Interlude 3.a (Patreon)

Hello! VISCERAE chapter! I wonder if anyone even remembers my labeling system for interludes, it's been so long... who knows! Either way- back to Ilia in short order!

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Projections are looking good for this quarter. We’re looking at a slight increase in local production and in sales of retail property, in spite of the messiness of the current markets. General instability has actually had some positive effects on certain sectors, most specifically our medical and energy divisions, but retail, construction, and even service industry have all taken a hit. Still, if we’re keeping to current strategy, as prices continue to plummet we should be able to invest even more heavily into each of the aforementioned losses at a bargain, though long term viability of the strategy is, of course, a concern. We should have more specific metrics by end of day, granted that no other major geopolitical scuffles add any fresh ripples in the next few hours.

Other than that, the notes for your personal portfolio are rather minimal. Some of the property investments you’ve made have lost some value due to wear and tear and how long they’ve gone uninhabited, but most of them have maintained or increased at a decent clip. A lot of the new construction setups have been… dramatic, I suppose? Major renovations and real cost-sinks for the amount of woodlands or local architecture that needs removal or redoing, but there hasn’t been much local push-back, at least none that hasn’t fallen apart at any levels beyond a protest or two. I can’t really see a real return on investment here, though. Obviously reselling the land at a premium with renovations would be an option, but if you insist on maintaining the course for residential and local business focuses, the likelihood of a long term profit from leasing these locations for rent purposes is minimal to say the least. There’s just not enough of a population in those areas to sustain that level of growth, and the likelihood of that changing without there being some really unlikely shifts. Maybe with some investment in logging again, reopening some industrial sites, new universities, even some basic changes towards a more touristic market, the needle might shift a bit, but it’s highly unlikely, and there’s nothing we can do directly without founding those kinds of equally risky propositions. 

If you’d like, I’m happy to put together some numbers on resale possibilities and local tax laws for abandoned properties should it come to that. As it stands, even if we take a loss on these, it shouldn’t be more than a hiccup, but to keep throwing money at it, so to speak, will likely put more weight on the scales than we’d like.

I hope this information finds you well, and I look forward to your return.

Best Regards,

J. A. Forscythe, Portfolio Manager.

-Information retrieved from local connection

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“Took some doing, getting this scheduled. You’re not an easy man to find.”

“No. I am not.”

The two men sit across from each other, one of them in an old suit that’s seen better days, the other in a vest festooned with pockets and fishing gear. 

“What is it that you want?” asks the man in the vest.

“I want to hire you.”

“I very explicitly do not work for you anymore.”

“Which is why I want to hire you,” says the man in the old suit, rolling the words around.

The man in the vest looks up and down at the man across from him, taking care to let his eyes linger on the stray bit of frayed fabric and lightly dusty edges on his shoulders. He smiles, yellowed teeth behind a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard, but there’s no kindness in it.

“I doubt you can afford my services, old man.”

The man in the suit grumbles under his breath, then reaches into his jacket. 

For a second of tension, both men freeze. Instincts older than either of them reflect off each other, the man in the vest preparing to react as the man in the suit reaches into his jacket, and vice versa in return. The moment goes unmentioned, and after a second of rifling around, a hand emerges from within the old suit, fist closed. It moves over the diner table between them and sets itself down lightly, opening to reveal the glint of gold from between its fingers.

“Don’t you worry about me affording shit. I’ve got plenty saved up for a rainy day.”

Bloodshot eyes turn from the gold up to the other man’s face as the figure in the pocketed vest appraises him. 

“I suppose it’s raining then?”

“Maybe. A drizzle for certain, but I can hear thunder.”

“Your hearing might not be what it used to be. Tinnitus alone probably has you deafer than me, old man.”

The man in the suit grumbles again, lower, closer to a growl. “I can hear just fine, and I got other ears besides these two. Some signs have been poking up here and there, and I got a red flag that I need looking into.”

“So? Get some of your fancy fucking gizmos and a few more fresh hogs to use them. Why come and bother me?”

The man in the suit leans back a bit. It’s calculated, as all things are between them, but it’s also honest. For a moment, he lets his exhaustion slip into view, his joints creaking as he grunts and lets himself touch the back of his booth for the first time since sitting down.

“This isn’t like the old days. The newest gizmo anyone’s made got decommissioned twenty years ago, and most people I work with are either as old as I am or tainted meat somehow. I still have some pull, but by the time that gets moving, things will have escalated and it’ll be too late, or it’ll have been nothing and it’ll cost me too much. I need someone I can trust to go check things out and deal with whatever’s happening, then get back to me so I can respond appropriately.”

“Ah. ‘Appropriately’. Yeah, you’re real good at responding ‘appropriately’. What I’m hearing from all this is that an old war-horse that doesn’t know when to quit ‘has a feeling’ that he wants me to go waste my time checking out. Or you’re out of your fucking depth and going to get me killed.”

The man in the vest goes to stand up, but the waitress emerges from the back of the restaurant as he does, carrying a tray. By the time she’s cleared the counter, he’s already back in his seat, calm, quiet. No disruptions. Nothing that might draw attention.

She sets down a coffee in front of each of them, followed by a plate of eggs and hash browns for the man in the vest.

“And will there be anything else, gentlemen?”

“No, darling, that’ll be all,” says the man in the suit, and she smiles, and when he doesn’t smile back, doesn’t take his eyes off the man in the vest, she just nods and walks away.

His eyes stay on the other man’s hands as they pick up his utensils. 

“You remembered my order.”

“Memory’s still sharp as ever. Same as my instincts.”

The man in the vest cuts into the egg, letting it ooze out over his knife and soak into the rest of the plate. He watches it, unmoving, until everything is soaked, and only then does he begin to eat. 

“I haven’t hunted in a while.”

“You were always sharper than I was. It’s what made you what you are.”

Bloodshot eyes circle back up, fixing on the other man’s face.

“What am I?”

The man in the suit doesn’t answer.

Yellowed teeth bite into yolk and fried grease. They chew slowly, methodically, before swallowing it down and taking a second bite.

Only once he has swallowed again does he turn his eyes back up to the other man, both hands holding fork and knife out on the table.

“What am I?”

“You’re what I need.”

The man in the vest lets out a low, soft chuckle. 

“I doubt it.”

“Tiamat Epsilon Void.”

Hands tighten around sharp pieces of metal, in reach of his throat.

“What?”

“The red flag. Maybe just some sensor misfiring, but with these things there are no coincidences. Something set off an alarm with a message that makes no sense, right when the number of messes I need to clean up starts growing.”

“And you want to send whatever I am after a Void?”

“An epsilon. A weird one, maybe, but you know that the greek shit is always the most accurate. The rest is guesswork.”

Yellowed teeth emerge from between salt-and-pepper hairs.

“Expensive guesswork. Bloody guesswork.”

The sharp pieces of metal come down on another piece of egg, delicately piercing the yolk of the second one to let it bleed out the same way the first one did.

“And it made you into what you are. The sort of person that can do what needs doing.”

“And so the old war horse climbs back out of the stable to call me up instead of spending any of that precious federal influence. Just some under the table type of negotiations. I’m impressed, old man. It’s underhanded. Must sting.”

“It does. But I have always used every tool at my disposal to get the job done, and right now, you’re the best tool for the job.”

The knife comes down again. The yolk, bright red, seeps across the plate.

The man in the suit blinks, and it is yellow, and they are in a diner.

“Double what you’re offering. You pay half now and half later, and if it turns out to be nothing, you handle the consequences.”

The man in the suit winces at that. “I’m not just letting you off the leash. I have two agents in the field that-”

“Then let them do it.”

The knife makes a little whimper as it scrapes through the potatoes and against the plate.

“Except… you have. And they just don’t have what it takes. You need to come to me, to dig through all my goddamn stitches and see what’s underneath and see if it’s still any good to you. So you double it, pay me half, and then you deal with it if it turns out to be nothing.”

“It won’t be nothing.”

“Well then you have nothing to worry about.”

“Even if you don’t find the epsilon, there’s been other manifestations in the town. You’ll have plenty of work to do.”

“I’m not your clean-up crew. You said there’s something strange you need looking into. I’ll look into it. If I have to clear up some of the spill, I’ll do that, but it’ll cost you extra if you want me on janitorial duty.”

“...We can discuss that if we need to.”

“We’ll discuss it now.”

The old man in the suit slams his hand against the diner table, drawing a dozen eyes over to them. His fist aches, but he grits his teeth and leans forward, baring them at the man in the vest.

“You don’t give me orders. You don’t sit there and act like you don’t owe me. I’m not wasting any more time indulging in your fucking power games, any more than I’m going to be letting you indulge in your hobbies. This is a mission, and when it’s done, you leave freer than ever.”

“Until you need me again.”

Two hands hold sharp pieces of metal very lightly, stained with thick, runny fluids that drip onto the table. 

“Until you come interrupt my peace again. Until you call me back again. I’m doing fine without you, sir. I fish. I hunt. I sleep and eat and fuck just like anyone else, all nice and docile, doing just as I’m supposed to, and then you come to me, you tell me it’s starting up again, you offer me your shine to get back in, and then you tell me I’ll be ‘freer than ever’.”

The man in the vest spits. It lands on the table, black and phlegmy. 

“No. It’s not a mission. You’re sending me on a hunt, and if it’s not what you’re promising then there’ll be a different mess to clean up. I don’t just crawl back into the saddle like nothing happened. You don’t just get to put me back in the box and call it free. I lose everything and I get what I want, and you try to act like you get to give me orders on the way? No.

“I’ll take your pay. I’ll go there. I’ll find out what’s got you all tingly, and when I’m done finding out, I’ll make a cleaner mess than you deserve, and I’ll leave. I’ll take that shiny bullshit you’ve got stashed away and be gone before you ever know where to look.”

The thing in the vest grins wide. 

“Now let me loose or fuck off.”

The man in the vest stabs another piece with his fork, soaking it in the ooze all over the plate, and delicately raises it to his mouth to eat.

It squirms a little, but only when no one is looking. It’s just an egg, after all. Cooked and served and dripping.

The old man in the suit looks at the person across from him. Then he sighs, and drops the shining thing in his hand onto the table.

It looks like gold bullion. Little bars of bright yellow, heavy and shining, both of them glinting from the overhead lights of the diner.

Where they land on the table, a little hint of pinkish fluid leaks. 

It glints for just a moment before it’s gone, wiped off the diner table in a single motion by the man in the vest. It disappears into one of the many pockets he’s wearing, falling silently into one that almost seems prepared for it, harder to access and lined with aluminum foil. 

He smiles.

“I’d lie if I said it was a pleasure working with you again, but since we’re here, I sure do intend to find the silver lining in it all. Remember- double.”

“When the job is done. Find what triggered the alert. Find out what’s happening in that town, see if it’s another SoI, and you report back to me before you do anything else.”

The man in the vest throws up a lazy salute, bits of crimson yolk dripping from his fingertips.

“Aye aye, general.”

Langstrom frowns. “You don’t get to call me that. Not with that tone.”

The man in the vest smiles a little wider, putting his canines on display.

“Aye aye, old man. I’ll make sure to keep it nice and neat for you.”

The war-general in his old suit doesn’t believe that for a fucking second. 

Still, he gets up out of the booth, his coffee untouched. 

He walks past the other diners, the other regulars that he recognizes from their outlines even as their faces slip away from his eyes. He walks past the counter, where the empty register dings politely. He walks past the kitchen, which lets out a constant stream of sizzling sounds and whose windows show nothing amiss. 

He makes it to the door before the man in the vest speaks again.

“What am I?”

Langstrom turns around, looking back towards his table. 

The man sitting there looks tired. Haggard. Eager. Beneath tanned skin and salt-and-pepper hair, beneath bloodshot eyes and yellowed teeth, there is an exhaustion that’s older than his years. He looks closer to old than not, but his age is indeterminate, unknown. His frame is tall but unimpressive, his hair uncombed, bags under his eyes.

He looks homeless. Hurt. Someone that’s fallen apart entirely, or close enough to it. 

The general looks underneath. 

Blood. 

Knives.

Mud full of shells and dead men.

A hundred others sitting in his shadow, filling up the booths behind him with bodies that are too still and which still smoke and bleed. 

A smiling thing that casts that shadow.

Langstrom doesn’t visibly react, but the half-second it takes to see it is enough to show the man in the vest that something passed between them.

“You’re a monster, Fisher. One that I can control.”

Fisher snorts, hawking up another ball of phlegm to join the other on the table. 

“Shit, boss. Fair enough.”

The diner bell jingles louder than something that small should ring as the general leaves. 

He inhales. Awake. Aware. A blink, clearing his eyes, and he turns around to look around himself. 

He’s in his office. The door behind him swings shut, wood and paint rather than glass, clicking shut quietly. 

His head hurts. Touching a finger to his upper lip, he wipes away some of the blood that’s leaked out, snorting out the scent. 

He takes a seat at his desk, pulling a bottle and glass out from a drawer and pouring himself a glass of golden whiskey. The taste burns but goes down smoothly, in spite of everything. 

A second glass goes down just as smooth as the last. 

Then a third. 

The world needs people to make the difficult choices. People capable of deciding the cost of peace, of progress, of safety.

That still doesn’t make them easy. 

Setting down the glass, he reaches for the red phone on his desk. 

Better to warn them. If he’s going to put them beside a thing like Fisher, they deserve to know.