The 108 Chapter 49: At the Seams (Patreon)

“How satisfied are you with your progress so far?” Shadow Master Arek asks over tea.

I consider my progress so far. It’s the fifth month into the year, and things are going surprisingly well. The timing of the explosion means that fewer Elders died than usual in this loop. With Antea and Krane’s increasingly subtler hints, the war against Transformation is off to a good start, as in, we’re not getting pushed as fast or losing so many people. I can now track Arek well enough provided he doesn’t use all of his tricks. My progress has plateaued, mostly because of the awakening difference between us and because I don’t use haste or soul spells during training. I think I can manage Egun by now. Perhaps having felt it, Arek has slowed our training and prioritized fighting for now. I’m curious that he would return at this time.

“I think I’m ready,” I tell the strange man.

His scaly scalp is dull in the light of the mana lantern. Dark eyes consider me, no emotions visible. His soul is as nebulous as ever.

“And you do not believe your target died?”

“He’s…”

I consider my words. I suspect that, although he doesn’t have Law’s failsafe lie detection blessing, he might still be able to tell truth from falsehood.”

“He’s beyond the reach of Transformation. For now. I can’t count on any divine calamity to do my work for me.”

“A sensible answer, which leads me to my current predicament. I cannot continue our lessons.”

I was expecting this.

“Does it have something to do with the abominations?”

Arek nods.

“It does. Grandmaster Antea’s push for more participation in the war effort has led us down the path of open conflict. You may be called under the banners soon enough, though an effort has been made to protect apprentices. My duty as a guilder supersedes my honor as a man, and thus I must renege on my agreement to teach you.”

I take a sip of tea while he waits for me to react. 

“I am surprised,” I reply, “because I expected you to say that with my progress, our agreement is fulfilled.”

“Should I give you the perfectionist speech again, Disciple Prentiss?”

“But that’s just personal bias. Thanks for telling me.”

“Hold on,” Arek says, raising a gloved finger. “I have brought you… compensation.”

He carefully places four vials on the table between us. I didn’t see where they came from so I can add sleight of hands to the long list of his tricks. In the vials are tiny organs floating in liquid. Those are minor gene repositories, usually for only one organ or one modification. I feel like I’m a kid again, and this is Christmas.

“Oh?”

“I see the greed in your eyes, apprentice. Ah, to be young again. With the threat approaching the ‘existential’ level, the Garden has decided to lower the cost of genomes. Perhaps it is better for the younger fighters to take unwise modifications than to die. I am not personally convinced.”

“What do you mean, existential? I thought the tide was held back?”

Arek tilts his head, giving me a curious glance.

“What a curious thing to say. If we lose the conflict, we all die. It cannot get any more existential than this, disciple.”

“As you say.”

Perhaps the previous loops have upped the standards for ‘absolute disaster’. I mean, once you’ve hit total station extermination, the only way out is up, right?

“And you forget, disciple, that Transformation attacks the Tip as well, and the Traditionalist side. If either of those two break we will be drowned in a tide of bodies.”

“I am convinced. What do you have for me?”

“Venom.”

“Ooooh!”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, disciple. Toxins are the favored tools of the Shadows. Their effects are as varied as the body’s functions. The activation can be delayed. Applications are only limited by your imagination and preparation, disciple. As an… introductory gift to our arts, I have prepared three generally useful venoms, and one applicator. This one is called the Dreamer’s Embrace: a powerful paralytic and soporific that also prevents short-term memory formation, causing the victim to forget the last, oh, ten minutes or so depending on awakening level. It works best against human variants.”

“Neat.”

This will help with infiltration.

“The next one is Death’s Shriek, a rather potent venom that eats organic tissue alive. This is the only one of the three that works against Transformation’s creatures.”

“Ok, good.”

I should get a launcher.

“And finally, Spreading Madness, a contact toxin that amplifies aggression. That one can only be used against human variants, but it will send the recipient into a berserk state that pushes them to attack their neighbors. Unfortunately, the toxin has severe limitations including the rather fiddly amount required to get the victim going without having their adrenal gland explode. It is still a useful and entertaining option.”

“I will cherish it greatly.”

“And finally, a delivery method: the Crystal Needle: it will let you grow a hollow chitinous needle you may stab people with. The needle is quite brittle to assist with dispersion. Any questions?”

“What are the laws of Enderlith concerning the use of those poisons in combat?” I ask with some curiosity.

“Same as always: don’t get caught.”

***

Deza contacts me just like she promised. It looks like, this loop, Obis’ royal faction detonated their soul bomb a bit early. I’m in the Garden when I get the call, bringing a map of Obis in front of me.

The last time I helped them, the royals used the soul bomb to annihilate Volfal, one of the key defensive positions of the Blood Conclave. As in, they dropped it on top of the city with one of their princesses stashed inside and made a massive crater of the thing. This time, they dropped it on an army blocking their way to the city instead.

I sit back in my chair. I know I saved a lot of royal-aligned soul-awakened in the early stages of the campaign when I participated. I dod so by detecting a massive ambush that would have wiped them out, but surely, one person couldn’t have made so much of a difference, right? Am I being arrogant? I probably am. It’s probably a random effect.

In any case, Deza’s inquiry was successful thanks to Law’s backing. The royal faction did obtain the soul bomb from Enderlith, and they’re willing to tell us but not willing to do so via courier. I am to go down to the planet myself. Finally, after years of being a cello player, I understand what my friends in corporate meant when they said ‘this could have been an email’. Who gives a shit anymore? The bombs already detonated for fuck’s sake. 

My point of contact is to be one Lieutenant Goldenfield working for the ‘Procurement Ministry’ back on Prime, Obis’ capital. I buy passage aboard a mercenary shuttle and land in the early morning near the ancient city. Stepping out of the landing pad, I take a breath of non-recycled air for the first time in years while the wind caresses my skin, and the light of dawn shines on the high walls of the city, bruised but not broken.

It stinks like hell. Of course. I hire a cab for a quarter Enderlithian credit, the driver awfully quiet on the way. We do not get into the actual city, but drive along the massive shanties clogging the edges of the fortifications. The people there are malnourished and sick. Many wear the dregs of past splendor on their emaciated shoulders. They watch us move past with hollowed eyes, hungry and defeated by seven years of slaughter.

The base sits on top of a small plateau overlooking freshly harvested fields, squat beige walls and casemates layered with great care. The bulky taxi drops me some distance away from the gates. Armored sentries in the blue of the royal faction watch me approach with guarded expression, fingers gripping the hafts of massive halberds as if they weren’t the one with a base at their back. A short woman with prosthetic legs checks my ID half a dozen times before letting me in. Inside, I am directed to the Procurement Department by a hurried guard. There is very little free space here. The beige walls seem to close above me in a manner that would be oppressive if I didn’t live in the galactic capital of claustrophobia. Most of the buildings relate to administration, in some way. We walk past recruitment first, but it appears the building has deserted for some time now. The nearby hospital is choke-full from the many souls suffering there. It takes a good five minutes at a brisk pace to reach my destination — this isn’t a small base.

Inside, I am surprised by the decor. While the outer layer is just bare, a serious attempt at comfort has been made to make the place, if not exactly jolly, at the very least tolerable. The furniture is lacquered wood. Azure pennants and the portraits of long dead generals adorn the walls to grant the entrance a certain cachet despite the few people present. I spot a counter on my left while a revolving door with wood panels prevents access farther into the complex. It doesn’t look like there is much security here, but I guess if the enemy reaches this point, then they’re already fucked anyway. An older lady with a missing arm greets me with a warm smile.

“Ah, you must be… Apprentice Steve Prentiss with the Fleshcrafter Guild here as part of a… Templar task force?”

She checks me out with a frown. Her soul radiates confusion but not concern, and she soon smothers her curiosity which I guess is necessary in her line of work.

“Lieutenant Goldenfield will see you at… two in the afternoon?” she reads, frown deepening.

There is a spark of fear, then she looks up with pursed lips. Silence hangs between us.

This isn’t how it should be. If Goldenfield gives me a day instead of an hour for his appointment, courtesy dictates that he should see me as soon as he’s available. That’s not to say he’s supposed to jump up when I arrive, but… afternoon, really? I pull back from the counter.

Maybe he has a last-minute meeting or something. It’s fine. I cleared my schedule anyway. 

“Alright…”

“Sorry about that, sir,” the admin says, making a terrible mistake. One thing I learned during summer jobs in retail: one should never admit guilt at the front desk. Ah well, she’s lucky.

“Hmm, if you wish to wait,” she continues, “we have a mess hall. I’ll call ahead and make sure you have a place to wait, sir.”

I consider my experience of Obisian gastronomy and realize I’d rather meditate the whole time stuck on a crystal cactus instead. I still need to eat, but it’s not that urgent. What should I do? Meditating would be a massive waste of time. I already read a book on the way. I haven’t looked into local music yet, which is a bit sad. My thoughts return to the hospital. Well, I could help those people, if only for a few months of comfort. And it would be good training.

“As you know, I am a fleshcrafter apprentice. I also work with the Garden’s dedicated chronic conditions hospital. Do you think your doctors could use my help for half a day?”

“I will ask!”

It turns out that they’re very happy to get it.

***

Finding the hospital isn’t difficult: I just need to home in on the highest concentration of suffering souls. Getting to the entrance requires a bit more exploration. I eventually find the proper gate and enter, finding a front desk with two exhausted nurses, one of them asleep on a pile of documents. I approach and soul sweep the facility as a sort of reflex, and freeze in my tracks.

It feels like grabbing for a door handle and finding a warm hand already there. The experience is as new as it is disturbingly intimate. My sweep is not unlike a radar: deliberate, forceful, its sole purpose to find possible threats. His resembles a gentle reach, like touching a stranger’s shoulder to get their attention. I am immediately weirded the fuck out and pull back on the spot.

The second nurse eyes me blearily.

“Uh, can I help you?” he asks.

The soul contact is gone. Wow. Another third awakening soul. I didn’t expect to meet one here.

“I was told to report to the Head Healer?” I finally manage to force out.

“What? Oh. Oh… yes, my apologies, sir. I just received the message. Err, this way.”

The military hospital feels strangely, not empty but unmoving despite the harried healers rushing around. I realize it’s the lack of normal foot traffic. The Chronic Conditions hospital back in the Garden has a large public space. There are always families moving around. Here, the wounded will receive no visitors. The Head Healer turns out to be a tiny, wrinkled woman in an equally wrinkled blue uniform clearly working on the last dregs of her mana. She’s low third awakening and running completely empty. Her cobalt eyes survey me for all of two seconds.

“Well, Harmony smiles upon me, a real fleshcrafter. Been a while since we’ve had one of you down here. I’m Director Herder.  How can I help?”

“Apprentive Steve Prentiss, with the guild. I was hoping to help you, actually. It looks like my appointment was postponed so you have me until shortly before 2. I can regrow organs.”

There is a pause and I feel Director Herder’s soul shivering.

“You’re serious?” she asks, voice cracking.

“I am.”

“Well…”

She has an accent I cannot place when she speaks Kei-Sah. It makes me wonder how many cultures there are on the planet, and how many are already lost.

“We got the son of a duke with a missing liver. I don’t suppose…”

“Lead the way.”

Herder has me follow the hospital’s strict decontamination protocol despite the fact that my robes are sterile and I’m probably the cleanest person around. I don’t protest, of course. Instead, my mind returns to the soul awakened moving around though I don’t ask about him. The Garden knows about Lumie, but what if this bloke’s gone incognito? It would be a terrible faux-pas to let the hospital know he’s here.

“We received the young lord with yesterday’s batch. I was getting my mana back to operate on him, but if you can get him instead…”

“You’re life mana, yes?”

“Like most of us, ” she confirms. “I’m a follower of Nature. Her blessing helps my recovery, but there are so many patients and only a few of us who can regrow. I guess I won’t have to decide who dies today…”

“I feel for you. I do,” I say with sincerity. 

“If only we had some of you…”

I understand her pain. Life mana has area spells so they can heal and stabilize entire armies at the highest level of awakening, but life is terrible at regrowing destroyed organs. It’s more about imitating natural healing than playing with flesh like we do. Our skillsets are complimentary. 

“Maybe next year, after things calm down,” I reply.

“If there are any of us left by next year, sure,” Herder says in a voice that is a bit too casual.

“There will be,” I say with confidence.

She doesn’t comment. We arrive at the private room of the so far unnamed Duke’s son. It smells like pierced bowels, despite the nice wooden bed and flowers by the false window. 

“Do you mind if I stay?” Herder asks.

She’s being polite. There is no way in fuck I would be permitted to touch an important heir without supervision. I noticed the soul of a guard shadowing us just in case. 

“Of course not.”

We exchange a pleasant smile, the subtext being left unsaid. I move in and place a finger on the arm of a pallid youth kept alive by IV and a high-end enchanted items. He’s missing a bit more than just his liver. It’s just the only organ that’s entirely gone. I make a show of checking the chart at the foot of the bed in case I missed something. No weird affinities, no strange mutation, no history of sudden ghost possession mid-surgery. It takes me a careful few minutes to rebuild the heir’s internal organs. Muscle atrophy didn’t have the time to set in. I make sure to restart digestion to check that everything’s in order. All good. I pull back.

Herder watches me curiously. She must have felt my mana move around.

“So… how is he?”

“Healthy. I could wake him —”

“No!” she interrupts. Then more softly: “No. Let him rest. He will return to the front soon enough.”

Something cracks in the wall of her composure. I pretend not to notice.

“Next patient?” I suggest.

“Yes! Yes, good idea. We have a lady with a missing trachea, if you could?”

“Easy enough. It’s the largest replacements that are mana-intensive.”

“We’ll keep you off legs and egos then.”

***

I do good work, for a while. Obis’ rarefied mana envelope makes recovery slower, but I have my own core and I’m much more efficient than a fresh intern. After we’re done with people missing vital organs, I work on more delicate cases, mostly eyes and facial surgeries. Herder leaves as soon as she has mana for one more spell, and the guard mostly just brings me glasses of water unprompted instead of being an ass, so it’s slow and methodical work. The soul awakened joins me while I’m finishing a room full of people with damaged digestive systems. 

I can follow his path through the massive hospital from the trail he leaves behind. Where he passes, souls undergo a curious epiphany. Their suffering explodes, not unlike water balloons suffering a short but catastrophic spillage. Those left behind are dull and empty, yet it doesn’t feel all bad. There is a quiet peace to those raw psyches, a quiet grief like rain after a fire. 

I turn to greet him when he comes in, his presence announced by the soul equivalent of a soft knock. This is an old and powerful man. I know this with the same certainty I had when I met the Bishop of Retribution back when I was working for Sethri derelicts, half an eternity ago. He has thinning white hair and a well-cut, short beard, sure, and his dim purple eyes speak of wealth and the mods afforded to the powerful. His posture is graceful, confident, yes. His simple priestly garb is grey but clearly custom made. It’s not those, though. 

I can’t tell what awakening he is. 

I think the last person who did that was Kerentis, so it’s safe to say this is one of the old monsters still walking the station. Or Obis, in this case. He comes in and smiles when he sees the happiness of the four soldiers here who won’t have their food delivered via IV bag anymore. His soul gently touches theirs, humming as he savors the colors of their happiness like a painter admires someone else’s masterwork. He comes to stand by my side, smelling weirdly of petrichor. I notice that he timed his visit for when my mana reserves are at their lowest. I do not feel threatened, because I understand his intentions when he hands me a mana worm snack. He was politely waiting for my break.

“They have an indoor garden here. Would you like to see it?” he asks in amused Ten-Sah.

I haven’t spoken the highest language in a while. Even the guard blinks, somehow cowed by his mastery of the sacred tongue.

“I would be delighted.”

The man leads me on. People on his path greet him with a sort of bashful gratitude, an undercurrent of shame mixed in despite his kind smile. Those are warriors. I don’t recognize them personally, but I have fought alongside their brothers and sister against the horrors of the Blood Conclave. Those are veterans of a doomed conflict who know that defeat means annihilation. They’re a hard sort. Being vulnerable cannot possibly be comfortable to them, but they were vulnerable to this guy.

I think I know where this is going.

The inner garden is a good place. A false skylight imitates real light to a degree that I am almost fooled before remembering that we’re in a half-buried fortress and that windows are structural weaknesses. There are vines and flowers and a lot of small plants within arms’ reach, all colorful and vibrant but also strangely homey: a type of non-threatening, tamed nature that must reflect how Obis was around the capital before everything went to shit. I let the soul awakened speak first, and he does.

“It’s unusual to find such a strong soul with a young mind.”

His voice is soft with a sort of sophisticated charm I associate with theater actors. 

“I had a lot of help,” I explain.

“If one could call it that,” he says with a smile. “I go by Lacre.”

“Steve.”

“Let’s get one thing out of the way, shall we? You have nothing to fear from me. I am in the race, but not to win.”

This confirms one of my sneaking suspicions.

“You’re one of the Eighteen?”

“That’s correct, Steve. I am the Avatar of Sadness.”

I breathe hard to dispel the vague dread that comes with meeting someone who has good reasons to kill me, but then I remember.

“The Eighteen never try to win.”

“That is true. The avatars of emotions have their own purpose incompatible with ruling. I will warn you: some of my brethren might join a cause, but that shall not be my path. I have my work set out for me. In the aftermath of the game, I will be there.”

I swallow the contempt I do not wish for him to feel by subsuming my emotions. If he notices it, he doesn’t react. This guy’s strong. The strong ought to do more than wait at the end to pick up the pieces.

“So what are you doing here?” I ask.

“I visit places of grief to bring what aid I can to the people there. I… envy your ability to heal. No, more than that, I envy your ability to undo damage. Life mana can close a wound, but you make it as if it never happened. On the body, at least.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His purple gaze is weird. It’s the same shade as Phage’s, the gene library guardian, but the emotions they carry are completely different.

“The people of Obis have suffered so much that the scars on their flesh reveal the least of it. I am here because Sadness is needed. No one wants to be sad. They need to be sad.”

“If you say so.”

“Do you believe that sadness has a reason to be?” he asks.

I am tempted to tell him to fuck off. I’m not taking life advice from random bearded hermits who could make a difference while young men and women get dismembered on the frontline. But then this is an experience. Experience is qualia. Telling someone to fuck off isn’t qualia because I’ve done it before. 

“Uh, sure. We studied it. It’s an attachment emotion that reflects the loss of a connection. It helps us understand the value of what we lost to possibly reclaim it, fostering bonds in a group and acting as a low-level distress signal.”

“What a utilitarian way to look at an emotion...” he jokingly laments.

I shrug.

“You asked for a reason for sadness to exist. Those are the ones I know.”

He takes the soul equivalent of a polite step back. There is only patient kindness in the calm features of his respectable face. The asshole. I am overcome with a furious need to explain.

“I’m not sad so you can stop staring. I’m not sad because I haven’t experienced the loss yet. Everything is still possible for me. I can still save everyone, so I don’t feel sad.”

“Even if you lost no one, are you sure you haven’t lost anything?” he challenges. 

My mind immediately goes to the list of people I need to save, of tasks I need to complete. He’s not talking about that. I immediately push against the thought that maybe, the past few years have been difficult and what I lost might have bled out of my soul with the horrors and the deaths and the failures. I simply cannot afford to think about it.

“You know, the reason why you’re here and not on the battlefield is that sadness comes after, yeah? It comes after the hot emotions. I haven’t finished losing, or winning, and I can’t afford to stop now.”

The contempt I buried bursts out of the dam of my mind, drowning my mind with cold rage.

“You’re very strong, I can tell. You said you’re not a healer yourself. Can’t you think of a way you could help that isn’t simply letting people accept loss? Like stopping the cause for their sadness to begin with? The galaxy is plenty shitty as it is so you won’t be losing your job, I guarantee it. How about it?”

“I fear those days are behind me. At some point, one must accept that being one more spear in the shield wall will not make much of a difference.”

I push down on my rage, knowing this guy could probably take on Egun and knowing just as well he would never consent to it. 

“I think it makes a difference. I think it makes quite a bit of difference. I noticed you going from room to room. You didn’t miss anyone with your area-of-effect counseling spell, right? I’m sure the hospital will be in better spirits until the next batch of mauled fuckers gets delivered and you do it again instead of, ya know, being out there killing clavers. Or is it one of the ‘Gods work in mysterious ways’ kind of deal?” I ask, reversing to the low-brow So-Sah language.

Lacre smiles as my emotions seem to just wash off him with no effect. I am being very rude, so I pull back, and I don’t get offended when he pats my shoulder.

“Remember, I’m only here to help, freely given and without any obligation to accept, young one. May your path be successful and… not too unkind.”

I’m wasting my time.

“Thanks,” I reply anyway. “You too.”

And then, he’s gone. There are twenty minutes left until my appointment, and I’ve handled all the urgent and cheap regrowths I could manage. Time to go, I guess.

***

It is two. I sit down in one of the Procurement lobby’s luxurious chairs, hopefully not for too long. I noticed Goldenfield walk in from the way the admin’s soul tries to reach for him, and me, at the same time. He’s a thin man with pale blond hair and a rather grand silver and blue uniform. He doesn’t even look my way, engrossed as he is in a report. I track his soul to a nearby office. 

The time of my appointment comes, then minutes past it, and then, half an Enderlithian hour or so. There is, of course, a code to how long people should be made to wait on Enderlith. I’m not sure how much it translates here on Obis, but the cultures are so intertwined that I don’t think common courtesy varies by a meaningful amount. Not with short-fused demigods flying around. On time is almost always good. Under five minutes is the norm between peers. Up to fifteen for subordinates is still considered normal, but half an hour and above is an insult. I can still feel Goldenfield’s soul busy in what I assume is his office, focused on something or the other.

I sigh. My instinct is to politely wait. Hell, my instinct is to politely queue for it, but there is something pushing me to move, a restlessness that travels down my leg, forcing a staccato beating of my foot I actively suppress. My patience is brittle and frayed. For some reason, memories of aberrants devouring people return to my mind, with the way they turn civilians and warriors alike into new spawn, new leaves of the Tree of Everything. I can’t seem to settle and the back and forth of employees form a careless dance that spooks me every time someone enters my zone of control, stretched as it is. It’s cold and wet here yet I have to force myself from sweating. This is important, too important. I could be patient. I need to be patient.

Or not.

I don’t need to be patient with this guy. He doesn’t matter. Only learning more matters. Will the knowledge of the bomb’s origin help me stop it? Perhaps, perhaps not? I won’t know until I find out. It might be important. And I’m left here waiting for Lieutenant Goldenfield’s favor. 

Or not. I could just… not wait. I’m on my feet and walking calmly to the revolving door, slipping behind a busy woman staring at a datasheet with intense focus. The admin lifts her eyes from her work, but I wave and she blinks, her soul radiating doubt. She knows I have an appointment. I walk the unadorned corridor and feel a guard turn a corner before I see him. He frowns.

“Guests are not supposed to move around unaccompanied.”

“Lieutenent Goldenfield just called for me. I’ll just return to his office. You can accompany me if you like?” I ask in my most affable voice.

There is a whistle in my ears, not something soul-related, and no foreign mana. There are no emotions to subsume right now, none that I recognize. It’s just a confused mess of hisses.

“And if I ask the lieutenant if he really called for you, he’ll say he did, right?” the guard asks me.

He’s third awakening, so he must be rather important to be away from the battlefield. It makes him confident.

“Sure.”

“Lead the way, then, if you are ‘returning’ there.”

I follow the path the soul first took with confidence. The guard’s controlled outrage burns bright behind me. I don’t hate him for it. He’s just doing his job. We pause before the proper door.

“Are you sure you’re in the right place?” the guard asks, impassive.

“I am!”

I knock and open. The guard follows close behind. Goldenfield looks up from his papers with the owlish face of someone interrupted mid-musing.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demands to know.

His voice is hoarse and not exactly shrill, but it bears the irritating quality of someone who believes themselves extremely important. Aristocratic features turn to haughty disgust. I force myself to smile.

“I’m Disciple Prentiss, from the Fleshcrafter Guild. We had an appointment, remember?”

“As you can see, I’m fairly busy. You have some gall walking in here like you own the place. Are you perhaps unaware that you’re in a military facility? You’re lucky I’m not having you tossed into an oubliette. Neil, kindly get our guest out until he learns that —”

The door quietly closes behind me. White noise feels my mind, making the moment both perfectly clear and, somehow, incomprehensible. Neil’s hand lands on my shoulder. My crystal shard slams in his abdomen, filled with Dreamer’s Embrace. His eyes bulge.

“— we are not the guild’s dogs.”

Neil’s panicked eyes widen. He collapses, a wood armor forming around him but too late. The paralytic’s dose I injected would make a fourth awakening fall.

“What the —”

I think Goldenfield reaches for something but my hand grips his neck firmly. His soul panics, radiating jumbled memories of security meetings and terrible recordings. He thinks I work for the Blood Conclave. The guard finishes collapsing on the floor, out for a day.

“Please, do not mistake me for one of those posers,” I tell him.

I slam his face on the desk, then raise it again. Damage to the septum, brow ridge, dislodged teeth. Dull noise, unlikely to be heard. I fix the damage. The pain dulls.

“You are —”

Another slam. Cracked nasal bone and lower maxillary. Two broken incisors. I repair the damage, dulling the pain.

“Please —”

Another slam. He used his hands to protect himself. Scalp laceration. Quite a bit of blood, no concussion. I fix the damage. I dull the pain. I lift him and take a good look. He’s second awakening with some weird affinity, maybe related to the silver on his uniform? He’s not using it right now. His soul appears frozen. I need to tell him. He needs to understand. This is very important. He needs to understand so I can get what I need.

“I feel we got off to a poor start and I could care less, but, to be perfectly frank with you, not by much,” I tell him in impeccable Kei-Sah. The polite language confuses him further. “I have come for one piece of information. You will give it to me.”

“If you kill me —”

“I don’t need to kill you. In fact, it would be very counter-productive,” I say, as softly as possible because I don’t want to spook him any further. “Because I need. To know. Where you got the bomb. That’s it. It could have been a file, or a two minute talk, but you had to be a twat. I could tell you why this is important. I could remind you of who I work for, and who you’re insulting by being such an unredeemable bastard, but I only need to give you this one reason: it took me years of blood and abject suffering and efforts to build a hammer large enough to matter in this little race, and now, I have it. I have that hammer, and you’re looking like a massive prick. I will go to any length to save the station. Today, that means learning about the bomb. And you’re on my way. You are no one to me. You are nothing. Inconsequential, just a rude cog in an uncaring machine and I have a very, very important mission, and you’re wasting my very valuable sanity. So. Tell me where you got the fucking bomb before I extract that knowledge out of your squishy mind, you fuck.”

“Founder, calm down.”

I smile to show that I am quite calm, yet his terror spikes. Something’s wrong with this moron.

“It’s in the file, there.”

I drop him. For a moment I observe him and wait to see if he’s going to jump on the panic button I imagine is under his desk, or flare his mana, or scream. It would be so easy for him. But he doesn’t move. I use that opportunity to pull back to my augmented base form, retracting the defensive spikes I didn’t realize I’d grown. And the muscles. And the size. 

“Is Neil safe?” he eventually asks, suddenly very polite.

“He will wake up in a day, very well-rested, but dehydrated.”

I open the file. There is a sales receipt, handwritten and surprisingly mundane. The bomb was purchased from a master Solas whose workshop is in one of the more isolated districts of the base, from the number, at a cost that makes me blink. I carefully write the address down in my soul book, wondering if I ever heard about Mr Solas, but no, I didn’t. His workshop doesn’t even have a name. It’s just ‘Solas’ workshop’, of all things. It’s like buying a nuclear warhead from a mechanic in Kent.

I can check it out when I return.

“Are we done?” Goldenfield asks.

I stab him with a newly formed needle. He joins Neil on the ground.

“We are.”

I quietly leave the room. No one stops me, most people working at their desks at this time. The admin lets me out with a confused wave. I am out of the base in under five minutes. I wonder if I’m losing it. I wonder if that casual violence was justified and I come to the conclusion that it was not, that I was just as abusive, as quick to use power as Goldenfield had been. I realized that even if forcing the issue would have been the proper decision, I acted in anger anyway. I momentarily lost it. When I told Goldenfield I didn’t care about him, that he didn’t exist as a person to me, I was being truthful. He was an obstacle, not a person. I also realize that I could have done much worse. I wonder how long it will take for me to stop seeing people as people, and instead see them as parameters to change for the success of the next loop. Hopefully, it won’t come to that. I just need to stop the bomb.

I know the royal faction found me out when I’m back at the spaceport. I know they could stop me. I am certain they came to the proper conclusion when the immigration officer returns my ID.

“We ask that you do not return,” she tells me with a forced smile.

No promises. They won’t remember anyway.