The 108 Chapter 47: How the Turntables (Patreon)

“Yah!”

I step back and slap the blade away for what must be the fourth time. My staff catches the poor student’s wrist, leading to another wince. That’s broken. His soul bleeds humiliation and pain in the mostly empty arena room. I’m bullying him. But it’s for a good cause. I switch to the offense, following the steps of the Uran Bridge Defense technique for a long form sequence, using my superior reach to my advantage. To my surprise, the student switches hands mid-parry so he can repair his shattered bones, and still manages to fight. It doesn’t help.

His name is Liron and he’s from a noble family from some distant planet. He looks the part too, with an exotic alien prince appearance. His fencing is top-notch and he made his blade himself. It looks like some demon meat sword that bleeds venom with an absolutely magnificent Cronenbergian flair that I admire as a matter of principle. Also, the thing has an eye and it’s nearly indestructible. It just seems that poor Liron has little experience wielding it against a staff user, however, a gap in his knowledge that will be his downfall! Right. Time to wrap this up. I close in and switch to short form, overwhelming him with speed before slamming the edge of the staff against his temple. Gently, of course. He stops moving when I do.

“Disabling hit! Stop,” the referee says, stepping in. 

I take a few steps back and bow respectfully. He joins me a moment later, his shame and anger soon replaced by determination. 

“Thank you for the lesson, sir. I hope to face you again in practice.”

“It would be my pleasure,” I politely reply in flawless Kei-Sah. 

Liron leaves, his sword’s demonic pupil narrowing in my direction as it does so. I resist the urge to wave at it because I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have enough nerve tissue to be even sentient, but also because the arena master walks towards me with the last opponent waiting by the side. There were 112 of us to begin with, but those were the semifinals and now we’re down to 2. Most of those who were eliminated early have returned to their studies as this is more considered a hobby for those who will not follow a combat career.

The arena master is a powerful fourth awakening man with gray hair and a ruddy skin cooked by decades of sunlight. The fact that he didn’t fix it speaks volumes about what kind of personality he is.

“The winner is Steve Prentiss,” the referee announces in a bored voice.

“You wouldn’t happen to be some kind of class crasher, would you?” the Master asks.

I raise a hand, extending and retracting fingers and turning them into claws, changing the colors etc

“I’m one of you,” I remind him. 

“But I never saw you here before.”

“Still one of you. It’s a big galaxy, mate, but I’m a fleshcrafter and I’ll always be one.”

He scoffs. The Arena Master is not a tall man, but he does look like he’s 90% lean muscles and 10% spite and I wouldn’t bet on myself for another fifty loops, so I politely smile and give the tiniest bow.

“Very well,” he finally says. “What’s that style, by the way? Never seen it before. Very versatile.”

“Uran Bridge Defense Technique," I say, testing his reaction. 

“Never heard of it,” he immediately replies. “There’s points for you if you can give me a manual. Versatile is good for fleshcrafters.”

“Sir?” the referee asks.

“Do you need time to recover?” the Master asks me after a short delay.

I shake my head.

“Good to go, sir.”

“Klimir if you would?”

My last opponent leaves the ranks of the dozen remaining spectators to stand in front of me. Most of the participants of this monthly event are amateurs with no hope of winning but an interest in experience and physical exercise. Then there are the tryhards. I am one of them, of course. Klimir, who has decided to join the combat curriculum from the next semester on is another. Combat classes people have their own tournament and cannot participate in this one so we’re both lions in a wolf’s den. She glares at me with modded yellow eyes.

Klimir is a statuesque woman with jet black hair and custom robes from some tundra world with embroidered symbols that give her a feral look, not in the beastly sense of thing, but more like she is from one of those Scythian cultures that history almost forgot, here to ritually carve out my heart. Klimir is also at the peak of third awakening, and the local equivalent of a post-doc. I’m not sure why she would deviate from the path of healers to join the valley of carnage. What I know is that she’s very motivated. 

Klimir takes out her poleaxe. The heavy implement should take two grown men just to carry, but she lets it rest on the ground as delicately as if it were a cane. My staff looks like a toothpick in comparison.

“Same rule as before. No war form, no killing. Begin.”

Klimir’s axe shatters the ground at my feet. I charge in, then duck when she pulls her axe back. The massive bladed end almost kisses my neck, then she sweeps it horizontally and I allow the powerful strike to hit my staff, sending me flying.

Alrighty then.

All fleshcrafters heal quickly, so we all have ways to handle regeneration. I break and displace bones. Liron had flesh-melting venom. Klimir is going for catastrophic damage. Her axe swings are incredibly fast for her size, and her reach is much longer than mine. I need to bait her strikes.

Klimir extends her free arm. I reflexively dive under bone shards that crack against the wall behind me. I close in, then step back at the last moment. Her axe cleaves through the air in front of me with a disturbing buzz, I step back in, then dodge under the return swing. Fast. She still clips my staff which makes my hands ring from the impact. I overcharge my body as much as possible and slam my staff against the edge of the returning axe, but Klimir steps back in turn and twists on herself and I’m in her realm. Her wide sweep should take time to recover from but her strength and technique make her faster than one of Liron’s lunges. Ok, then. I jump atop my staff which she almost tears from my hand with yet another sweep. Another will follow almost immediately.

I extend my arm and grab the shaft at the very end of its move midair, the only moment where it slows down. I throw my staff at her face. Now, I’m climbing up the axe’s shaft like a deranged monkey — thanks, Xan. 

Klimir dodges the staff beautifully, but the sight of my gremling form jumping on her destabilizes her. I guess no one ever tried? She still does the right thing: she drops the axe and punches me in the face. I easily dodge the predictable attack, my deformed arms closing over her extended forearm. I flood it with flesh mana. For a moment, my power fights hers for supremacy and her flesh warps but her much better control wins an instant later.

“You!” she roars with obvious outrage. 

I punch her in the face, which does little. She grabs my chest in a bear embrace. Her muscular arms shatter my ribs and spines in an instant.

“Stop!” the referee screams.

Klimir and I freeze. She gives me a grin of triumph, looking up only to find two bone blades emerging from my wrists half a hand away from her exposed eyes. 

“Shit,” she whispers.

The spectators politely applaud, or drum their feet on the ground depending on their culture. 

“Disabling hit,” the referee soberly says. 

“Good show, the both of you,” The Arena Masters chuckles. “And you, that was Ape Style, yes?”

“My first style,” I confirm. 

“Excellent. A great performance, Klimir.”

The poor woman rolls her eyes but we do salute each other respectfully. 

“Maybe we can spar later,” she offers.

“Of course.”

I really love the fleshcrafter’s pathological urge to improve, sometimes. I humbly accept the small trophy and the point bonus for winning the tournament, but that’s not why I participated. The main prize is a free new basic warform, a pick among three. And the one to deliver it is…

“Bravo, bravo,” a familiar voice says from behind.

It takes a lot of self-control to suppress my fear as I turn and face the serpentine master of the Gene Library. His violet eyes still narrow with mirth. I cannot hide any emotion from a grandmaster, not unless I suppress them completely. 

“I see my reputation precedes me,” Phage says, teeth flashing with his predatory smile.

“Grandmaster Phage,” I greet.

“Are we acquainted, apprentice?”

“I think you would remember me.”

He laughs, the sound pure and crystalline, at complete odds with his fucked up personality. 

“Oh my, you remind me of someone. Congratulations on your victory. Come, let me show you our selection.”

We make our way to the library at a sedate pace, well, sedate for high awakenings. Phage is wasting his own time, but I suppose he’d do anything to fend off the boredom. 

“Who taught you how to fight?” he asks.

“A veteran from Might with a metal affinity. And an old manual I found. And experience as well. I served a year on Obis.”

“Oh, Obis. I wish I could go.”

He sighs.

“But the guild cannot spare me, and there is this whole ‘neutrality’ thing we have going on. Is it as bad as they say?”

“It’s worse. Transformation’s there.”

Phage attention crashes on my soul like a hammer.

“Is that so?” he asks.

“Their totems are there. I’m fairly certain you already know this?”

“We try to, shall we say, keep the information contained so as to not force a decision that would throw us into a conflict that we believe the next archon will resolve without delay.”

“So if you don’t talk about it, fleshcrafters won’t pay attention to it and won’t demand that the leadership acts?” I summarize.

“Precisely!”

Oh, hey, manufacturing consent. I feel right at home. Phage waits for me to react with the patience of a viper climbing a branch toward a nest. I merely shrug.

“Not like I can do anything about it.”

“How very reasonable of you. You will do well with the shadows,” Phage says with clear disappointment, and am I glad I’m a little jaded or this station would have ground my soul to a fine powder. 

Phage leads me to my prize. This time, we do not visit his inner sanctum. Instead, he leads me to a side room where three glass boxes wait, each one containing a ball of flesh. He waves distractedly at them.

“Pick and choose one. Just one. I’ll be watching.”

He turns and leaves so I finally breathe out and relax. I hate it when Phage shows interest, but this time I successfully presented myself as a boring twit. Good. The three options wait before me.

One is the sniper frame Phage showed me last time, but more basic than his modified version. My mind returns to the ‘accelerate projectile’ time power I haven’t unlocked yet, and I wonder if I should add a ranged option to my arsenal. I think it would make sense. It would also be very funny. Unfortunately, Egun teleports and our battlefield is quite crowded with a lot of sentries, so I don’t think I can successfully pull it out at the moment. The second option is the base version of the mantis form favored by Kimera. It’s quite nice, but not what I want either. I don’t need a fast fighter. I need a hunter, a pursuer. And the last form is it.

The cat.

I smile with the knowledge that I acquired another tool I will keep every loop. I swallow the ball of flesh and save the genome in my mind. Oh, this is… ingenious. Time to try it out. Slowly, I implement every change, spine cracking under the immense strain. I fall on my arms which turn into grey, bony paws. My vision soon loses colors, but I get a better perception of distance. My body grows longer. I have claws now. I open my mouth and try to talk but only produce a disturbing chirp, high-pitched and slightly unhinged. The mouth structure is slightly different but after some effort, I manage to growl a few syllables. 

After I’m done, I strut around the room. Hmm, this is… weird. Definitely different from crawling on all four and much comfortable than the accursed bear walk exercise. It will take some getting used to. The cat form is one of the smallest warforms despite having the same energy consumption. It lacks the muscles of the bouncer form, and has no staying power whatsoever. Even the bone chitin protecting my limbs will fail against a determined stab. But that form is fast. It’s designed to catch someone, and by the Founder’s balls I have a fucker I need to capture. Alright.

“Surely, you’re not thinking about testing those claws on my floor?” Phage sweetly says from the entrance.

Ah, oops? I got carried away.

“Kindly get to a training room before I skin you, apprentice.”

***

I fucking hate Deza’s diner. It’s a garbage spot with no redeeming qualities: shitty neighbors eavesdropping on our conversations, horrible food that’s basically flour held together by processed sugar, and overly sweet drinks that wish they were coffee. I want to burn the place down, but I refrain. This is more important. 

“You want me to what?” Deza asks.

Her dusky fingers hold her notebook like a buoy. I did just announce the end of the station as we know it, so I try to be patient.

“I can show you,” I offer.

She hesitates, but then the steel underneath the smooth investigator emerges.

“Alright.”

Entire sections tumbling through the void like heart bursting from a chest, a massive, molten coffin bathed in the purple flames of a hatred beyond comprehension. A mother holding her child, floating in the vacuum. Carving through the gates because the crystal is still mostly intact. Finding no one alive. Despair. Watching the tide emerge from the wound, snapping scouts and devouring them. Malice’s unhinged smile when he —

“Stop! Stop, Founder’s balls.”

My soul is gently pushed back, or rather Deza lacks the strength to do more. Three cops are now staring at us.

“By all the gods! WIll it really happen?”

I shrug.

“It happened. It will happen, somewhat differently. It never really happened, and only I remember this branch.”

Deza stares for a moment, soul closed, expression unreadable.

“Right.”

She frowns then flips through her notebook. Her notes are by far the clearest and most organized of the lot, not to mention they’re not encrypted. 

“You mentioned you needed three things from me?” she asks after a while.

“Yes. First, you need to move to a more protected area of the station with Namun, preferably before the inauguration. That’s when the bomb explodes unless we mess with Malice.”

She bends over the table.

“You’re not going to try and stop him?” she hisses.

I raise an eyebrow. It takes some effort not to cross my arms.

“If you think you can neutralize him, then by all means go ahead but we’ve never succeeded so far.”

“I could call for reinforcement.”

I send her a  memory of the squad staring blankly as the bomb goes critical, the corpse of Lex-Nex splayed over the control.

“Oh…”

“Our terrorist friend is slippery and he doesn’t have to kill us all. Triggering the bomb will do it for him. I’m working on ways to really corner him. We can try again next loop.”

“But then…”

She swallows her next words.

“I know,” I say, “but we need to prepare more. I’m tired of getting ashed on repeat with no guarantee the next attempt will be any more successful.”

“I understand.”

“Which means, second thing, you need to refuse the assignment to guard the inauguration party. Because it will kill you.”

I wait to see if she protests. She does not.

“If I am currently conducting a valid investigation, I won’t be asked to join. And it looks like I have one. I need to go over my notes, but…”

“We still haven’t found the origin of the bomb. Malice, sorry, Egun also mentioned the other possible associates. A woman and an old man,” I say. 

“Yes, yes, I see it. It looks like I have my work cut out for me.”

“You could go to the crime scene to get the investigation officially started,” I suggest.

Deza gives me a glare.

“Thank you for telling me how to do my job, avatar. I would never have guessed.”

“Alright, sorry. I’m just… under a lot of pressure,” I force out, mostly because she’s right.

She winces.

“Sorry. I should have realized. You mentioned a third thing I could do for you?”

I accept the thrown bone of peace with grace.

“Yes. It’s a small matter, indirectly related to our little problem. It concerns the way I start the year, you see…”

***

There is a certain charm to the smaller districts of the Beetweens, or perhaps I am feeling nostalgic. I spent my first one month-loop in one such residential den, hidden by the grace of the Temple of Mercy. The average apartments feed workers to the station’s countless workshops and factories. I walk on the slightly dirty ground in the light of the false morning. It’s late enough that the early rush has gone, leaving the streets mostly deserted. Even the bank isn’t all that impressive from the outside: only one more stone and concrete edifice as basic as they could make it. It does look more solid, though, and the impression improves as long as I step in. There is an armored guard with a truncheon standing by the entrance. The wizened banker sports a fantastic white beard alongside brightly colored flared clothes that wouldn’t be out of place in a Renaissance painting. Where he would he the wizard. The long, pitted wooden desk is a statement of power and wealth on a station where the material is more prized than steel. He smiles as I come in.

“Good morning, sir. My name is Hanab. How may I help you?”

“And to you too. I am citizen Steve Prentiss, and I’d like to make a withdrawal.”

“Certainly. This way, please.”

The banker taps on his ancient-looking, blocky machine that looks like a steampunk fever dream version of a PC from the eighties. It would be quaint without the diffuse smell of mana, hinting at complex mechanisms. I can tell something is wrong when the banker’s soul freezes, though you couldn’t tell from his composure.

“I am already aware there is a price on my head,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Then perhaps you are aware that I will have to inform Law of the transaction? How much did you intend to withdraw?”

“Five hundred credits.”

Hanab returns his attention to the screen.

“Given your current reserves, this could be counted as living expenses and I would not have to report it to Law.”

“Actually, I was hoping you would report it.”

We stand in silence for a few seconds while Hanab gives me a wry look. His gaze travels over my unmarked fleshcrafter robes with cunning understanding.

“I see. It is certainly possible. May I kindly request that the resulting meeting does not occur on our grounds?”

“Naturally. I would never be such a poor guest.”

Hanab allows himself a thin smile, pink lips curving slightly over the massive beard.

“And how much time would you need?”

“None. My preparations are complete.”

“Then I wish you good luck. Here are your five hundred credits,” he says, handing me a nondescript chit. “Will there be anything else?”

“No. Have a nice day.”

I shortly leave the bank behind, smirking when the gate slams shut behind me. There is a cafe across the street with a mostly abandoned building slightly behind. I go there, order some bland tea and sit down to wait. I pretend to read a datasheet, but in reality I’m far too nervous. I keep reading the same words that never seem to make it to my brain, my mind failing to grasp the same paragraph. It’s been so many, many times I’ve had to run from this guy. My mind insists that I should hide, escape. I resist the terror igniting my saurian brain with a primal urge to run, just run, and not look back. It will be fine. It will be fine. I have prepared for this.

This time, I’m not the victim. 

I feel the assassin close in only twenty minutes later, so he might not live far. He hesitates at the edge of my perception, then takes a side street. I stretch my soul to its very limit to follow his approach. He’s avoiding the main street where the bank is. I feel him enter a side apartment, then make his way up. What is he doing? I grow an eye on my arm and spot a drone hovering at a distance. Last time, he attacked me directly and now…

Oh, I get it from the vague stress and surprise I feel from his otherwise controlled soul. Now, we’re both third awakenings. He’s no longer at an overwhelming advantage.

So he’s going to snipe me, the little twat. Ok then. As he approaches a likely window, I slowly stand up to make my way to the deserted building at my back. I’m just a second late and must resist the urge not to run so he doesn’t get suspicious. Is he going to shoot me in the back? His drones must have a short range, but I still wait for a cold, falling sensation and Chronos’ amused silver gaze. Nothing happens. I walk up decrepit stairs with a sigh of relief. Across the street, the assassin jumps down from his perch and races after me. I am on the second floor by the time he grabs the closing door, sneaking in. His footsteps are so light that I could not hear him, only feel him with my soul. Somehow, he knows I climbed. Ah, I hear the low whirr of an approaching drone. The second floor is deserted, its rooms empty and the concrete ground covered in dust. It is dark here. There is not much room so my war form is out, but there are also fewer risks of civilian casualties. My heart beats a strange gig between excitement and deep-seated terror. 

I turn right to follow the main corridor.

The floating sphere of the drone appears before me, coming down from some distant stairs. Behind me, the assassin sprints down the corridor I just left. Pincer. I almost falter here when the memory of death surges into my mind. That drone killed me. That specific drone brained me. I remember my corpse with a hole on its forehead. 

Move.

I duck under a shot, which pings on the wall. There is no detonation. Pneumatic pressure, maybe, or a spell? My arm extends to grab the dodging drone. My grip crushes components, but the sphere itself remains mostly intact.

I turn and throw the murderous robot like a very unwieldy baseball. The assassin backpedals as he emerges from the darkness in his nifty dark suit, looking like an armored ninja. It’s the first time I see it from up close without instantly dying and the thought makes me giddy and horrified, the contrasting urges to run and to fight almost overwhelming. The drone bounces on his armguard with a clank before crashing into the roof. I’m on the assassin in an instant, staff deploying. I slap a short sword aside. He extends the now damaged armguard, fingers shaking from pain. Needles. I can see needles.

They shoot out just as I collapse to the left side, then use my foot to launch myself up with an uppercut. The assassin reels, but then he takes out two knives and it’s a brawl. Short form lets me match his speed blow for blow while he retreats down the hall. He wants distance. I let him have it. 

More needles. Two hit my shoulder while a thrown knife carves a bleeding wound on my left cheek. My staff slams into his plexus with all the power I can muster. Impact, strong enough to rattle my bones. He is sent down the hall in a long fall, crashing on the ground with a grunt of pain. He rolls on his knees and sends three more knives in scattered throws. One two, a pause and then one. I easily parry all three while I step back. A second drone flies in from around the corner. I extend my arm again, this time half-transforming it in the bouncer form. I grab the ball as it tries to shoot me in the head, smash it against the wall with a terrible shriek of deformed metal. Plaster falls on our head from the violence of the impact. 

The assassin painfully climbs back to his feet. I burn the toxins on the needle and close the wound on my face. His chest armor is cracked and caved in where I hit him. Our eyes meet. For the first time, our eyes meet properly. I’m still alive. I didn’t even need time power. My heart thunders against my ribs, fear warring with joy. He is going to kill me, a part whispers. No, I’m going to beat him.

I move in. He sends a scattered chain of throwing knives and needles my way, but I grow claws on my arms and crawl across the ceiling like a possessed madman. I can taste his surprise and terror now. It’s not me. I’m no longer the prey. Dropping my staff, I crash into him and slam him bodily against the wall, then the opposite wall, then on the ground. He screams. Mana coalesces into his arms as his gauntleted fingers dig into my forearm. Cold spreads through my body. An ice spell? He has an ice affinity, but it feels too diffuse. Poor control. And I have a solution. I mutate both arms until they produce an antifreeze, and then I squeeze. I must be smiling, I think, because the assassin is terrified. 

The spell fails. He desperately tries to stab me one more time but the poor angle means he can’t get through the modded muscles of my shoulder. He’s terrified and trapped. He’s the one who’s terrified and trapped. I couldn’t smile harder. 

“Sorry friend,” I tell him. “But it looks like you’ve been… outscaled.”

He goes cold and I flood him with flesh mana to disable him, but before I can do so, a ball pops off from his gauntlet and detonates in my face. Light. Pain. I jump back and protect my brain, but I can follow him racing away from me. I laugh as I repair the damage in seconds. The fucking smoke bomb. I laugh and laugh as I rush after him. He crashes through the window. Fuck it. I turn into the cat form.

Everything is taller. Everything is slower. My extended paw crashes through the broken frame and brush the edge of his helmet, but he’s out. Fine. I take one second to change one leg and one arm into bouncer form. My body screams, unbalanced and unwieldy but I have the leverage I need. I charge against the wall with enough power to break it. Pieces of masonry and broken metal tumble down the street. The assassin touches the ground. He’s off at a dead sprint, towards the train station. I jump out and turn back into the cat form. My claws skitter on the ground with a shriek like nail on a blackboard when I land awkwardly on the slippery concrete. Down the street. Race. Who’s the prey now? Out of the throat of the cat, my laugh is the discordant call of a rabid hyena. He looks back and his terror spikes. He is scared of me. Something in my mind unlocks, one core memory slotting on top of another, and my leftover fear melts like snow in a nuclear reactor. 

It’s open season.

“Not ssoo fast,” I growl, voice deep and warped.

Slow. Almost there. I pounce.

At the last moment, the assassin flips to the side, but I was anticipating it. I extend my reach to clip his calf. The cat’s serrated claws tear through the light armor. Vivid blood sprays on the ground, its iron smell flooding my altered nose. In the corner of my mind, I notice two shapes emerge from the train station, souls rigid. His cavalry is there. I need to close this fast. The assassin stumbles away, attempts to dodge my next pounce but fails. I have him, but… the cat is not designed to capture. No matter. I place one paw on his shoulder, grab his wrist and dislocate it. He screams. His concentration breaks, so I flood him with mana, fusing his elbows, then his knees. 

Good luck running, mate.

“Stop!”

I stand up, the cat form briefly towering two meters and a half over the pavement and the pair of Law goons come to interrupt the fun before I revert to my modded self. I also let the assassin flop on the ground. He isn’t going anywhere. I half expect him to swallow cyanide or something, which wouldn’t help him, but he does not. I sense… hope from him. I guess I can’t be the foolish one every time.

“Good day officers,” I politely greet, making sure my robes are properly adjusted.

The guards slow to a quick stop though their shields stay high and the eyes behind the narrow slits of their helmets, guarded.

“This is a protected area. You stand accused of assault,” the first loudly declares.

I very obviously ask the armored goon to look to the side, which he doesn’t do, but his partner does and so he signals to wait while the newcomer steps forward. Deza gives the pair of guards her signature smile.

“Hello! I come here as a witness to this sanctioned battle.”

“Sanctioned?” the first guard asks.

“Citizen Prentiss here has a bounty on his head, and this is a registered bounty hunter by the name of…”

She waits for the assassin to introduce himself, but the man has flooded his articulations with mana thinking I was using some sort of holding spell and now he’s realizing that he no longer has articulations. He’s having a bad time of it, the poor wee baby. 

“I am sure he’s registered. As he was collecting and my… associate here was resisting, this is a sanctioned battle.”

“We have reports of falling masonry,” the first guard hisses.

“Do send me the bill,” I reply since I’m flush now. The rules as to who has to pay for damage when a battle occurs in the settled regions of Enderlith is Byzantine, so it might be my dearest bounty hunter’s responsibility, but I’m not signing forms in fucking triplicate. I bind my victim with ropes made of mutated tendons while Deza saves me the hassle of bureaucracy. We waste another ten minutes going to the scene of the incident. The cafe owner is not pleased with me, which I consider a bit of an asshole move since I specifically avoided ruining any of this tables. It also looks like my claws carved grooves in the pavement. Fortunately, this is considered standard wear-and-tear in Enderlith. Some money changes hands, only twenty-seven credits to be precise but only because the building we fought in is abandoned. I feel strange signing my name on a data pad with a tied assassin held in my left fist, but here we are. Another normal day on Enderlith, the heart of civilization. 

Soon the guards depart. I look at the abandoned building where we fought again. There is an open room on the second floor  that was my first pick for interrogation purposes. I had prepared another safe spot to talk in case things got more violent, or if another assassin showed up, but everything went to plan. No need to move first.

“Alright, friend. We’re going to have a little talk.”

***

There is both resignation and determination in my prisoner while I pat him down for additional weapons. I pile those I find and those he threw earlier in a corner of the empty apartment for later, then I sit him on an upside down bucket to start with the interrogation. By that time, he’s reconsidered me and there is a bit of condescension bleeding through the panic, followed closely by hope.

“You guessed right,” I tell him. “I’m new at this. But you will find that I’m a quick learner.”

It takes me almost a minute to remove his helmet just because it’s attached by small interlocked parts and I don’t want to simply tear it off. In general, what can tear a rivet off can do the same to a neck, even an awakened one. The assassin is not what I was expected. He has white hair thinning at the temples, pale brown eyes on a decidedly normal face, if a bit narrow. Perfectly ordinary for a middle class Enderlithian. If I had passed him on the street, I would have guessed professor or supervisor or anyone with a calm but firm temperament. He’s just too ordinary to be my nemesis. I was expecting, I don’t know, some sort of evil Keanu Reeves or something.

I guess not everyone can be Egun Vindrius.

Weirdly, I don’t hate him. Now that I’ve defeated him once and the mask has fallen, he’s no longer the bogeyman whose handiwork scarred my mind. Of course, I might hate him later depending on how many more times he ruins my life. I still start this loop too weak to resist. He will still kill me, but at least, now I get to find out why. I mean, more specifically.

“Here’s the deal,” I tell him. “I am aware that there is a bounty on my head. I am aware that you are a bounty hunter. Now, I have questions, and if those questions are answered to my satisfaction, I will let you go. Founder, I will even unfuse your articulations so you don’t spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair.”

Horror. He spasms, but then I realise he’s just trying to move. Fear radiates from his tired soul, not just for him but.. I get flashes of images. This guy methodically hunts me down for loops and now he has the gall to crack after I beat him once? Disappointing. Also, flesh crafting services are not that expensive on Enderlith, are they? Another apprentice would restore him in minutes.

“Can a fleshcrafter really do that?” The assassin asks.

His voice is a bit raspy, possibly from disuse. This is the absolute first time I hear him talk, I think. He speaks accented Kei-Sah, with a slightly clipped tone.

“We can do a great many things. I can also modify your nociceptors so stubbing your toe makes your brain believe your entire leg was ripped off. I could also melt your face including the nose so —”

“I get it,” the assassin interrupts. “You have made your point.”

I blink. I realize my hand was out with my thumb touching each tip in turn, which is a mnemonic quirk I got from Kimera. I was just listing my options, not trying to intimidate him. Oh well.

“Yes, I can do that.”

“Your offer, I would like to take it.”

“Nice,” I say since I had no intention of torturing him. 

“However, I will require an oath on your soul,” he adds.

I shuffle a bit, searching my memories. 

“How does one do that?”

The assassin holds back a scoff. Rude.

“Easy, just swear on your soul while channeling mana. You have to be specific,” he explains.

There is expectation now, and a bit of hope but it is tainted with greed. He’s waiting for me to mess up, I think? But I want to try.

“Fine.”

I channel mana, body suffused with energy going nowhere which feels silly and useless.

“I, Steve Prentiss, swear on my soul that if the assassin and bounty hunter in front of me answers my assassination-related question honestly and to my satisfaction, I will fix his articulations and let him go this time. I so swear. What the f —”

The mana rushes in back through all three of my energy gates. Something like a ring encircles my soul. With some measure of fear I look at the promise settles around the very essence of my being like a chain around a chest. And then… it… fails? The ring cannot find purchase.

It takes all of my self-control to keep a calm expression while the promise slides off, dissolving into nothingness. The bright diamond of my soul simply cannot be touched. Unaware of what happened, the assassin nods to himself, surprise widening his eyes.

“Did you expect me to spontaneously combust?” I ask.

“No, I expected you to refuse. Ask your questions,” he offers.

“Ok. Who placed the bounty on my head?”

“Enderlith Standard Securities,” he replies in an instant.

“Why?”

“Unpaid debt. Although…”

“Although what?”I ask.

I already knew about the cause for the bounty. I also knew about the loan shark’s name because the operator who picks up the phone at the beginning of every loop kindly informed me. I just wanted to see if the assassin would try to bullshit me.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Not in the scope,” he replies, defiant.

“Then what do I call you?”

He sighs. His soul is a strange mix of fear and impatience, like he fears and looks down on me at the same time. I must not be a very good interrogator, and he knows it. I don’t think I want to become a good interrogator. I would rather hire a minion to do it for me, which could have been Deza, but it goes against her oath.

“Pale Hound.”

When I raise a brow, the assassin gets defensive.

“This is my call sign,” he explains.

“Hope you fellows don’t cut yourselves on all that edge.”

Pale Hound frowns as the expression doesn’t quite translate, but I don’t care. I feel like, I don’t know, one ought to be fourth awakening with a terrifying reputation to justify the handle of ‘Pale Hound’. This guy barely qualifies as Pasty Pug. 

“Ok then, Pale Hound, I say, allowing a bit of sarcasm to provide the epithet with the appropriate level of derision.  What did you mean by ‘although’, earlier?”

“Perhaps it is better if I show you. There is a datasheet in my breast pocket. The large one. If you could just let me reach it.”

“I’ll get it for you,” I say.

“Good. You’re learning,” he deadpans.

His little jab falters when our eyes meet again.

“You’re not trying to kill yourself, are you?” I ask.

“No! No, I must live,” he quickly replies. It tastes like the truth.

“Must?”

He doesn’t reply, so I assume it doesn’t fall within the scope of the question.

“You chose the wrong line of work, friend.”

“It is quite lucrative.”

“Really?” I say, finding myself curious. “How much would you collect? On my head, I mean.”

He points at his chest with his chin. It takes me a few seconds to extract what I want because the datasheet is packed tight under a layer of mesh armor, but eventually I manage. The datasheet is a blocky, ancient thing clearly built for resilience and yet still cracked at the seams. It must be uncomfortable as hell when trying to move, but I guess it’s an added layer of protection. I use his reluctantly provided password to open it. The antiquated browser leads to some sort of bounty hunter portal. It looks like my new friend collected two other bounties just this week. He must be working hard. I find my name in the ‘taken’ tab, feeling weirdly vulnerable as I open it.

‘Enderlith Standard Securities calls for the execution of one ‘Steve Prentiss’, new citizen and estimated to be of the second awakening or below. A significant loan was taken under the name of Mr Prentiss to facilitate his integration, but the guarantor pulled out of the agreement and no payment has been made so far. ESS requires the death of Mr Prentiss to reclaim part of their investment. The address of the target is listed below. 

Deadline: none.

Method of execution: no specifics.

Acceptable collateral damage: none. 

Loot: no looting permitted.

Bounty: 250 credits.’

“Two hundred and fifty fucking credits? Two hundred and fifty?” I yell in untanned chihuahua’s face. “That’s it? I’ve paid less for a gym subscription! The audacity. The absolute fucking gall.”

“That’s… standard pay for an easy target with no additional reward expected…” 

“My life has a price and it’s 250 credits. Really?”

He doesn’t seem to get why I’m offended. So, alright, I was that weak at the start, and they had no way to know, but still. 250? I am mortally offended.

“Ok, fine. Fine. That’s just wonderful. Now, ESS is a big fucking group so which branch decided it was a good idea? Hold on, why would they go after me instead of the guarantor who pulled out?”

Chronos mentioned that he asked one of his — I think a petitioner? — yes, he asked one of his petitioners to set the apartment and citizenship up for me. That would logically be the guarantor, and they pulled out? They betrayed Time? Are they fucking stupid? Wait, I’m being paranoid. There are many reasons as to why someone might be forced to pull out of an agreement. Space could have gotten to them to make things more complicated. But then, there would be an assassin after me every loop. A better assassin, not this guy. Some other avatar? Arg, if only Chronos had picked someone smart as his avatar!

“I don’t have this sort of information. You will need to ask the branch,” Pallid Mongrel offers.

I check and find an address in the lower Needles, specifically their asset recovery department. So now I know who put the price on my head. I want to pay them a visit, but… it would be a shit use of my time. A loan shark like Standard Security must have muscle on retainer, and attacking their offices directly might be stupid. Not to mention illegal. Bomb first. Yeah.

Also I’m not paying the loan back no matter what. Fuck those guys.

But at least I have a direction.

“Ok. I guess this is it. I will heal and free you. Are you going to come after me again?”I ask.

“Not for this amount,” Pale Hound spits.

“It’s very cute that you think you can kill me at all,” I say, patting his head. 

He tries to squirm away but I needed the physical contact for healing anyway, and I don’t apply medical deontology to people who try to kill me. This time, I take time to inspect Mr Hound rather than just flooding his body to disable it. Hmm. I unfuse the articulations, allowing him to move. He breathes with relief and releases himself from his bindings even though I didn’t allow him yet, but it doesn’t matter and I’m focused. 

“Poorly healed fracture of the metacarpals. You know you’re supposed to protect your hands during training, right?”

“I was stabbed!” he protests.

“You should know better. Oh, what the hell?”

Mr Hound jumps in surprise when I fix his hand. He must have had a loss of dexterity for a long time. Next is a piece of metal caught against rib 5, his right side. 

“A piece of knife. Don’t bother, I was told that it couldn’t —”

He shakes and reaches into his armor, picking a blood-covered shard of calcified metal.

“Founder…”

“Not smoothing your scar tissue,” I tell him. “I’m not paid for that.”

“But… why?”

I blink.

“Why what?”

“Why did you heal me?” he asks, even paler than usual.

“I’m an apprentice of the Garden. If I say I cured you and any of my colleagues find that I left malunion fractures and weapon parts in you, they would laugh me out of the place, and rightly so! Only wankers would stop mid-fix. Do I look like a wanker to you?”

“But… I tried to kill you?”

“It’s about my professional pride,” I declare, bumping a fist against my breast. “Not you. You don’t matter. If I say I heal you, I heal you. I don’t do things half-assed. We are a thorough bunch in the Garden. And if you come after me again I’ll happily smear you, but it won’t be because I healed you poorly.”

He gathers his things, shaking his head all along. 

“You fleshcrafters really are a weird bunch.”

I think he hears me change but when he turns, he’s already facing my bouncer form occupying half of the room and my teeth are in biting distance.

“Get. Out.”

I don’t have to tell him twice. Also, he broke the door the door on his way so I guess we’re not getting the deposit back. 

Deza’s waiting for me by the entrance, leaning on the side with her arms crossed, the most casual law enforcers I’ve ever seen.

“Are you alright with letting him live?”

“It doesn’t matter. I think I’m beyond it, now.”

“So. Feeling any better?” she then asks with her signature smile.

I think about it for a second.

“Yes. I think I am.”