Chapter 305

Before.

Miles ached. He ached in a way he hadn’t since the BUDS physical conditioning phase on the endless beaches, palling around with meatheads, blistering under the Coronado sun, enduring brutal, draining tasks intended for one purpose, and one alone.

Give the fuck up.

He hadn’t then, and he wouldn’t now. That was what he told himself after the proctor assigned the task of ferrying soul orbs. On its face, it was a rather simple form of torture in the form of labor. Pedestrian. Nothing he couldn’t handle. Miles was ordered to sift through the small mountain of orbs at the landing station. All he was told was that the red orbs were irrecoverable and had to be carried by hand up a long stairway to the obliteration platform, little more than a wide square pillar with a metal indent in the center that acted as a scale. The corrupted orbs were small but dense, spread out amongst their lighter, uncorrupted brethren, naturally sinking to the bottom of any pile they were in. The powers that be were even kind enough to grant him a bucket.

But the simplicity of the task and granting of tools was where the kindness ended, and the cruelty began. His “work area” was little more than a section of Bastille wall emerging from the dark blue waters of an endless ocean. The nights were cold, damp, and brutal, while the days were windy and bathed in sweltering sunlight. There was no shelter. And while he was free to work at his own pace, a floating hourglass in the faraway distance constantly drained sand. It was half full now. Not that much time had passed. As far as Miles could tell, he’d only been here about two days.

It was an early mistake that cost nearly a quarter of the timer. He’d loaded his pail with approximately twenty orbs—around two-hundred pounds—and began the long ascent up the stairway. The weight was no problem. In his mind he was taking it easy, taking on the sort of burden he could have easily carried even before the system. But there were two factors he didn’t account for that he probably should have. The round, thin, metallic handle, and the way the wind grew unnaturally unpredictable towards the top of the summit. He’d been less than five steps away from the scale when the thin handle’s slow bite suddenly grew insufferable just as his foot hit a wet patch. Miles stumbled, nearly losing his footing completely and halting himself moments before tumbling ass over teakettle off the side. A few corrupted orbs tumbled out of the pail, plunging into the ocean below, their glow disappearing almost instantly. He righted the bucket, releasing the handle for only a moment when it toppled with a gust of wind, sending a cascade of red orbs down the stairs and over the side.

That was the third factor. The one he couldn’t really blame himself for. Because the pail was the first thing he’d checked. It appeared fully metal. The handle was solid, unlikely to break. And when he’d filled it with a few orbs and sat it flush, it had remained upright. Only, the insidious part was that the bottom did have flex. Not a lot. With a few orbs, the difference was barely perceptible. But with more—say twenty, for instance—the bottom rounded out and became convex. Meaning he could load the pail with as many orbs as he wanted.

But he could never set it down until those orbs reached their destination.

Now, he panted after a successful trip, bucket tossed to the side and overturned. Small boats helmed by shadowy figures occasionally arrived, unceremoniously dumping cargo that consisted entirely of orbs onto the loading platform, undoing any potential sorting in advance he could manage.

He wouldn’t give up. It wasn’t in his nature, never had been. But not knowing how close he was to either his deadline, or his goal, was slowly driving him insane.

The outline of a white door appeared on the far end of the loading area, and a smug male voice called out, distorted as if over an intercom. “User, present yourself.”

“I told you—” Miles stopped as his voice cracked, licked his lips, and tried again. “I told you. No breaks. I don’t need a breather, don’t need to eat or drink anything that wasn’t already supplied within the provisions.”

“Really? Shame. This is something of a boring post. I get lonely. Take a few shots of tequila with me, and who knows? I might be able to scrounge up a bottle of sunscreen.”

It was more tempting than it should have been. Miles had ditched his shirt in the early hours, confident that the weight of sodden clothes from the crashing waves would slow him down more than the temporary discomfort of exposure. His elevated Toughness stat was supposed to help against that sort of thing, and it had. With the constant sunlight, he should have already been redder than the kool-aid man. He’d endured the first day mostly unscathed. But time had a way of highlighting the cracks in your armor. Now at the beginning of day three he was thoroughly burned, blisters already forming on his shoulders and back.

“What’s the ABV?” Miles asked, suddenly.

“Hm?”

“The alcohol by volume. There should be a percentage on the corner of the bottle.”

“Ah, I see.” There was a pause, before the voice proclaimed. “Seventy-five percent.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Miles scoffed. “Not even tequila at that point.”

“The bottle says tequila.” The voice replied petulantly.

“Well, it’s not. It’s fucking mezcal. And a few shots of that will dehydrate the hell out of me and introduce the possibility of more stupid fucking mistakes. So, respectfully, no thanks.”

The voice sighed. “You’re all so gods damned boring.”

Miles perked up. “There’s someone else there?”

“Yes,” the boy acknowledged. “A visitor, dead-set on seeing you. But I’ve told him you’re fully committed to not taking any time away from your task, so there’s nothing to be done. Tragic really. He won’t drink with me either.”

“You gonna tell me his name?”

“You gonna take a shot?” The voice challenged.

“No.”

“Then I suppose all shall remain a mystery.” It sighed, mocking him again. It did this from time to time, popped up to tempt him away from the task, offering false respite. As far as Miles could tell, the boy had never lied to him. He’d omitted, taunted, and twisted, but never outright lied. Which meant there probably was someone out there looking for him.

There were really only two possibilities. Miles kept the list of people who knew where he was intentionally small due to the exorbitant bounty on his head. The overworld entry-point to this realm was in neutral territory, making it painfully easy to set an ambush, so the secrecy was a necessity until he cleared it. Kinsley—the child leader of the merchant’s guild—had secured the services of a high level priest, helping him arrange a method of clearing his bounty through a deity called Char. And while he had no doubt the Priest had reported back the outcome, including the destination for his “service,” he was reasonably certain Kinsley was wealthy enough to make the bounty on his head paltry in comparison. She was also busy, which meant if she did need to talk to him, she’d probably sent someone.

But Miles was pretty sure the visitor had nothing to do with Kinsley. Directly, anyway.

“I’ll take five.” He announced.

“Shots?”

“Minutes.” Miles somehow wrung a polite tone from between grit teeth.

“But you were so intent on not wasting your precious time.” The voice mocked.

“Five minutes, in and out. Whoever it is, I’m guessing this won’t take long. Come on. Let me out.”

“As you wish.” The voice replied, vaguely sing song. After a moment a brass handle formed, and the white doorway grew more solid.

Miles took a deep breath, forced himself to stand up straight, then turned the handle and stepped through.

Conditioned air hit him first, pouring over his exhausted figure and drawing chills. The Proctor’s office was as luxurious as it’d been before, lacquered wood flooring covered in plush throw rugs, long leather couches ample enough to lie down on. The scent of Indian food cooking on a distant stove top caused his stomach to rumble, almost completely covering the undercurrent of incense that seeped through his nostrils and calmed his mind, urging sleep, slow and provocative.

“See? He’s fine.” The proctor said, speaking to someone else. The boy’s sneakers were still parked on his desk, as he leaned back precariously in an over-large leather office chair, pose and demeanor almost exactly the same as the way he was the day Miles had met him. Either the advanced necrosis that covered over half of his face and—from the looks of the way it trailed down his neck without tapering off—most of his body didn’t actually cause him pain, or he was completely masterful at covering it.

Across the desk, a shadow stood with its arms crossed. It wasn’t even that dark in the half-study-half-lounge, yet somehow, he was still difficult to make out, silhouetted features giving the appearance of a void within an otherwise colored photograph. “Really? You call that fine?”

“This is nothing.” The boy drew a file out of a nearby drawer and set to work shaping the unhealthy brown nails on his almost entirely necrotic left hand. “It could have been far worse. Would have, if the merchant girl hadn’t offered our lordship such a charitable donation. So yes. All his bits are still intact and he’s still able to form coherent sentences. Don’t be unreasonable.”

“He’s right.” Miles agreed, caution beating out exhaustion. The understanding they’d reached didn’t mean shit. It was a temporary respite. Once either of them were more than capable of throwing away the moment it grew inconvenient. “Compliments to Kinsley, all they really have me doing is hard labor. More than fair. Like I said in the messages, I can handle it. You’re better off handling business elsewhere.”

“See, that’s the problem.” Myrddin turned, pale, nondescript features drawn into a scowl. “Personally, I’d love to screw off and mind my own business. Really, I would. But you’re generally more convincing. And even less persuasive in person than over text. So I’m getting the sense that whatever this is, it’s kicking your ass.”

“Fuck you.”

“Put a shirt on before you poke someone’s eye out.” Myrddin shifted back to the proctor, who suddenly shrieked and recoiled, losing his devil-may-care attitude and dove to the floor, yanking the middle drawer clear out of the desk, coming away brandishing a Blackwood wand. The proctor held it out in front of him protectively as he scrambled back across the ground.

“Touch me with your power again, and I’ll finish what we started during the last transposition.”

Myrddin raised his hands non-threateningly, to little effect. Because everything Myrddin did looked threatening. “Relax. Just testing the waters.”

The boy chuckled, his voice unhinged, never taking his eyes from Myrddin. “Uh-huh. Miles knows a thing or two about testing the waters, don’t you, Miles? So far, he’s been lucky. If you’d like it to stay that way, the best thing you can do for him is get the hell out of my office.”

“The priest said it’s not uncommon for a User to bring in outside help to clear a bounty—”

“Well, the priest can suck my cock and nibble the nads while he’s at it.” The boy pushed himself up, leaning against the bookshelf for leverage, keeping the wand trained on Myrddin. “Miles chose not to bring in help at the beginning. And that choice was binding. No mulligan, no take-backs. And if you think I’m gonna make an exception for you of all people—”

“Man,” Myrddin cut in, his voice suddenly cruel and abrasive. “They really fucked up your face.”

Slowly, Miles closed his eyes and put a hand to his head.

God dammit, you’re making this worse for me.

“It’s… nothing.” The boy’s expression grew hard. “A little temporary discomfort that will fade with time.”

“Maybe.” Myrddin nodded, immediately switching tact, tone soft and understanding. “Necrosis is a serious condition. For mortals, at least. Constant burning pain, swelling. Worse part is, it doesn’t just stay put. Spreads, like cancer. And from what I understand, there’s no cure beyond surgery. Debriding the flesh. Excruciating. You should really get treatment soon.”

The boy trembled “If you think I won’t fucking kill you—”

“Ah, but I do think that.” Myrddin walked away from him, paying no mind to the tip of the wand that still followed him, idly picking up the bottle from the desk and studying it before placing it back down. “I think you got scapegoated for some of the duplicity directed at me during the transposition. They drew attention to your more direct and obvious intervention, using your ‘crime’ and subsequent punishment as a distraction from the shit they were pulling, and made you suffer the brunt. How am I doing?”

“You have no idea how close I am to turning your existence into a living hell.” The boy seethed.

“Emphasis on living. And I’m sure you are.” Myrddin shrugged. “Angry, I mean. I outplayed you, got your face fucked up, your body stricken. Yet here I am, alive, well, and unafflicted.”

“Myrddin, for fuck’s sake—” Miles started, but the boy immediately talked over him.

“Are you… trying, to die?” The boy asked, his expression alternating between enraged and perplexed.

“Not particularly.” Myrddin studied him. “Seeing as how you haven’t brought the wrath of the gods down on my head, gotta assume you can’t. Which, I guess, is why I’m confused on why you’d let this rare opportunity slip.” With that, Myrddin turned and walked, unhurried towards the exit.

Internally, Miles scoffed. It was a power move. As classic and cliche as they come. A way to show you’re willing to walk away from the table. The boy was older than he looked, and while he wasn’t quite a deity, he was far closer to that status than Miles, or Myrddin for that matter. There was no way it worked—

“What opportunity?” The boy snapped flatly, taking the bait.

Myrddin stopped, not bothering to look back. “We both know you don’t particularly care for the rules. That this station is beneath you. And Miles—well, Miles is nothing to you. Just another User who shot a gun when he should have used a crossbow, dipped when he should have dodged, slow-rolled the white line when he should have stopped. It’s arbitrary. Petty. And you know it doesn’t matter.”

The wand trembled. “I will perform the duty I have been assigned to the best of my ability.”

“I’m sure you will. And there’s wisdom in that.” Myrddin nodded, and faced the boy, puzzlement playing across his lips. “But what I can’t understand is why you’re not willing to bend the rules a bit. Especially when you clearly can’t touch me in any other way.”

“Okay. We’re done. Hole in the sternum time.” The tip of the proctor’s wand began to glow red.

“Sure. They’ll kill you, or bury you so deep you’ll never see a fertile world again.” Myrddin grinned, staring down the embering projectile. “Or… you could just give me what I’ve asked for.”

“And why the fuck would I do that?” The tip of the wand grew white from a heat so intense Miles could feel it from where he stood, yards away.

“Well. You know what I am. Ordinators aren’t generally strong in the traditional sense.” Myrddin gestured towards Miles. “Hell, he outclasses me on practically every level in terms of physical stats, and despite that, he’s a foot in the grave. I’ll fare far worse. So sure, you could kick me out, kill me. Or you could show a nobody some mercy, and, in the meantime, channel a fraction of your undue suffering to the person who deserves it most.“

For a long tense moment, Miles believed Myrddin might have crossed the Rubicon. Whatever their history, the boy was pissed, and judging from his reactions, he was the type to get stupid when he was angry rather than smart. The first fingers of <Awareness> clawed at Miles’ psyche, warning of an imminent attack.

And then the wand’s light faded. It remained in place, aimed at Myrddin’s chest. But drawing comparisons to a firearm, the proctor’s finger was no longer on the trigger.

“Ignoring, for a moment, that he already opted out.” The proctor spoke through clenched teeth. “I can’t assign a transgressor assistance he hasn’t asked for.”

“Fine.” Myrddin said. He crossed his arms again and waited for Miles.

I don’t want your help. Frankly, I don’t want anything to do with you. The only reason you’re here is because you’ve decided I’m an integral part of the bigger game you’re playing, and now that I’m in the shit and you think you’ve turned me, you’re worried about losing all the time and effort invested. Like I said before, you’re in over your head. And the last thing I want is to owe you anymore than I already do. Full stop. Fuck all the way off.

For all intents and purposes, a solid sendoff, if a bit crass. And Miles had every intention of delivering it, with gusto, until he realized he couldn’t. Something sat ill in the pit of his stomach, a seed of despair he’d either ignored or suppressed, grown malignant with the burgeoning difficulty of the task, utterly despondent at the idea of turning away anything that might lessen it. But Myrddin was too much of an unknown.

And he was about to say as much, when he found, that, again, he couldn’t.

Myrddin was an asset. An unreliable one, but still an asset. An unreliable asset with an eye for detail who was textbook anal-retentive. Miles wouldn’t have to worry about him losing orbs, or handling them carelessly. He’d help more than he hurt. And with the unproven but almost inevitable Kinsley connection, Miles had to assume that Myrddin wasn’t hurting for money, either. Maybe—

“Guess… I could use some help.” Miles admitted, almost as surprised at his own sentiment as the proctor pretended to be.

“Really? And here I was under the impression—” The proctor trailed off, his irises disappearing in a swath of golden light, mouth moving in inaudible utterances before he came back to consciousness. Once he did, his mouth pulled wide in a cunning smile. “Well. As it happens, we’re not the only ones in agreement.” He spread his hands wide, pleased with himself. “I’ve received assurance that there will be no further punishment if I massage the rules a bit, and even better, my budget cap is lifted.”

“Meaning?” Myrddin prompted, annoyed, clearly tired of the proctor now that he had what he wanted.

“Misappropriation, naturally. I’ve needed a bigger cooler for a while.” The proctor inclined his head towards the small, desktop computer sized mini-fridge plugged into the side of his desk. Then he tilted to look at Miles, proffering a smile that was anything but kind. “Also, your bounty is now ten million selve.”

“Sorry, what?” Miles asked, his head spinning at the number.

“Bullshit.” Myrddin put both hands on the proctor’s desk, intruding into his space. “He hasn’t done anything. Hasn’t committed any further infractions. Why are you raising it?”

“It’s common practice.” The proctor blinked innocently. “If a bounty isn’t completed within a certain amount of time, it only makes sense to throw more money at the problem. Surely it worked similarly in your world, did it not?”

Myrddin spoke slowly. “Is. He. Safe. Here?”

“Absolutely. No one gets through that door unless I allow it.”

The Ordinator’s voice dropped another octave. “And if a bunch of assholes just happen to show up with torches and pitchforks, looking to bag this stupidly inflated bounty? Are you going to allow them in, Deseric?“

Something wordless passed between them, a tension almost as thick as when the sub-deity was holding Myrddin at wand-point. Miles had a sense—almost entirely instinct, but it was there—that this exchange had less to do with the bad blood between them, more to do with the use of the proctor’s name. He’d never bothered introducing himself to Miles. Didn’t seem to care to. But the moment Myrddin called him by name, it was like a switch had been flipped.

Why?

“That would be a gross violation of my duties.” The proctor clarified evenly, doing a very obvious version of what feds called talking to the tape. “We attend one transgressor at a time. One per adjudicator. My office is closed until Miles either clears his bounty or fails to do so. With the addition of a subordinate, Miles may no longer receive visitors. So as of one minute ago, this office is on lockdown unless the transgressor or subordinate announce their intention to leave prematurely.” Finally, he broke eye-contact. “As you established. I’d rather remain with the living.”

“Glad we understand each other.” Myrddin said.

“Just pointing this out.” The proctor spun a pen resting on the desk and watched it swirl. “He’s still in danger.”

“What danger?” Myrddin leaned forward further, and this time the proctor didn’t rise to meet him. Deseric remained lounged in his chair, completely in control.

“You tell me. The task is arduous, that’s the point. People die in these things all the time from exertion alone. And—no idea why this is the case—apparently the higher ups want this bounty cleared. It’ll keep climbing. In three hours, it will be twenty million. In six, well, you get it. You’ll be working together, sleeping in cramped quarters.” The proctor leered. “Let’s just say you wouldn’t be the first subordinate to get ideas.”

Myrddin scoffed, standing upright and taking a step backward. “Good luck with the face.”

“Fuck you very much.”

////

Miles exited the portal door, arguably more troubled than he’d been before. The ocean spray slapped him across the face before he could shield himself, stirring the countless orbs at his feet before the overflow drained through the grates at the center.

Moments later, Myrddin stepped out beside him and froze stock still, almost transfixed by the choppy water. “Great,” he said, quickly covering the lapse.

“Complaining already? Really? You just got here.” Miles observed, glancing at the giant hourglass on the horizon, before he started shoveling scarlet orbs into his bucket.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“Yeah, yeah. Give me the rundown.”

“We’re sorting.” Miles announced matter-of-factly. “Good orbs stay here, red orbs climb the stairway to heaven. Well, probably not heaven, but you get the point. We transport them to the basin up top. The buckets work well enough for that, though they’ll tip over once you set them down, so don’t take on more weight than you can realistically carry. Once it’s adequately full, we’re done.”

“‘Adequate’ remaining ponderously undefined?”

“Yep.”

“Great.” Myrddin repeated. With that, he stooped down and silently worked, shoving red orbs into the bucket. “Jesus, you didn’t mention they’re like thirty pounds a piece.”

“Guess I didn’t.” Miles answered, following suit. “So. Not to make this awkward, but uh. If they’re gonna keep raising this thing, I’d really love to have a general range of when you’ll start getting antsy.”

“I won’t.” Myrddin answered, plopping another orb into his bucket.

Miles snorted. “Come on. Ten million’s already a lot of Selve. Maybe you have more than that, but it’s still a chunk.”

For a long moment, Myrddin seemed to consider that. “Thirty million. That’d cover a full set of legendary gear, supplies, shelter, more hired help than I could shake a stick at. Unless something changes with the pricing, that’d be more than enough to leisurely speedrun my way through the rest of this horseshit. I’m not saying I would, but I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t think about it.”

A system notification popped in the corner of Mile’s vision.

<System Notification: Please cease all hostile action. Your bounty has been raised to thirty-million selve.>

From the way Myrddin looked into nothing, he’d received a notification too. Miles tensed, staring at Myrddin’s posture, waiting for sudden movement.

Myrddin cocked his head, completely still. “Well. I thought about it. Moving on.” Then, cradling the bucket in his arms, he turned and took the stairs two at a time, channeling a level of energy Miles had been lacking since the first day.

“Pace yourself,” Miles called after him.

“You’re totally right. The longer I drag this out, the higher the bounty goes.”

“Anyone ever tell you, you’re kind of a prick?”

“Not really.” Myrddin raised his voice, still barely audible over the churning water. “I get asshole, asshat, dickhead, and smug C-word way more often than prick.”

“C-word? What are you, twelve?”

“I’m neither Australian nor a woman, so it’s not my word to say.”

“That’s… unexpectedly decent.” Miles returned, quietly enough that Myrddin likely hadn’t heard him. As it stood, and as reluctant as he was to believe it, ‘unexpectedly decent’ summed up a lot of Myrddin’s recent behavior. He’d taken submachine gun-fire—and at least a few of those bullets had to have hit him, then pulled the man who shot him out of serious shit. And was apparently worried enough after the fact to swagger into the proctor’s office and dance all over the kid’s toes. The last one was more significant than it appeared, because Miles had something of a talent for telling the difference between a truth and an educated guess, and he was confident within a margin of error that until the proctor put the wand down, the danger to Myrddin was very real.

Having already concluded that passing each other on the stairway was a stupid idea, Miles rested his loaded bucket between his calves and waited for his subordinate to return.

Myrddin took his time, testing each step for slippage, going out of his way to keep his gaze fixed on the lower platform.

“Heights or the ocean?” Miles asked.

“Come again?”

“What you’re afraid of. Heights, or the ocean?” Miles repeated. In truth, he already knew the answer. Myrddin hadn’t broken a sweat once today until he stepped out of the portal and got a face full of sea-level blue. But people had a tendency to get defensive when you pigeonholed them on topics as personal as deep-seated fears.

Predictably, Myrddin scowled, walking as far away from Miles as he could, towards the back of the platform. “And talking about this helps us how?”

Miles shrugged. “Well, we’re gonna be here for a while. Gonna get boring if all we have to talk about is the weather, such as it is.”