Chapter 57 - Days

  The days fall into a routine with a semblance of normalcy for Alex. Each day he heads out before the sunrise-bell with Hara and Corvus at his side, the route to the courier depot quickly becoming familiar. Every morning, Dale gives a brief word on what to expect for the day, then the other runners scramble to claim the easiest starting routes. Alex avoids joining in for the rush, hanging back and taking his pick of what remains. And then he’s off, carrying parcels across a city that blurs past him with each intent-movement leap.

  With Corvus’s guidance, Alex uses his working hours to practice the common skills. Intent-movement already feels second-nature to him, his use of perception-augmentation had improved significantly after his accidental breakthrough and subsequent backlash, but telepathy is still fresh and needs work. Alex still thinks telekinesis is going to be cool to learn, but it’s still out of reach so far.

  For each day of effort, Alex usually pockets the rewards for eight to twelve routes. He could likely do more, but the other couriers are already noticing that the bulk of the deliveries are getting done earlier than usual and Alex doesn’t want to take away from what the others can earn. Keeping a mental count, Alex can’t help but feel daunted by the amount he’d need to just outright buy an Animus. Even if he does ten deliveries every single day, he’d be doing the courier job for well over a decade before he could afford it. But he has eternity, so fifteen years is a drop in the bucket.

  The nights are what Alex looks forward to the most. Returning from work, Alex would usually arrive at the apartment before Uril’raya. He’d clean up, shower, and spend a little more time practicing his telepathy while waiting for his boyfriend to get home. It’s still weird for Alex to think in those terms. ‘Boyfriend.’ Just the thought of it brings a shy smile to his lips, even as it stirs a swarm of confusing emotions. But as soon as Uril gets home too, the ‘noisy’ feelings get smoothed out by just how easy the incubus goat approaches everything. His self-assured confidence is infectious and soothing.

  The evenings are spent talking and relaxing, sharing gentle touches and soft words. Uril never presses, never pressures, letting Alex take things at his own pace. Though Uril does make sure Alex knows more is on the table if he wants it. He’s just not quite ready to open that can-of-worms yet.

  All in all, it’s a comfortable existence, giving Alex a chance to find his footing and build a sense of stability. But even as Alex feels like he’s found a home here, part of his soul holds onto that spark of purpose that had led him here. The directional ‘tug’ he’d felt during his frantic scramble to reach New Europa had largely been dormant since arriving, but it slowly starts to awaken again, subtly at first. It takes some time before Alex even begins to recognize it.

  Corvus splits his attention, always keeping part of his awareness on Alex even as the remaining time shrinks before The Cultivator’s machination comes to fruition. Gravitas had moved on, seeking to sink her claws into other prospects. For the most part, no Apex is willing to venture into the chamber again. The scant few that were foolish enough to attempt it had been crippled, crushed, and forced to retreat. Not one had lingered long enough to endure more than a single pulse of power from the Burden of Intent. Though that had not deterred others from attempting to launch attacks into the spherical hollow. Occasionally Corvus would stand witness to volleys of spellfire attempting to reach the floating citadel at the center. Only one even came close, a lance of brilliant light that crackled with geometric lightning. But even it faltered and failed before striking its target.

  All the while, the ravenous runes inlaid onto the chamber’s walls soak up every ounce of power that flows from the citadel. All of them visibly glow now with stored energy, casting the whole region in a pale green light. If the current pace of charging is maintained, Corvus estimates it will only take a few more days before it is fully infused. On what happens at that stage, even The Guide has no insights.

  A few other Apex had come to speak with Corvus briefly. Old acquaintances, former allies of convenience, some enemies of opportunity. Each would arrive and probe for information, seeing if they could tease out any insights from the old crow. Most left disappointed when realizing that Corvus doesn’t know much more than they do.

  One person whose fortunes had taken a notable turn for the worse is Gregor. The ram-demon bouncer for The 1 Buffet had all but forgotten about the incident nearly two weeks past. Originally, he’d been worried about consequences for how he’d handled the situation with the ‘guest’ who tried to leave, but when a week went by without so much as having it mentioned, Gregor had relaxed. He really shouldn’t have.

  Standing guard outside the buffet as usual, Gregor idly picks at his teeth, spitting out something that had been lodged between them. It’s a day like any other, let a couple saps in, keep anyone from coming out. Which is why Gregor nearly shits himself when a spark of blue lightning pops into existence not three feet from where he stands. The mote of power grows, spreading into a vertical plate of roiling energy before it snaps into place, forming a hole in space.

  Through the portal’s opening steps a figure that Gregor had only heard of, Baltran’s enforcer. All of the operations in this region of Hell know about this one. Zacharia is the last face you want to see arrive at your branch. The human man is physically unimposing, standing at just five-foot four-inches, and looking like he’d weigh all of a hundred pounds. But his electric blue eyes and ice-cold expression belie any thought of weakness. Head shaved bald and wearing a tailored suit, the enforcer is an imposing presence. Particularly when he can appear out of thin air.

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  Gregor immediately bows. “Welcome to our branch, sir! Please, come inside.” He says, not daring to look up. He watches as the man’s feet approach, but not towards the door, towards him. Gregor can feel the cold sweat break out down his back as his stomach drops.

  Stopping just in front of the bowed bouncer, Zacharia looks down at the back of Gregor’s head. Ram, working as the bouncer. This is the one he was sent for. “Inform the receptionist to send the management out.” He says coldly, his voice carrying no tone or inflection.

  The ram doesn’t lift his head until he’s turned away from the enforcer. He darts into the doorway quickly and leans over the reception counter to hurriedly pass along Zacharia’s instructions. The receptionist’s reaction is as frightful as his own. Then Gregor steps back outside. “The receptionist is…OOOF”

  The scent of ozone and burned wool fills the air as Zacharia removes his fist from Gregor’s stomach, arcs of electricity jumping between his hand and Gregor’s sagging body. One hit. Zacharia scoffs at the pathetic display, stepping back slightly so the doubled-over ram doesn’t land on his feet as he falls.

  He stands over the groaning peon as the branch manager comes out, ashen-faced and panic-sweating. Zacharia doesn’t even look at the woman. “Call in your off-shift bouncer, they’ll need to work doubles until you can replace him.” He simply instructs. Then he leans down, grabbing Gregor by one of his curled horns and starts to drag him towards the still-open portal. “A review team will arrive in a few days. Pray they don’t find reason for me to return.” He says without turning around. A moment later, the portal closes, leaving the branch-manager standing there shaking as a puddle of her own making forms around her feet.

  Dumping the barely conscious ram in a holding cell, Zacharia steps back and closes the gate. He turns to the jailer and nods. “Delivered as instructed. No visitors. No food. No water.” The jailer snaps a crisp salute and Zacharia makes his way out of the prison-block. With an unhurried ease that comes from long-held authority, the enforcer walks through the halls of the complex buried beneath New Europa’s Undercity. He lets himself into Baltran’s office and closes the door behind himself.

  Baltran looks up and smiles. “I take it there was no trouble?” He asks, completely at ease compared to how others react to Zacharia’s presence.

  “None at all. The offender has been retrieved and placed in cell five.” Zacharia says, standing at attention in front of Baltran’s desk.

  “Very good, you’re always so efficient. That’s what I love about you.” The corpulent demon laughs softly. “I’ll personally handle interrogating that worthless idiot. If there’s nothing else to report, I’ll consider the job fulfilled.” He says, and hands an envelope to Zacharia.

  The enforcer takes it and slips it into his pocket without bothering to open it. He knows what’s inside. A dispensary note. One that will grant him either an Animus from The Glut’s supply, or seventy-five-thousand Obol. An extravagant expense for the simple task he was given, but who is he to question what the bosses want. They pay, he acts.

  Back on the street-level of New Europa, Uril had just finished getting paid by one of his ‘regulars’ at a bar he’s fond of. As he’s sitting back down at the counter, a bit more gingerly than he had before, two familiar faces approach him.

  “Uril, good to see you.” Comes the oily voice of the first man. “I hear business has been particularly good for you the past week or so.” The snake-eyed demon says as he leans on the bartop. His companion just takes a seat next to his partner and waits.

  Uril looks to the side and nods, “Yeah, it’s been a nice streak recently.” He says, waving down the barkeep, and wincing a bit as he shifts his weight on his tender rump.

  The snake-eyed demon nods. “Good to hear, good to hear. The boss wants to know if you’d be willing to make your payment early this month. Would be a big help if you do.”

  After putting in a drink order, Uril turns to face the pair. “It’s about a week before it’s due. Is this just a matter of convenience, or is your boss trying to speed up my payment schedule?” He asks, the veneer of friendliness stripped away. “Which is it, Carl?”

  Carl holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Just a convenience. No one’s trying to alter your deal.” He says reassuringly and is relieved when Uril seems to relax. “It’s just a request, not a demand.”

  Uril picks up the freshly delivered drink and takes a sip before answering. “Yeah, I can pay early. I’ve got it on-hand if you’re able to take it now.” He says, patting his hip where the bulge of his coin-purse shows through his kilt.

  The other demon nods. “That would be ideal. Thanks Uril.” He then watches as the goat counts out coins. Lots of coins… Uril stacks them on the counter in sets of ten. As the twentieth stack is set down, he puts the pouch back.

  Uril does one double-check of his count, then motions for Carl to take it. “Two hundred coins, that’s me square for the month, right?” He asks, red eyes flicking between the two collection-guys.

  Carl smiles and nods, reaching to shake Uril’s hand before picking up the coins. “Settled for the month. Pleasure doing business with you.” He says, shaking the goat’s hand. Then he sweeps the stacks of coins off the counter and into a larger pouch. As quickly as they came in, the pair left.

  Uril watches them go, then lets out a soft sigh. At least he’d had their payment on-hand. If he hadn’t when they came back around on the normal due-date, he has no illusions that they’d have been much less polite. Even if he paid in full then. He takes a larger gulp of his drink, something fruity that he can’t pronounce the name for. It would be several hours yet before Alex would be heading home, and Uril isn’t quite ready to end his day yet either.

  Elsewhere in Hell, a broken man huddles in a crevice. His robes that had been so neat and well kept are now shredded, stained, ruined. Thomas cowers against the back of the tiny opening, whimpering and crying as he tries to stay as far from the edge as possible. He presses himself flat to the ground, clutching at it in a way that had never been in his nature. His wild eyes stay locked on the opening, the edge of the crevice, afraid to look away, afraid to blink, afraid that any lapse in attention would cause him to slip, to fall. And the shattered fragments of his broken Title cut into his soul like razorblades coated in acid. The man who had once held a conceptual Title all about freefall… is now terrified of even his own standing height.