‘Fucking Loopkeepers…’

The words seemed to reverberate around Sham’s head as he staggered home in a mindless haze. Again and again he heard them, as though the man in the street were speaking them anew every time. He clasped his hands over his ears, but it did no good; the words were being spoken from a place deep inside his skull.

‘Fucking Loopkeepers…’

Citizens of Haven stared at Sham as they passed him in the street, their eyes wide as they looked on, as though he possessed madness on the same level as the Loopkeepers.

‘Fucking Loopkeepers…’

‘Stop!’ Sham roared, clutching his head and sinking to his knees, not caring in that moment what the onlookers might think of him. With his eyes closed and his breathing steady, he awaited the voice in his head to speak again.

But it didn’t come.

Sham opened his eyes, breathed a sigh of relief, and then found himself retching up last night’s dinner. Or was it the dinner of nine nights ago? He still couldn’t be sure; it was a question that he pondered as the vomit splashed onto his outstretched hands.

The time traveller stood and staggered over to a nearby puddle—a remnant of last night’s rain that also served as yet another reminder that it wasn’t last night for him. He splashed his hands in the dirty water, rinsing the vomit from the backs of his palms, and made a concerted effort to forgive himself for such a reaction.

It was, after all, a lot to process.

Just twenty-four hours earlier—which just happened to also be 264 hours from now—Sham’s life had been far less complicated. Sure, he’d been bemoaning the loss of his loved one, but that was fairly standard a problem compared to unintentional time travel and domestic terrorism. And now, here he was, with two quests accepted that he hadn’t quite fell able to turn down. Sham brought them up into his vision and read them through once more.

THE PARADOX

Investigate those involved with the Night That Never Was.

SAVE THE TOWER

Prevent the Target from unleashing devastation.

These certainly weren’t the sorts of quests he was used to. Normally, when he’d bring up his quest screen, it would be the likes of “Complete tax return” or “Search for clean underwear” or “Go to therapy”. Never the sorts of quests that had lives—outside of his own—hanging in the balance. These were the sorts of quests for heroes. For those with skills in the double digits. For those with a handsome face and a strong heart.

These were certainly not quests for people like Sham.

As his stomach settled and his mind ceased pounding, the time traveller made for the safety of a nearby park. These small squares paid host to most of the city’s trees, offering Sham some cover from the prying eyes of those passing by. He slumped himself over a damp park bench, took in a few deep breaths, and began to plan his next move.

The two quests, as far as Sham could tell, were inextricably intertwined. It was the destruction of the Tower that had sent him back in time—though through what means was not clear. There were two routes of investigation, then: Kryl, the man who had spoken of time travelling, and, of course, the bald woman at the heart of it all.

‘Kryl. Said he was coming. Said that this time he’d stop me.’

And… yes. Kryl had been after the terrorist. And if he also remembered the next eight days, then he would still be after her, too. Find him, and Sham might find the target. Find Kryl… and he might just be able to hit two birds with one stone: understand what was going on here, and save dozens of lives from obliteration. Including Mona’s.

The shopkeeper hadn’t been able to give Sham much to go on. He’d known Kryl’s name, been able to give a rough description of the man—tall, slim, and the word “handsome” thrown about a little too much for someone who was largely blind—as well as some more information about his tattoos, namely that they were fresh.

It wasn’t a whole lot to go on, but it was something. And Sham had been around these parts enough to know most every parlour in the city—he did have both a fully inked right arm and the Seasoned skill, after all, even if it was only of Uncommon grade.

In the morning, Sham would search. For now, however, the fatigue had grown too great. His body was conceding to the activities of the day. It was time to sleep it off.

Day 2

[HARDENED LIVER] DETOX: SUCCESS

The pain grows. Physicality wanes. The fog begins to clear. Continue on like this and you might just change yourself.

When Sham awoke, he half-expected to find himself hunched over his table, empty bottle of whisky at his side, his head throbbing with pain. But he found none of that. Instead he woke up in his bed, wrapped in filthy sheets. Ones made all the more dirty by the toxins he’d sweated out overnight. Yesterday had been the first day in a long, long time that Sham hadn’t surrendered to his vices—distracted instead by the overwhelming situation at play—and his body was… punishing him for it?

The hangover was gone, but in its place were aches and pains that Sham either hadn’t possessed before or hadn’t noticed. His body felt lethargic—more than his condition typically manifested—like any movement took incredible physical and mental energy. And his mind was foggy, too, as though reasonable levels of comprehension could not be reached except by wading through a deep, thick pool of water.

It was disappointing. What was the point of Hardened Liver if this was what happened when you stopped drinking? Although, Sham supposed, that was perhaps the problem; his body was used to a certain level of toxin. A level that had since eked out of his pores and into his light brown bedsheets.

The smell distracted him next. Whatever he was sweating out wasn’t just in the bedclothes; it hung damp and humid on his skin. Sham rushed to his bathroom—a small basin in the corner of the room, its rim turned brown with rust—and splashed water over his face and body, caring little that a pool was rapidly forming around his feet. Satisfied, he grabbed at a nearby cloth, held it against his face, and began to towel himself down.

There, he thought. This was a man who might become a hero yet.

Even as he said this to himself, he felt the lie hanging heavy in the air.

But there was no use lingering on the thought any longer; in seven days a woman would explode their house of government. Unless Sham stopped her.

The clock was ticking.

He staggered out of his apartment, amazed by the fact that he was no more sure-footed sober than he was drunk or hung over, and looked again at the door bashed in over the other side of the residential complex. Sparing a brief moment, he ambled over to the open doorway and peered inside.

Sham was struck immediately by a sense of dread. Furniture had been toppled. Strange gashes were gouged into the woodwork. These were certainly the signs of a struggle—and the habitant was nowhere in sight.

‘Hello?’ Sham called out, his voice slightly softer than maybe the situation warranted, as though whoever had done this might return.

There was no reply.

Emboldened by the lack of response, Sham cried out, louder this time, ‘Hello? Anyone there?’

Again, nothing.

Sham hadn’t spoken much with this neighbour. Only passed them of an evening in the darkness of the stairwell. Might have shared a nod of greeting here and there. But that was all. The neighbour was a man who reminded Sham of himself, though perhaps that was Sham being rather arrogant. They shared a sense of loneliness, a certain gaunt face, and coverage of hair too long in all the wrong places. But the unnamed neighbour carried himself with a confidence that Sham simply couldn’t muster. He couldn’t hold his head so high, stand with his back so straight. Haven hadn’t broken this stranger like it had Sham.

With nothing left to do, Sham turned away from the bashed-in door and continued onwards on his investigation, the question of what had happened to his neighbour fading quickly out of focus.

He strolled with purpose as he travelled from tattoo parlour to tattoo parlour, starting with those closest to him simply for convenience, and then slowly fanning out around the city. All those in the harbour district, where Sham lived, seemed clueless when he asked them about a man named Kryl. Even without the name—when given physical description alone—the tattoo artists only stared blankly back at him. Those few in the diplomatic district too, nearest to the Tower, hadn’t seen a man fitting Kryl’s description in the past couple of days.

In fact, Sham was wandering the city of Haven until the sun was beginning to set on another day before, finally, an inker’s eyes lit up with recognition.

‘Yeah! Yeah, I think I know what you mean,’ the artist said, licking her lips as she stared into the middle distance.

‘Name of Kryl?’ Sham prodded.

The woman looked him up and down, squinted her eyes. ‘Are you here on official business?’ she asked. ‘I can’t go just giving this information out to any old person who walks in here.’

[HEART OF JANUS] IMAGINED HISTORY: SUCCESS

What’s it to her? Plenty of reasons you might be after Kryl. Many of them even good.

‘Private detective,’ Sham said. The words escaped his mouth before he’d had much time to consider them. As ever, the lie came worryingly naturally to him.

The woman raised her eyebrows, but returned to the original question. ‘Not sure. Don’t think he gave his name. Forgotten it if he did. But fits your description. Very tall. Would call him lanky, even. And handsome, too—tried to do something about that but he didn’t seem interested. Distracted by something, I think.’

‘He say much to you? Where he might be headed?’

The artist frowned, shook her head. ‘No. Kept quiet.’ She pursed her lips together for a moment, before her eyes lit up once more. ‘Ah, but…’

With that, she hurried off into the back room of the parlour, leaving Sham alone out front. A customer, dressed in the dark green robes of a Loopkeeper, glared at him from a metal chair, abandoned by the proprietor after Sham had distracted her.

Sham shrugged. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

The man in green gave no response.

‘Yes, here,’ the artist said as she stormed back into the room, her eyes fixed on a small card in her hands. ‘New ruling, came in today—government wants parlours to collect customer address records. Not sure why. Almost forgot, even.’

‘Forgot?’ Sham prompted her. How could she forget something she’d done every—

‘Instruction came in yesterday,’ the woman said, passing him the card. ‘This guy would’ve been our first record, even.’

Sham cast his eyes over the details in his hand. The name was given as K. Resnuc, the address somewhere in the Sunrise District. From his living situation, this was a man from a very different background to Sham’s own, their lives world’s apart, but now, somehow, entangled.

‘That him?’ the artist asked.

‘Must be,’ Sham answered without looking up from the piece of paper. ‘Can I keep this?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, right.’

The artist smiled an apology. ‘Gotta keep it on file. Sorry. Can’t risk the law coming down on me—heard they’ve been checking records already.’

‘Alright. Let me just...’ Sham said, feeling his jacket pocket for a pen, and finding none. ‘You got a—’

He looked up to see the woman already handing him a writing implement, a sly smile on her face. Thanking her with a smile, he grasped the pen and used it to copy Kryl’s address onto the palm of his hand, finding some delicious comparison in the sloppy ink on his skin versus the intricate artwork on the inker’s customers. He passed the records card back to the proprietor, thanked her, and began to head out the door.

Only at the threshold of the building did one last question occur to him. He looked back at the tattoo artist. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘One more thing: I don’t suppose you remember what design you gave him?’

The artist blinked, nodded. ‘Yeah…’ she said. ‘Weird one.’

‘Oh?’

‘Just words. Didn’t care about the style or anything. Said it was a reminder.’

‘A reminder of what?’ Sham asked.

The woman shrugged. ‘All it said was: Let Asa live.’

‘Huh. Who’s Asa?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

They shared a ponderous gaze for a few moments longer, and Sham finally turned away. ‘Thanks for your help,’ he called over his shoulder, then headed on his way filled with a renewed purpose that almost seemed to distract him from the aches and pains that plagued him.

The Sunrise District wasn’t a place that Sham often visited. That wasn’t to say it was unpleasant—far from it, most of the wealth in the city existed in this district—but more that Sham didn’t feel welcome there. He knew his place in society, and it was at the bottom, not surrounded by the likes of the Sunrise citizens.

So when he entered this part of the city—not that it was marked by more than a gradual incline in house size—he became hyper aware of any eyes upon him. He didn’t possess the sharp suits and shirts of those that existed here, merely a worn jacket over a ragged tunic, and he felt as though it gave him away. That people were judging him. He told himself that these people had more to worry about than some pallid fellow wandering through their streets, but he wasn’t sure that was true—wasn’t the point of being wealthy that you had fewer worries?

He finally came to the listed address, an apartment not unlike Sham’s own, except larger, cleaner, and, you know, just generally much much nicer. Of course, he was judging only by the exterior, and down from the street level, though he doubted his assessment would change much as he grew closer.

Sham clambered up the stairs leading up to the third floor, on which the target’s apartment was located, his heavy legs dropping his feet hard against the metal steps, sending clanging noises reverberating around him. His chest grew tight before he reached the top, the level of exertion required to climb only three flights of stars enough to knock the wind out of him. It was something he’d need to work on. Maybe he could somehow get a Vigour skill vial out of all this.

The time traveller paused to put his hands on his knees as he gasped for air, returning his breathing to normal. As he calmed his heart rate down, he looked to his side and looked over the front door to Kryl’s apartment.

Only at this distance could he see that it’d been forced in.

Huh.

A second bashed-in door in as many days. No wonder there was a Citizen’s Police force hurriedly being formed, what with this apparent uptick in crime.

Sham straightened himself out with an audible groan, then placed his hand gently on Kryl’s door. It swung open at the slightest touch. Sham had expected to see the apartment a mess, torn apart much like his neighbour’s, but it was comparatively untouched. There were no spots of blood lining the floor or walls. An entryway table had been pushed to the floor, suggesting that people had rushed in, but other than that the furniture was untouched. They had a higher class of criminal in the Sunrise District, it would seem.

‘Kryl?’ Sham called out.

There was no response.

He found within himself a white lie—one which might earn the occupant’s trust if he were still lurking inside. ‘I’m with the police,’ he called out. ‘Here to help!’

Still, there was nothing. He wasn’t having much luck with burgled apartments today.

Though… had it been burgled?

Sham stepped inside, his eyes fixed on an antique brass mirror hanging on the far wall of the room. It was the class of mirror that those bars in the Harbour District tried to emulate, its detail intricate, its metal surface faded in all the right places to suggest it was worn naturally by use rather than artificially to inflate its price.

And there were other trinkets lying around, too. A pocketwatch on a sideboard. An amulet. A pair of shining metal cufflinks. All untouched. So if the intruders hadn’t been there for the inhabitant’s belongings, then…

‘Who are you?’ a curt voice called out from the doorway. A woman’s voice. Couldn’t be Kryl’s.

Sham turned to face the sudden intruder, narrowing his eyes as he looked her up and down, considering her. She was a short woman, not much younger than Sham, glaring back at him with a stare so piercing it could cut through iron. Her hands were in the pockets of a short leather jacket, as though she was calm, but Sham could see from her heightened breathing that she was not.

‘Who are you?’ the woman said again, her tone unchanged from the last time she’d said it. Unnaturally similar, in fact. She repositioned her left hand in her pocket. Sham’s eyes settled on a strange protrusion. A revolver.

‘A friend of Kryl’s,’ he said, hoping that by expressing knowledge of the occupant’s name he might make himself look less like a thief. But that would only work if this woman wasn’t one of the real burglars, perhaps back for those shiny trinkets.

The woman’s expression didn’t soften an ounce. ‘Oh yeah?’ she prodded. ‘From work?’

Sham licked his lips, tried for friendly. Tried for warm. ‘Yeah.’

[MAGNETISM] A NEW FRIEND: FAIL

This woman has doubts. Maybe she even has reasons for her doubts. Or maybe you just fucked up. Whatever the cause, her heart is closing.

No immediate response. The woman adjusted her grip on her hidden weapon. Sham could tell he’d fucked up.

‘Interesting,’ the woman said, ‘Because he doesn’t—’

But Sham anticipated the words to follow. He found within himself some last semblance of strength and launched himself across the room towards the woman.

The hidden gun fired.

As Sham collided with the stranger, he completed a mental search of his body, looking for pain. Pain that hadn’t been there earlier, at least. There wasn’t any.

Sham and attacker tumbled to the floor, their heads and feet clanging against the metal stairwell as they rolled. They came to a stop at the railing, the woman’s arm hanging through, her eyes widening as she saw the drop below.

‘Left hand pocket.’

Ah, right, yes.

The time traveller scrambled for the flap of leather jacket that wasn’t hanging over the edge of the stairwell. He thrust his hand inside and found… nothing.

‘Huh.’

Both heads moved at once to the floor behind them. There, sure enough, was a small brass revolver, fallen just on the inside of the doorway.

Sham and attacker scrambled for it, and a pain erupted in the time traveller’s side as he did so. The woman was faster, diving through the doorway towards the weapon by soaring through the air a good two feet off the ground. As Sham passed back into the room, his attacker already had the weapon in hand and was forward-rolling to a stand.

So Sham grabbed the table by the entryway and threw it at her.

This was often how Sham resolved fights. He was broad, but not the strongest. He once upon a time had been quick, but not the most agile. He’d never boxed, or learned a martial art, like most of the kids had around the parts he’d grown up in. So Sham had developed a fighting style that suited his strengths. It was both simple and effective: find a heavy thing, then throw it at the person you were fighting. Repeat as necessary.

It so often worked a treat.

The woman raised the weapon towards Sham as the table hit her. It didn’t break, as Sham might have expected, but rather slammed into the woman with a heavy thud. She tumbled once again to the floor, but this time kept the weapon gripped firmly in hand.

Sham stepped forwards, standing over his attacker. ‘I’ll be taking—’

But the woman was quick. She jumped up to her feet in one fluid movement—a movement so agile, in fact, that Sham couldn’t comprehend being able to do such a thing at their age. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t prepared for it.

The weapon rose as its owner did, slamming into Sham’s jaw and sending him staggering backwards into the wall behind him. He clutched at his throat, swallowing, surprised by the attack and finding himself momentarily unable to speak.

He saw the barrel of a revolver bearing down in front of him.

‘The truth,’ its owner said. ‘Or I shoot. Understand?’

Sham could only nod.

‘Good,’ the woman said. ‘Now. Who the hell are you, and what have you done with Kryl?’