feet.

  Strength deserted Morgan, replaced by a stabbing pain in his chest when he breathed and blood up his throat. He found himself on hands and knees.

  ‘You should give up now,’ declared the Prince. ‘If you don’t get to a hospital you could die.’

  ‘What a move!’ roared Ling. ‘I felt those ribs breaking from here!’

  Morgan swallowed the blood forcing its way into his mouth. An unseen hand was yanking and pulling at the ribs embedded in his lung; he could feel the tugging and straightening like great worms burrowing inside his chest, and felt the moment the bones there fused back together. It was a treat of its own to see the Prince’s face when he stood back up, wiping the blood from his lips, healthy and whole.

  ‘Good one,’ said Morgan. ‘Didn’t see that coming. I’m kind of jealous.’

  Dubiously, ‘How – how are you still standing?’ The Prince blinked, looking every bit his age.

  Morgan pressed a thumb against his chest. ‘Win and maybe I’ll tell you, kid.’

  The Prince pressed his cupid’s bow lips together. Tongues of white flame licked up between his fingers and toes, the same ethereal substance as his cloud-like hair. It was becoming more and more difficult to look at him directly, engulfed as he was by starlight.

  ‘Well, if you won’t give up…’ The Prince tightened his fists to his torso and his skin began to glow, the supernova beneath barely contained in fits and bursts of white fire across translucent skin. ‘I’ll just have to beat the shit out of you. You better get serious. You might die if you don’t.’

  The dirge of bloodlust sang softly in Morgan’s veins, this time without the rage that usually accompanied it. It was a strangely refreshing feeling, like the first beer of the night without the sickness that comes after. Getting into a fighting stance, arms about his head and knees bent, Morgan willed his blood to burn hotter, veins blossoming with the orange light of forge-ready metal. ‘Cocky one, aren’t you?’ he purred, breath steaming between fangs.

  Like a shooting star, the Prince attacked.

  The kid was just as much in the air as he was on the ground. A jumping roundhouse kick to Morgan’s temple; Morgan’s head and glasses, he knew, were a weak point, so he was ready for the attack and blocked the assault with his forearm. The vibration of the hit nevertheless reverberated down to the bone. Another pounce from the ground, this time a straight-fingered strike against his abdomen. Morgan snatched the Prince’s slim wrist inches before it reached his shirt. The Prince wasn’t slow to react. Twisting his wrist around until he was the one holding Morgan’s arm, the Prince yanked his arm back, straightening Morgan’s forearm, and slammed his knee into the exposed elbow. The joint splintered apart with a sharp snap.

  The crowd let out an audible gasp that swept across the bar in a wave.

  The Prince danced back. Morgan’s elbow snapped back into place with a sickening crunch. He grabbed the kid with the same arm before he got two steps away. Yanked him back. And planted a sucker-punch into the Prince’s guts. The kid went flying; he was lighter than his blows would suggest and slammed quickly into the fence on the opposite side of the cage. The crowd raging at the fence bounced him back into the ring and the Prince dry-retched on all fours.

  ‘That the first time you’ve been hit?’ asked Morgan, shaking out the strike from his fingers.

  The Prince’s glare was a cold thing, the emotion there burning so hot it left an absence of sensation that was galaxy-cold instead. ‘No,’ he snarled, wiping the saliva from his mouth. The starlight burned brighter, veins standing out black against the white, pupils black pinpricks inside a white-hot face.

  The Prince didn’t like to waste words, huh? His bare feet left scorch marks on the stage as he went in for another assault. A strike at Morgan’s abdomen, no, a feint; a blow to Morgan’s ankles instead that made the larger man stumble. Pouncing from the ground, the Prince contorted himself onto Morgan’s shoulders and pinned Morgan’s head between his thighs. Bracing head with hands, he twisted Morgan’s neck around.

  One-eighty degrees.

  Morgan blacked out for a second, the last thing he heard the sickening grind of his spine. His Sleight was still burning hot, sending liquid fire through veins which, currently, he could not feel. Its aggressive heat quickly rushed in to fix the damage, and before the Prince could even leap from Morgan’s shoulders his spine twisted itself back into position. The world came back online, like a TV flickering from off to on, a radio coming back in tune, a dull battery replaced.

  Grabbing the Prince’s ankles, Morgan turned away from the cage. He focused his weight back along his spine and shoulders.

  And suplexed the Prince into the stage.

  They both went down.

  The kid rolled backward.

  And stilled.

  Morgan was dazed by his own strength; the stage had kissed the back of his head as he fell.

  He took a breath: one, two, three.

  Then, in a great rush, turned over onto hands and feet.

  The Prince was on all fours similarly opposite, nose bleeding a blood so dark it was black. Their positions were low, guards down, but still they came at each other like a pair of enraged bulls. A grapple of both hands, one side determined and furious with youth, the other testing out an old muscle atrophied from disuse.

  ‘You’re…enjoying this, aren’t you…!’ snarled the Prince, bare feet scrambling.

  Morgan couldn’t help the grin. He readjusted his grip and the Prince winced. ‘I am, I’ll admit it!’

  A smile flittered across the kid’s face, the joy at pushing your body to the limit against a similar opponent. The sheer euphoria at not having to hold back.

  The Prince pushed off against the ground, using their shared grip to become airborne. And, leaning backward, slammed both his heels into Morgan’s skull.

  Morgan’s grip faltered. The Prince somersaulted backward, out of Morgan’s reach. Morgan’s glasses went flying into the crowd, snapped apart by the blow. Morgan bared his fangs but the Prince was nothing but a white blur.

  So he smiled.

‘I give up…!’

They said it at the same time.

----------------------------------------

‘What a show, gentleman.’

Ling grabbed three drinks from a cooler in the corner of his office, handing them to Morgan, the corporal and the Star Prince – whose name, Morgan had learned, was Vaylin.

Shalia was occupied with healing the bruises on Vaylin’s torso where Morgan had punched him, her hands aglow with gold and a soft warmth like early spring sunlight. She had given Morgan a spare pair of glasses she kept on her person. He had no idea how she had acquired them, or when.

‘And that ending!’ Ling folded into the sofa, tapping away at his Glass. ‘I don’t know what to think about it. On one hand, people’ll be talking about it for ages. On the other, well…’

Vaylin gently took the corporal’s hand away from his stomach, face burning not red, but white from the starlight beneath. ‘I’m fine, thank you. Ling, I’m going to keep fighting. One loss isn’t going to stop me.’

‘That’s the spirit kid. But if just one hit puts you down, I don’t know how long you’ll last. Dying star indeed.’

Shalia came over to where Morgan was lying on one of Ling’s leather couches, hands still bright.

He waved her away. ‘Don’t worry about me, corporal. I’m good to go.’

Truth was, although his body was physically fine and no wounds remained, he was exhausted. Sleights were unique abilities that most Vorvintti pass on either from parent to child or from maker to victim, and Morgan’s was a peculiar double-edged sword. Sure, it was the perfect weapon for killing – fire usually was – but it burned from the inside just as much as it scorched without. Except, in his case, it burned stamina and the fat and blood from his tissues rather than turning flesh to ash, and turned his metabolism into a bottomless, ravenous thing. A vicious cycle of want and self-destruction.

Although he had drunken three cannisters of blood of the dozen issued weekly from the JNDB, which would normally last two weeks if he stretched it, he could already feel the stirrings of animal appetite and thirst.

‘Suit yourself then.’ She turned to go.

Morgan reached out and grabbed her fingers, the magic lingering there tingling pleasantly against his skin. ‘On second thought.’

She came and knelt by his head, careful, glowing fingers studying his face and chest, arms and hands, legs and shins. Her touch was a tickling warmth not unlike when his foot used to fall asleep when he was still human, but without the unpleasant sensitivity. A tingle that picked at his skin beneath the fabric of his clothes and seeped underneath into muscle and bone and organ, searching and sifting. The corporal’s eyes fluttered beneath her thin eyelids at things unseen, the freckles dotting her nose pulsing with golden light, lips parted slightly in concentration.

Her eyes, the amber glowing with soft gold light, softly opened. ‘…Nothing broken. No internal bleeding…’

Morgan quickly glanced away. ‘See? I’m totally fine.’

‘But,’ she continued, shoving him into the sofa before he could rise. ‘I sense severe malnutrition. You should really be in the hospital.’

‘Hah!’ cried Vaylin from the corner, a protein shake frothing in protest in his hand. ‘So technically I win! I don’t need a hospital.’

Ling adjusted his pink sunglasses. ‘Son, if the Butcher wanted you dead, you would be.’

Shalia’s amber eyes narrowed.

‘Don’t call me that.’ Morgan gently nudged the corporal’s arm away. She helped him into a sitting a position. ‘I’m not that person anymore.’

‘No, you’ve grown soft and boring. Twelve years ago, you would’ve just taken what you wanted and left dead bodies behind. A shame, really.’

‘Don’t tempt me, old man.’

Ling threw back his head and laughed. His laughs were great, loud affairs. Wryly, ‘I’m terrified.’ The ping of an incoming message on his Glass snatched his attention.

Morgan’s own Glass flickered with an incoming call a moment later. He took an earpiece from his pocket – only his bureau uniform had them built in – and stuck it in his ear.

‘Hello?’ Rhiley’s voice, distracted with worry.

‘Rhiley?’

‘Morgan, thank the Empress. I thought so.’

‘What? Thought what?’

‘Look,’ his voice was interrupted by distant gunfire and the sounds of screams. ‘You need to come down. Asap. Like, right now. To the base. There’s – it’s you.’

Morgan jumped to his feet, body aching in protest. ‘What’s me? Rhiley, you’re not making any sense.’

‘It’s you, you’re here. You’re storming the base. Or it’s a guy that just looks like you. But he has the same powers – I don’t know. Just come down quickly before he burns the place down.’ The call ended abruptly. The sound of Rhiley’s anxious voice, broken by gunfire and screams, rang in his ears.

‘I have to go,’ he said, more to himself than for Ling’s benefit, as he gathered his things.

‘Lieutenant?’ Shalia got to her feet, hand hovering over the place where her Austere was hidden.

‘There’s something wrong at home.’ Home. He hadn’t thought of the Red Dawn as home for years. ‘I need to go.’

‘Should we call it in?’ she asked, waking the Glass on her wrist.

Morgan’s large palm folded over her arm. He shook his head. ‘It’s gang business, corporal. You know I can’t do that. My father wouldn’t like it. You should go home.’ He released her wrist and pulled his jacket on, going for the door. ‘We’ll deal with you later,’ he said to Ling.

Ling’s smile spoke of schadenfreude. ‘I’m sure we will, Butcher.’

Shalia stopped him before he could open the door. ‘I’m going with you, sir.’

‘But –’

‘The bureau doesn’t have to know about this,’ she said, her pinched frown conflicted. ‘Maybe I’m being nosy, but you’re my responsibility.’

‘Shouldn’t it be the other way ‘round?’

‘I was stationed not just as your partner, sir, but as your handler. So, no. In this case I’m here to look after you.’

Morgan had figured as much, so the betrayal hardly stung. He fought against biting his lip, a low headache starting up behind the eyes. ‘Alright. You better not get hurt, Corporal Balmaris. That’s an order.’

Her smile was a stubborn thing. ‘Yes sir.’