It’s probably not incredibly intelligent to be in my apartment right now, considering there are bad people after me and they know where it is. I did beat the tar out of the last bunch of yeehaws that tried anything, though, so maybe they’ll take a bit of time to regroup and figure out how to kill me better next time.

Voldzet’s right. I’ve been lazy. They’re gonna come back bigger and stronger, so I need to get faster and smarter to match.

Problem is, I have no idea how to get to where I want to go.

I got back home around three in the morning and took something like a nap, then freshened up while checking my various hurts. The Surgeons are infamous for their sneakiness, but they’re famous for their medical skill. The stitches on my arm and belly are so clean and narrow that you can barely tell they’re there. If a scar forms, it’ll be a thin one.

I eat some more of my snacks while staring at my blank computer screen. The nutrients will accelerate the formation of new vitae in my body, which will help me heal faster. In a day or two, I should be back to tip top shape. Being magical is a drag sometimes, but the perks almost make up for it. Anyone else would be laid up for weeks with these injuries. Or uh, dead, probably.

I’ve got two main things on my plate right now, and I’m only gonna be able to fit one in my big fat mouth at a time. Going downstairs and poking around Littlerock’s place will push the case forward, but it could be risky. Getting to the Library will set me on the path to training with magic, but it’ll leave the case to advance without me.

Yeah, alright, this isn’t really much of a choice. If I don’t learn some new magic tricks, or uh… learn how magic actually works at all, I’m probably going to die. I need tools in my sad, cobwebby toolbox. It’ll make everything I do easier. It probably won’t be simple, because magic is terrifying and complicated at the best of times, but it just needs to happen. Whether I want to or not.

I kind of do want to, though. It’s breaking the law in about a thousand different ways, but… the power. With the right education, who knows what I’d be capable of?

My hand reaches up and slaps me across the face without my permission.

That’s the exact mentality that made humanity into food and slaves for thousands of years. That shit is why I’m living in a sewer right now. I can’t afford to think like that. Ever. Especially not now that my brain is behaving weirder than it ever has.

I’m not gonna pretend - I’m hoping that the Library will help me figure out what these dreams mean and what they’re doing to me. Something is going on in my head. And I do not appreciate it.

First things first. I need to find one of the Librarian’s drones. They’re the only ones that know where the Library’s entrance currently is. I think I remember hearing that the door moves every few days, so I need current information, not outdated rumor.

I should probably explain a bit about the Librarian for the 99.4% of people reading this that have zero context. It won’t take long, I only know about as much as everyone else does, which is… not a lot.

Simply put, the Librarian is a heiromancer. A law mage. Before you start conjuring mental images of magical cops or lawyers or whatever, that’s not exactly what this is. A heiromancer doesn’t have to be moralistic or adhere to any of society’s laws at all. They get to write their own rules, and both people and things have to obey them. Breaking a hieromancer’s laws takes either another heiromancer or some kind of entity with powers beyond that of the heiromancer that made them, which is not me. Or basically anyone else currently alive, as far as I know.

This is because heiromancers are big fat cheaters that got access to reality’s source code while the rest of us are stuck dealing with read-only memory. Hydromancers work with water, biomancers work with life. Heiromancers get to manipulate order - and more specifically what order even means within a given system. Their magic takes a while to execute, because they have to prepare and write every single change they make, and they can only exert these changes over a limited area depending on how powerful they are. Given enough time, though, a heiromancer can become indistinguishable from a god, if they keep passing new laws in one particular place. They’ll never be able to leave that place without those favorable laws no longer applying to them, but in their little handwritten demesnes, they’re the closest thing to omnipotent anyone’s been able to find.

It’s a rare gift to be given by the cosmos, and there have only been a few heiromancers named in all the histories we have access to, or so I’ve been told. But the Librarian is one of them. More than that, he’s the only one left, as far as anyone’s aware.

The story goes that he was a slave, about nine hundred years ago. This was back when the elves were in charge of Wellspring City. They went through all the bother of stealing it from the dying dustfolk nations, but didn’t respect it or like it as much as their native forest homes, so it was more of a well-defended trading outpost for their empire than the human metropolis it is today or the dustfolk holy site it was thousands of years ago.

The elves built a good part of their empire on the backs of human slaves. They were of the opinion that we were better off working in bondage than out in the wilderness getting eaten by dragons and whatnot. We had some counterarguments to that assertion, but one elf is faster, stronger, and more magical than about ten men put together, so the debate was settled before it could start. After all, pack beasts don’t get opinions. The Librarian was one of these slaves, I guess, and worked as a scroll boy in the elves’ archives. Fetched books and organized the shelves and whatnot.

And he probably would have done that for the next seventy years, get tossed into an unmarked slave grave, and forgotten, if he hadn’t been selected for the good ol’ magic upgrade. It happened to me, it happened to Em, it’s happened to thousands of people across human history. No one knows why. All we can do is deal with it.

The elves’ strategy for dealing with it was to immediately execute any human observed to have magical powers. Obviously. Can’t have the slaves throwing fireballs and calling tsunamis and all that. The thing about heiromancy, though, is that it’s subtle. Quieter. You can’t really see it, and you probably won’t even know it’s there until reality rips the rug out from under you. And the boy that would go on to be known as the Librarian was smart enough to realize this. So he kept his mouth shut, did his work, and bided his time. He taught himself how to write. And taught himself the laws.

Then, one day about fifteen years later, all the human slaves in the elven settlement disappeared. Vanished, instantly, without a trace. And the elves found that, for some reason, they were unable to enter their library anymore. They could see the building, it was still there, but the door wouldn’t open. The windows wouldn’t break. The walls couldn’t be torn down by even the concentrated effort of an entire battalion of elven magi. It was now illegal for them to enter, in the most literal way possible.

So, they collectively shrugged their pale shoulders and left. They hadn’t liked the place much anyway. They owned a whole half of the known world at the time - why sweat a weird ruin in the middle of the desert?

Time passed. Wind and earth and the Librarian’s continual revisions to his laws made the Library harder and harder to find. The Brotherhood and Wellspring City rose up, and dragged the rest of humanity along with them. Magic died. But the Library is still down there somewhere - one of the only living remnants of the world before human supremacy.

I don’t doubt the Brotherhood knows the Library exists, even if they won’t acknowledge it publicly. Its very existence is a glaring threat to their regime, but they can’t do a damn thing about it. No one can. The Librarian made his house unfindable, and the entrance moves constantly. Even if they did find it, it’s… well. Inviolable, in a word. People who want in and follow the Librarian’s rules are going to get in, no matter what.

The problem is that getting in is tough.

The Librarian technically makes his place accessible, but you have to know how to do it. The only thing I know is that he dispatches magically-powered homunculi throughout the city. They look like people, but they’re actually some kind of golem. And they’re there to give out the location of the Library door, but I don’t know what criteria they operate on. Or where any of them are.

But someone in the Consortium obviously knows. Hmmm. Noon. Em should be at work.

I give her a call. She picks up in the first ring and announces herself.

“Em. It’s me. I need your help with something real quick.”

“Dad told me about what happened. You and I need to have a discussion about-”

“I know, you’re upset with me and I need to try harder. That’s what this is about. I need to know who in the Consortium knows where I can find one of the Librarian’s puppets.”

“... Oh. Well, good. Uh… I don’t know where any of them are, and not many in the group do. It’s dangerous knowledge to have. But I think Berix might keep tabs on them, just in case the Consortium needs a book.”

I sigh. “Of course. Berix the Load-Bearing, bravely holding the Consortium on her shoulders. Do you have her number?”

“Yes. But you need to promise me something before I give it to you.”

“Mm?”

“You already got hurt once, and by rights it probably should have been a lot worse than it was. You’re in deep. Promise me that you’ll be careful, no matter what you end up finding.”

“... I promise. I don’t want to get stuffed in a vat any more than you do.”

“I’ll hold you to it, Baulric. I mean it.”

“So do I.”

She gives me the number and we hang up. I open a lollipop (double melon, sweet and optimistic) and ring up Berix. Her steely voice is in my head before I can really come to terms with what I’m doing and reconsider.

“Municipal Records Office Third Branch, this is Berix Battlesong, how can I help you?”

“Berix. Hi. This is Featherlight. I’ve got a question I need to ask you.”

She hangs up instantly.

I sit there for a second listening to the dial tone in my skull, bewildered. We didn’t get disconnected - I heard her handset hit the receiver. Maybe she hates me even more than I thought.

Just as I’m about to give up and try a different tack, my head rings. An unknown number. I pick up.

“... Yeah?”

“Who gave you that number? It isn’t secure. Never call me at that number again.”

“Emaphra gave it to me. I guess she has bad information.”

Berix huffs. “No, she may call my desk number whenever she likes, as she is a property owner with cause to access city documents. You are a mercenary with a sordid reputation who lives in a hole. Even a whiff of you in my phone lines could be enough to stain my record. If you must contact me, use this line instead.”

“... Tough day, Berix? Office life really wearing on you?”

“You are wearing on me. What do you want, Mr. Featherlight? Some of us have jobs to do.”

“Hey, I’ve got a job. Not all of us ride a desk for a living. That’s what this is about. You said this line is secure, right?”

“Yes. But not for long. Spit it out.”

“I need to get into the Library.”

“... Why?”

“Why? You’re not the Librarian’s secretary now, are you? Spill it, I don’t have the luxury of sitting around all day, like some people.”

Totally unnecessary, yes, but I can’t talk to Berix without antagonizing her. It’s a condition. I can hear the storm clouds gathering around her from all the way across the city.

She hisses through gritted teeth, “Our relationship with the Librarian hangs by a thread on the best of days, Featherlight, and I will not allow any curious ape to wander onto his property and gnaw on the millennia-old tomes inside without knowing why. You spill, or we have nothing further to discuss.”

I roll my eyes and sigh. “Fine. My investigation into the killings has led to me being assaulted in the street by Brotherhood mercenaries, and I barely escaped with my life. A Surgeon friend recommended that I do some training before digging any deeper, and I agree with him. The more tricks I learn, the more likely I make it out of this with my voluptuous frame intact.”

“You were attacked? Where? Were you able to identify them?”

“In Sector Seventeen after following a lead. The guy leading the pack was Krint Seagraves. I didn’t know who he was at the time. I was told after getting patched up. The guy nearly fried me, blew out one of my eyes.”

She’s quiet for a minute, processing this. “Shit. The Brotherhood have taken the gloves off, as it were. They’re threatened.”

Berix pauses for a moment, mulling her options. “... Very well then. I often disagree with your methods, Featherlight, but I will not presume to deny you your right to education and self-defense.”

“How very gracious and merciful of you. My savior.”

She ignores me. “You live in Sector Eighteen, yes?”

“That’s what it smells like.”

“Unless it’s moved, the closest homunculus to you is in Sector Sixteen. It waits in a tavern called The Happy Hog, on the far eastern edge of the city, by the Wall. This one takes the shape of a middle-aged man with very tan skin, in a dark coat, with a high collar and a wide-brimmed hat. Minds its own business at a table by a window. Provided that none of this has changed recently - I haven’t checked on that one in a few weeks.”

“Hm. Okay. Thanks, Berix. I appreciate it.”

Before I can hang up, she stops me. “What are you bringing for payment?”

“... Payment?”

“Yes. Payment. Access to the Library isn’t free, Featherlight.”

Fuck. “Uh… well, money’s a little tight these days, so…”

Somehow, I can hear her rolling her eyes at me. “No. The Librarian doesn’t care about money. He’s beyond such things. He only cares for knowledge. To be granted entrance, you must give the homunculus an item of knowledge that the Librarian doesn’t already have in his collection. A book, or some other form of media. I’ve heard he also accepts works of art. Copies of films and et cetera. Do you have anything?”

I throw my eyes to my extremely barren shelves. “Uh. Well, I’ve got a few books, but I don’t suppose there’s a card catalogue available so I can check whether he already has a copy.”

“No, there isn’t. You’ll just have to bring the ones you deem the rarest and hope. It’s the same for the rest of us. The homunculus will either take your offering or reject you. It’s an irritating guessing game, but we have no choice but to play by his rules.”

I sigh. “Alright. I’ll see what I can scrounge up.”

“Let me know afterward whether you succeeded or failed.”

I can’t help but snort at this. “You’re not in charge of me, Berix. Thanks for the help, and have a great day!”

I hang up on her. There’s few things I dislike more than people that try to exercise made-up authority. If I caught her, I could snap Berix in half like a wet twig, so her commands don’t have any muscle over me. And her policies are dumb and shortsighted and probably going to result in the dissolution of the Consortium, so she doesn’t have the ideological high ground either. She can eat me.

Sigh. Sector Sixteen. Of all the places. That’s just over the sector wall. Noon… do I want to do this today? If I manage to get in, I have no idea how long I’ll be down there.

No. No more procrastinating. There’s too much at stake here for me to keep doing that.

I go over to my sorry bookshelf and examine the wares. I like reading, and what little disposable income I get usually goes toward books. Used, because new ones usually cost an arm and someone else’s leg. Most of what I have is fiction, though. Entertainment. She said the Librarian will take art, but from the sound of it, he’d be more tempted by something factual.

Hmm. Let’s see. I’ve got a copy of The History of Wellspring City, but that one’s shit between two covers - a sanitized account that the Brotherhood had the University eggheads write at the end of a shock baton. Not much more than propaganda. I’ve got a few beaten old textbooks on biology, organic chemistry, internal medicine, physics. Stuff that both interests me and has a chance of lending a hand with understanding my magic better. They’re all really old, though. Several of these were picked out of literal trash heaps being carted away from the University and other places. Those old bastards are in a position where they can take knowledge for granted and throw it away. People like me have to make do with their leavings. Then there’s the soft stuff. A few books on philosophy, because I’m still essentially human and I enjoy a good laugh now and again. A few volumes of collected editorials from some journalists I like. Dangerous stuff there, but still technically legal.

Then there’s the illegal stuff. I know - illegal books? Bet you didn’t know I was such a rebellious seditionist.

Okay, truly, none of this stuff is even enough to get me in serious trouble, it’s just a few things on the Brotherhood’s blacklist that would make me look bad if they ever found them during their routine inspections of my home. I’d probably get a few months in the Sink and a welterweight fine if they were discovered. But I didn’t get to be as alive as I am by taking chances.

I lift up one of my floor’s deck plates, where one of the old pumps used to be. Ordinarily this would give access for mechanics to get down under the pump housing and uh… do whatever mechanics do. I use it to hide stuff. The plate itself is too heavy for a normal person to lift, but underneath it there’s nothing remarkable. All the machinery and ductwork is long gone. All that’s left are a couple of welded brackets for securing loading equipment.

Or that’s what it looks like.

I reach down into the hole on my knees and grab a rusty bracket in each hand. Ordinarily I don’t have to pay a lot of care to good lifting technique, but this is special. I square myself up down in the hole, brace, and lift as hard as I can. Nothing happens at first. It’s dusty down here and it’s gumming up the oil I put on this thing. The veins on my arms stand out like bridge cables and my teeth grit themselves without asking me. But I put a little extra mustard on it, and the steel block slides upward on its tracks and out of its recess.

I carefully lower it down to one side, recover, and huff a few breaths. I’d forgotten how fucking heavy that thing is. But that’s by design - the block is solid steel, about two by five feet, and three deep. It weighs almost nine hundred pounds. Even if you knew it was removable, you’re not lifting it unless you brought a chain hoist or you’re as strong as me. And not many are, baby.

There’s only a shallow space underneath the block’s resting place, but I don’t have much to hide, anyway. It’s just a few books on the extremely long blacklist the Brotherhood managed to worm the Tribunal into accepting.

Right at the top here we’ve got Vicissitudes of the Flesh, by Johelvebard Shrike. If that title makes the book sound kind of sinister, that’s because it kind of is.

Shrike was an… interesting person. He was an old man by the time the Reclamation happened, and he’d seen a lot of the dirty, terrifying, desperate world humanity had to live in back in those days. He traveled most of Almarest and managed to not get killed for it. He spoke with the snow trolls of the high Rim, consulted with dozens of wizards (even though he wasn’t one), and was even granted audiences with the waning dustfolk. They say that even the elves respected him for his uncommon intelligence. They also say that Shrike was able to gain insight enough to become the father of modern medical science because he consorted with demons, but there isn’t really any proof of that.

Vicissitudes was written toward the end of his life, when the Reclamation was getting off the ground. He’d already shared a lot of his knowledge with the newborn Brotherhood, but he didn’t join them, which ended up cheesing them off so bad that hundreds of years later they’re still trying to pretend like Shrike never helped them, or even existed at all. Like his earlier works, there’s some medical stuff in here, and also some… other things, of a more mystical nature. Shrike had some pretty cosmic ideas about life and the universe after spending a lifetime around birth, injury, healing, and death, and this book is where he got it all out, before his inevitable expiration date. A lot of it is very much against the spirit of today’s commonly-accepted and Brotherhood-approved teachings, so it wound up on the burn pile. But there are still some gutter mystics and haze gazers out there that keep the stuff in this book as valuable. Having read it, uh… well, it’s something, that’s for sure, but I’ll be damned if I can even tell what most of it means. Maybe the guy really did talk to demons.

Then there’s the Handyman’s Bible, which is a bit more mean-spirited than it might sound. Most of it is pretty innocuous - very basic and easy-to-understand explanations of how to fix a lot of common household items. Toasters, leaky faucets, simple automotive fixes, that kind of thing. The anonymous writer or writers of the Bible had some pretty broad definitions as far as what kinds of things need to be fixed, however. The back sections of the book get into nastier stuff like lockpicking, gun maintenance, and even how to cook up improvised explosive devices. Really uh… takes a bit of a hard left turn just after teaching you how to lay your own concrete. Author must’ve been a pretty… independent sort. Weird, and potentially dangerous. But undeniably useful. And worth a few years in the Sink if you’re caught with a copy.

Some religious stuff in here, too. Religion isn’t officially outlawed, because even the Brotherhood knows that separating humans from their faith is like pulling a viper’s teeth, but they do discourage any that isn’t theirs, and they especially don’t like it when mages start looking into other dogmas.

I’m not religious. Not really, at least. I was raised Hydrist, but I let it go when I was a teenager. These days… let’s just say I’m hedging my bets. I haven’t seen any real evidence of any kind of deity of any faith, and I’m not convinced that anyone ever has, but… hey, there’s some pretty weird shit in this world sometimes, and while I might pretend like I do, I definitely don’t know everything. So I don’t make a habit of damning other peoples’ beliefs. Just in case there really are some gods out there and it turns out they didn’t appreciate me picking on their people. And I’ve done at least some surface-level reading on a few faiths.

Here’s a copy of The Book of Sea and Sky, the main Hydrist holy volume. Where I started out. Would’ve stuck with it, too, if Mother and Father had been even a third as attentive to me as my actual mom and dad were. Under that is a heavy and many-paged transcript of most of the Ash Scrolls, the primary text of the Akhvallan faith. I’ve heard that Akhvalla has started falling out of favor with his own people in recent years, but he’s just as popular with pyromancers as he’s ever been. Go figure. Then a few collections of the Krathian worldsongs. I’ve read them, and they’re pretty and everything, but damn if the Krathian religion isn’t confusing. Way, way too many spirits for me to try and keep track of. I have no idea how they do it.

That’s about it. Nothing super duper seditious, because I’m not stupid enough to get caught with any books on magic. Or at least I wasn’t, until very recently. I wonder if the Librarian has a reading room. I really do not want to risk bringing any of the hot stuff into my house.

There’s no way the Librarian doesn’t already have these religious texts. He probably has way older and rarer versions than I do. It’s possible he might not have a copy of the Handyman’s Bible or Vicissitudes of the Flesh, but I’m not gonna call it likely. I’ll take them anyway, just in case. And hope I don’t get searched on the street. I take the two out of their resting place, take a few bracing breaths, and complete the taxing process of lowering the huge steel block back into its slot. Goddamn. I should be deadlifting that thing instead of my barbells.

I hop out of the hole and put the deck plate back, then grab the few ancient textbooks I’m praying the Librarian doesn’t have and stuff them in a backpack.

Hm. Magic training. Not something I’ve thought about in a long time.

My eyes go to the panel in the wall where I hide my vitae tanks. They’re something I haven’t thought about in a long time, either. I don’t get a lot of use out of them, because I rarely have enough vitae to store for later. And I don’t make a habit of wearing them outside, because they’re kind of conspicuous and I’m not really ever in a position where I need extra vitae in public. But recent events have indicated that I might be better served with them than without.

Metal that can interact with magic. A way to bottle something that’s supposed to be unbottleable. Hmm. There’s something there. While I’m in the Library, I should see about finding references to these runes Volzet talked about. Something tells me that if the Brotherhood knows about them, they’re probably not using them responsibly.

I take off my coat, strap the tanks to my back, and plug the injectors into my collarbone ports. There’s barely enough in one of them to give me a full body charge, but it could save my life if I get jumped again. Thankfully I’m such a lumpy hulking mess that you can barely notice the shape of them under my coat.

A few more lollipops in my pocket for good luck, and I’m out the door. Forward unto knowledge I go.

Sector Sixteen is gross. And I’m not being affectionate here, like “Oh, Sixteen is so gross, haha”. It’s disgusting, both physically and otherwise. Seventeen takes the very idea of filth as an object of careful consideration and respect. Sixteen seems to be sprinting headlong toward an early death by infection as quickly as humanly possible.

There have been a few times where Wellspring City has broken out in armed conflict, inside itself. The Intersectional Wars. Only two of them, in the span of about six hundred years, because even if you hate your neighbors with a blind passion, it’s still a city and all the parts still fundamentally need one another. That and the Wellwardens tend to put a quick stop to any large-stale infighting with the flick of an indestructible wrist.

Both times, Sixteen was destroyed almost immediately, by joint assault led from either Three or Twenty. Why? Because Twenty is the city’s religious district, and Three is home to the prison, the courthouse, and the headquarters of the Watch. Once the Sector Lords abandoned their duties in favor of bloodshed and a total dissolution of civil safety, Three and Twenty wasted no time in falling upon Sixteen like a shining hammer of crystalline justice. The sectors of Law and Purity finally had their chance to wipe their hated foe straight off the map - the sector of Abandon.

They’d tried education and rehabilitation for decades, and elected the time had come for the helping hand to form a fist instead.

And it worked. Why wouldn’t it? Three had all the muscle, Twenty had the most stirring speeches - Sixteen had no allies and no chance. It burned to the ground, along with all its debasement and sin.

Twice.

And Sixteen is still here.

There’s a lesson in this, kids, and it’s one that people like Three and Twenty have a hard time getting to grips with. You can kill sinners. It’s easy. Shoot them in the face, cut their heads off, hang them, tear the flesh from their bones, burn them at the stake. Not even a problem. You can do it all day if you’re motivated enough - all it takes is some earplugs, an apron, something sharp, and a can-do spirit.

You cannot, however, kill sin. It is always going to be there. You can whip yourself, fast, pray, feed the hungry, heal the sick, read a thousand books and climb a hundred mountains, but there is always going to be a part of you that wants something you know you’re not supposed to have. You might not act on it, but you’re still going to want it. Pretending otherwise is an exercise in puritanical foolishness that only results in self-loathing and insanity.

If you want to cauterize sin once and for all, the last person on the pyre is going to have to be you.

They tried burning Sector Sixteen to the ground, but like a weed with deep roots, it just grew back, right out of the ashes. And the place shows all its scars, with a kind of devilish pride. There isn’t much order to the place. There’s still piles of charred rubble in some parts, left as a kind of lazy monument to the things the district’s been through. All the cheap neon lights and billboards shine on crumbling stone, rotten foundations, and the toothy grins of all the good ghouls who came here for a particular brand of fun.

It’s festive here, sure, in a way. But it doesn’t have that homey, clannish charm that Thirteen has. There’s something oily about it - a grease released from all the curdled shame of the people losing themselves here.

This is where I found Tennima, a long time ago. I used to find a lot of kids here. As you can probably imagine, children do not belong in Sector Sixteen. But that doesn’t stop them from showing up.

I’ve broken a lot of bones in these alleys. And only a few of them were mine.

My stride widens as I work my way through the sweaty multicolored lights and past many dark doorsteps. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to. A lot of bad memories.

Hell, it’s half past noon and I’m being solicited left and right. And that’s not really unusual. Slabs have a hard time finding companionship. They’re enormous and oftentimes mentally unstable - trying to find physical affection when you’re a frothing mountain of angry muscle is about as easy as finding an ice cube in a smelter. And of course, for a lot of them, that just makes them angrier. The uh… hardworking men and women here charge slabs extra, for liability purposes, but they will take them as customers, unlike most everywhere else. And both parties know it. There are a lot of very big people in these crowds.

“Hey there, big boy. You look like you could use some company.”

“Why don’t you come this way and party with us, baby?”

“I’m reinforced. I can take a lot.”

A few of them approach me and take me by the elbow, trying to lead me off into one den or another. I don’t look any of them in the face, and keep walking. They don’t have a hope in the world of stopping me, either physically or mentally, and they realize that fast and break off to go hover around someone else.

It’s not that I’m disinterested in sex, specifically. Sex is a perfectly fine way to spend an afternoon, I guess. I’m just disinterested in most things, and one of those things is copulating with… these fine people. One - I can’t afford it. Two - half these receptive men and women are more augmented than I am (they have a pretty rough job, after all), and I prefer a more organic experience. Three… well. I like a bit of emotional involvement. Call me a romantic.

It takes me a bit to get to the far eastern sections of Sixteen, and every step feels like it’s sunk in sticky oil. The deadliest sector in the city is Three, bar none - that’s where they literally kill people, after all. But Sixteen is infinitely more dangerous. Three will at least run you through a paperwork mill and tell you that they’re killing you before they do it. Sixteen doesn’t extend that kind of courtesy, and it won’t kill you all at once. You’ll die slow. You’ll die of desperation. Of loneliness. Of anhedonia, bankruptcy, and overdose. And by the time the serpent has coiled around you and sunk its fangs into your neck, you’ll be asking for it.

Seventeen does come after Sixteen, after all.

And speaking of pain and death… I see a familiar face off to the left of the street. A dumpy, pear-shaped body awkwardly mashed into a cheap purple plastic suit, with thinning hair and an amount of sweat that only comes with years of high-test doses of thump. He’s a businessman, after all. Got to stay awake.

He sees me back, over the tops of dozens of heads. Leaning against the side of a flesh shop like he owns it, his eyes go wide, for just a second. I don’t blame him, considering the things I said to him the last time we saw one another. He doesn’t move, though. Doesn’t run or try to hide behind anything. There are a few heavy men standing near him, the kind you pay to intimidate people like me. Ten years ago, he couldn’t afford this kind of muscle. If he had, I wouldn’t have been able to do the things I did. I guess he learned some lessons and recouped from the loss.

Ten years is a long time, after all.

I stop walking, smack in the middle of the street. A few people crash into my back and mutter expletives at me. I can’t even hear them. There’s this rushing sound in my ears, like a waterfall, blocking everything out. My eyes won’t move from this old acquaintance of mine.

The instant I stop, staring at him, he comes off the building, leans on his shiny black cane, and beckons one of his goons. They exchange a few words. He doesn’t take his eyes off me the entire time. The four or five slab bodyguards come to a kind of pack animal attention, tipped off that there’s a threat nearby. They join their boss in trying to stare me down.

I carve a path directly through the crowd over to him, neon shadows and pedestrian bodies flowing all around me. It’s like walking through a bad dream. My heart won’t stay put. And my legs are acting with a will of their own. I’m a stray bolt being drawn in by a magnet.

Out of the crowd and in the mouth of the alley, I’m about twenty feet from him. If I get any closer, there’ll be a fight. And we wouldn’t want that.

It’s darker here, in the arms of the buildings. Tougher for anyone behind me to see what’s going on in the shadows.

He speaks first. He’s the kind of guy that’ll do that - head his competitors off as soon as possible. There’s a voice like chemical wind from under the door of a morgue.

“So. The Beast emerges from his hibernation and walks among us once more. You catch me by surprise, Featherlight. I didn’t think I’d see you around here anytime soon.”

His arms are folded over his flabby chest in a show of confidence, but his sweat and juddering vitae tell a different story. I don’t say anything for a moment. I shake my head and laugh quietly. I can’t help it. Some people are just naturally funny.

I reply, “I find myself confused, Strake.”

He smiles back at me. “Oh? And why’s that, pray tell?”

I scratch my head bemusedly. “Because the last time we saw each other, I snapped both your femurs, confiscated your testicles, and explained in no uncertain terms that if I ever saw you in Sector Sixteen again, I’d not only break every other bone in your body, but I’d also make you a fancy new necktie out of your own unraveled larynx. I was very clear. You were screaming very loudly at the time, but I was pretty sure you got the message. And yet, here you stand. Very impressive, by the way. I realize your knees were probably replaced a while ago, but has medical science progressed to the point that they make prosthetic balls now too? I’m dying to know, Strake. Because we established a while ago that you’re not mature enough to use them responsibly, so, if that’s the case, I’m going to have to take the new pair as well. You naughty boy.”

I swear I hear one his henchmen stifle a snicker behind me. Strake’s smile evaporates. Bad memories will suck all the cheer right out of a guy, and for Strake, I’m eight hundred pounds of things he’d rather not remember.

He replies around his scowl, “Yeah, well, we all make promises we can’t keep sometimes, don’t we. I bought a cane. I get around just fine. ‘Cause some of us have persistence, Featherlight. I pushed through it and now I’m bigger than I’ve ever been. I survived you. I buy my own bullies now, see? And you’re just another sad gutter slab tryna wreck up hardworking businessmen for no reason other than sanctimonious pettiness. I pity you, frankly. A miserable animal unfit to live amongst us civilized folk.”

I grin down at him. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Strake. I’m so goddamn glad to see you again, you adorable little goblin. Really, I couldn’t be happier. I fucking love hurting you. Maybe that’s bad of me. You know what, no - it definitely is. But honestly?” My arms shrug wide, and my eyes gleam emerald and bright. “If being an animal means I get to feel your putrid fucking carcass give way under my hands all over again, then I’m just not cut out to be human.”

I’ll give the cretin a bit of credit - he’s still got a brave face on. But his vitae looks like it’s in the middle of a hurricane, and I see him grip his cane with both hands to stop them from shaking. He remembers what it felt like. He remembers every single second he and I spent together that night, and I’m overjoyed to see it.

Because I remember, too.

He takes a single step back. Just one. And for now, that’s all I need in order to be the happiest man in the world. His goons, however, all take a step forward.

“You can’t do shit, Featherlight. You live on thin ice. I’m a citizen, and you’re a fucking mutant. Put a goddamn finger on me in a place like this and the Watch will be all over your ass like scumbirds on a dead cat. Why don’t you fuck off back into the sewer you crawled out of, huh? Leave the daylight to us normal folk.”

All I can do is smile and nod. “Hmm. I admit it, Strake, you’ve got me there. But I’ll say this much - you bet all your chips on the law’s protection last time, too. And as I recall, they found themselves very distracted while I made you into none of the man that you used to be. I wonder if you’re a valuable enough citizen now to get them to come to your defense. I guess we’ll find out.”

I turn my back on him, grinning from ear to ear, and start back down the street.

Behind me, he calls, “I know where you live, you fucking freak!”

My hand waves back at him dismissively. “You’ve known the entire time, Strake. Come and visit for once. I’d save me the effort of having to track you down.”

I think he says something else, just so he can say he got the last word, but by then I’m far enough in the crowd that I can’t hear him.

You know, it occurs to me that it might be an incredibly poor judgment call to antagonize this many people that all know my exact address. I’m stacking up enemies like firewood. Before long I’m not gonna be able to leave my house without getting painted with an entire rainbow of crosshairs.

And I don’t really fucking care. Once you’ve been shot a few dozen times it kind of loses its menace.

I’ve got way too much to do lately to make Strake a priority. Sadly, the Sector Sixteen Watch precinct probably feels the same way, and I’m not about to ping my only Watch contact to go across jurisdictional lines to harass some pervert they’ve never heard of.

I wonder whether I should tell Tennima that Strake is still kicking around. The only reason I know him at all is because of her, through no fault of her own. Ten years ago I tore his balls off and shattered his legs on her behalf, but that was ten years ago. She’s an adult now, and smart enough to make toys that are way scarier than I could ever be.

She might want to kill him herself. She has the right. And she could do it without even lifting a finger.

Do I want to be a part of that? Do I want that for her? Is that even the decision she’d make, and is it even up to me to get involved? She knows what I did and why, but would it help anything to tell her that he’s still around?

Sigh. It doesn’t matter. She’s right, she isn’t a child anymore, even if it’s hard for me to see her as anything else. She’s a grown woman. And withholding this wouldn’t be respectful of me.

… But I’ll call her later. It’s not gonna hurt her to be in the dark a little while longer, and I’ve got shit to do.

I should probably make it clear, here, that I’ve never actually killed anyone before. Not as far as I’m aware, at least. I might have hinted that I have, a couple of times throughout this ripping narrative, but that was just me being colorful. The truth is that the gods teamed up with dark science to give skull-squishing strength and body mass to a complete and utter softie. One time when I was a kid my mom stepped on a slug and I fucking cried. Before all of… this happened to me, I thought I wanted to work my way out of Nineteen and become a doctor, of all things.

It’s amazing, the things you’ll think as a kid, before you realize you’re too poor to pay life’s protection money, and then it shows up on your front door and uses brass knuckles and a lead pipe to teach you that you’re not the one calling the shots around here. Dreams are for people with money. The rest of us get to spit out our teeth for sixty years.

… What was I saying? Oh yeah. Never killed anyone. It wouldn’t be hard or anything, people are super killable. I just don’t have it in me. I couldn’t even kill Strake, and believe me, I wanted to kill him even more than I wanted my mother to get better. And I fucking loved my mom.

I’ve hurt people, sure, no question. Hell, I’ve torn bits off people. Important bits, too. I’ve punched, kicked, headbutted and bitten my way through more than a few scraps in my time, and I’d be lying to you if I said there wasn’t a small part of me that’s enjoyed it every time. But that’s not who I am. And it’s not who I want to be.

… That said, I really, really want to kill Strake. I can’t just let him exist as he is. If that sack of shit is back to doing what he used to do, some kids are going to be hurt. In ways that don’t ever heal. I figure if I can prevent that by breaking him into teeny tiny pieces, it’ll be worth the permanent stain on my morality. I can’t be the only one that wants him dead, right? Maybe I’ll see if anyone’s put a hit out on him. I’m not an assassin, because I’d be terrible at it and the risks aren’t worth it, but in this case, I’m sorely tempted to make the exception of a lifetime. Especially if the money’s good enough. I’m supposed to be some kind of mercenary or something, aren’t I? I’d give his evil little head to the first person that handed me a thousand-credit chip for it.

Or at least I might. I should have gotten my conscience removed when I had the chance.

After more grimy blocks than I can count and avoiding several thousand suspicious-looking puddles, I come to the far end of the sector. The Wall, dark and impassive as it ever is, looms high above me and everything else, barely even reflecting sunlight. And lying in its shadow, just away from the edge of the sector platform, is the bar I’ve come to visit.

This is away from the high-energy bustle of Sixteen proper, so it’s quieter, and a little less… venereal. Even a place as hot and gross as Sixteen has its calm spots, because eventually the thump wears off and people have to take their antibiotics and sleep. The place doesn’t actually look that bad, on the outside. Relatively clean brick facade, some wrought iron fencing, nestled to one side of an open backstreet square that seems like it still hasn’t woken up even though it’s the early afternoon. I climb up the rusty plate steps and, yep, fancy filigree sign says The Happy Hog. Door’s even made of wood - very classy. It doesn’t match its surroundings at all - if you told me this establishment got transplanted here from Ten or Twelve I’d be inclined to believe you. I walk in.

Inside, it’s somehow smaller than I expected it to be. Or maybe it just feels that way. There’s a ludicrously well-polished middle-length bar taking up the far wall, with a clean-looking mustachioed fellow in a white shirt at the helm, smoking a shiny pipe and making drinks. Dim and smoky, as befitting any den of booze and iniquity, but in a way that makes the room seem cozy rather than nefarious. High ceiling, vaulted with crossbeams. Everything’s done in expensive wood and stone rather than metal and plastic. Whoever built this place wasn’t afraid of shelling out. It’s quiet. And nice. Honestly, if I had money and didn’t have to walk through the entirety of Sector Sixteen to get here, I’d like to hang out in here sometime.

Not many people at this time of day. One or two with their bellies to the bar, a scattered few at the booths and tables, including a group of three old men smoking cigars and playing cards. But I see one guy over by the window. Only one in here wearing a hat. Dressed like one of those Hot Plains cattle ranchers.

The bartender and a couple of the less engaged patrons fix me with looks. This kind of seems like one of those places where every customer is a regular, and I’m highly irregular. Do I want a drink? Yeah fuck it, I want a drink. Who knows, I could be dead tomorrow. And I’ll feel like an idiot if I die with anything left in my bank account.

I approach the bar but don’t sit down. The drinks drone hovers toward me like an automech on a mission.

“What can I get for you, sir?”

I stifle a snort. Sir. What a weird thing to call me.

“I’m on the hunt for a beer, if there’s beer.”

“There is beer.” He reaches over the bar to hand me - get this - a list. “We just got in a few barrels of fresh north-Krathian frostbock, if you’re in the mood for something sturdy. So fresh we haven’t gotten it on the menu yet, actually. You’ll find the rest there. More than thirty options.”

I think I might be in the wrong kind of establishment. I just hold the menu back at him without looking at it. “Oh boy. Uh. As it happens, I’m poor as dirt, so I’ll just have to go with whatever sludge you’ve got left at the bottom of your vatbeer tank.”

He smirks, looking down at the glass he’s polishing. “The owner refuses to let vatbeer cross his doorstep. Check the prices, sir, you might be pleasantly surprised.”

I blink once, and open the menu. I have no idea what this guy’s driving at, there’s no way I’ll be able to afford anything other than the sextuple-filtered wheatpiss anyway-

Oh.

I look back up at him, brow furrowed and deeply confused. “Is this entire list a typo?”

“Nope. No mistake. That’s what our beer costs.”

My eyes go back down to the menu, then back up at him again in total bewilderment. “How? Unless this piece of paper is more full of fabricated bullshit than the average issue of the Herald.”

The guy just keeps smiling and cleaning contentedly. “You be the judge. Pick one and find out.”

Well now I’m just indignant. There’s no way they could be selling actual, real, unadulterated imported beer at these prices and still be in business. People like me aren’t allowed to afford drink this good, it’s the fourth law of econodynamics.

“Alright then, champ, you’re on. I’ll have a tank of the hollowhunter’s ale.”

He holds up the slab-sized tankard he’s been polishing, inspecting it for flaws. “Good choice, sir. Just a moment.”

He turns around to address a row of taps set into the back wall.

When fresh and properly made, hollowhunter’s ale is like the fun version of drinking razor blades and pine needles mixed with acetone. Because your average hollowhunter is about nine inches from death at any given moment and they don’t have time to waste on pathetic normal peoples’ beer. The stuff is known the world over, and selling it is how the hollowhunters are able to afford all their armored vehicles and explosives. The copycat imitation variety doesn’t taste like the relief of having survived one more day without having your spine and kidneys torn out with one pull of an undead hand - it just tastes like battery acid and sadness. You can taste the suicidal bravery in the real stuff, and your average human coward just can’t replicate it.

The barkeep hands me the glass stein, with both hands. Strong arms. Guy doesn’t wobble, or spill a drop. I accept it from him and hold it up for inspection against the light. The brew is the color of a ruby sunset over a field of ripening wheat. Layer of fine white bubbles on top, like snow. Looks like the stuff I’ve had before. Hard to forget a beer that looks like liquid jewelry.

I take a sip.

Have you ever been exhilarated? Actually, genuinely flush with the pure, unbridled and electric wonder of being alive? The kind of seismic joy that only comes from giving Death himself a smooch on the cheek and scampering away before he can catch you? Have you walked through a living nightmare and emerged on the other side bleeding and broken, but suddenly aware of how beautiful grass can be when the sunlight strikes the dewdrops just right? That’s what this stuff tastes like. It tastes like snatching your own life out of the claws of something that eats entire forests as an aperitif. This is the beverage equivalent of shedding a single gasping, breathless tear in utter disbelief at the fact that your heart is somehow still beating, even though the flesh all around it is nothing but bloody bruises.

Smiling like he just pulled the greatest trick of all time, the bartender plunks the chip reader down on the bar top. “That’ll be four hundred credits.”

I ignore him and take another luxurious pull, because life’s too short to do anything other than love what you have. A sigh leaves my lungs like misty wind fleeing the summer sun. Then I (carefully) set the glass of liquid art on the bar, pull out my wallet and pay, shaking my head.

“I don’t get it, man. This stuff costs three times what you’re charging. Is there a trick, here? Do you own my house now, or something?”

He just shrugs, and grabs another glass to polish. I think bartenders have a condition that causes their brainstem to liquefy if their hands aren’t in contact with glass and a rag at all times.

“I just pour ‘em, sir. Somehow the bossman gets away with it, but I’ll be damned if I know how. All I know is that I keep getting my paychecks and the lights haven’t ever gone out.”

I retrieve the holy vessel and take another precious taste. “Well… the next time you see him, tell him he’s got a new favorite customer. I’ll keep coming back as long as you keep giving this stuff away.”

He nods happily. “I’ll let him know. Enjoy.”

And the giver of mighty gifts flutters away on invisible wings, to bless another undeserving soul.

Alright. Fun’s over. Business time.

I turn about and cross the room over to the booth where my not-man is sitting. Nobody pays me any mind as I approach, and neither does he. It? I’m not sure what the designators are, here. I’ll go with “he” because he looks like one. He just keeps his eyes out the window, looking at… I dunno, the world, I guess.

He doesn’t even look at me when I sit down right across from him.

At a passing glance, there isn’t anything unusual about this guy. He just looks like an older fellow that’s worked under the sun his whole life. Bronzed skin, wrinkles. Wearing his rancher’s outfit. He could just be some cowboy in from delivering a shipment of beef for the Inner Circle to enjoy.

But now that I’m up close… there’s definitely something off. His skin seems unusually thin. The light is hitting it wrong - it looks like papier-mache, or plaster. With the sun at this angle, I should be able to see some hair, but his cheeks are completely smooth, in the way you see on a healed burn victim. And the eyes. They’re too… perfect. Too glossy. Can’t see a single spot, no striations in the iris, not a single vein. They look like doll’s eyes, not ones grown inside a real human skull.

There’s also the fact that he has no vitae at all. Nothing, not a single wisp or bubble or ray of color. In biomantic terms, this guy is indistinguishable from a toaster or a washing machine. That absence makes him look more and more like an unusually lifelike mannequin the longer my eyes are on him. My brain’s accustomed to the human form always being in the company of its swirling, colored vitae. It’s not here, and the contradiction is making my skin crawl.

He doesn’t move or say anything or react to me in any way. So I guess I’ll start.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

I predicted it. The logical, thinking part of my brain knew that it had to happen at some point. Otherwise, how could this thing have gotten here? But when it moves, when it turns its head away from the window to look at me, I nearly jump out of my fucking skin. Things without vitae aren’t supposed to fucking move unless they also have an engine or an internal reactor. The sight of it, right in front of me, makes my spine want to slither away to a place where creepy shit like this doesn’t happen.

Its eyes are blue, and are not made of flesh. No water or salt or protein. Just glass.

“No. Why are you here?”

My skin is spiders.

Its voice is almost perfect. Almost. Honestly, if I weren’t scrutinizing, I probably wouldn’t even notice. But the lip movements only mostly match the words that came out of that hole. And there’s this tonal incorrectness - a lack of richness, of bass. It sounds very slightly like a lesser-quality recording of a middle-aged man’s voice. Dry, papery, without any impact or lung behind it.

And the thing doesn’t move. Not even a little. A human person trying as hard as they can to be motionless still isn’t - you can’t help the barely-perceptible bob of the head as the heart pumps blood through the chest and neck, you can’t prevent the gradual rise and fall of the chest. Or not for very long, at least. This thing is genuinely, absolutely still, in the way that only an inanimate object can manage.

I want to get this over with. At least an automech has decency enough to look nothing like the humans they get their shape from. Every part of me is convinced this thing shouldn’t exist - my sympathetic nervous system is going into overdrive just from the sheer number of contradictory sensory inputs. I don’t know whether to tear its head off or run screaming out of the building.

A layer of mental concrete pours over my nerves before I reply, “I’m looking for the way to the Library.”

Its tilts its head to one side, face still neutral.

“Why?”

I frown. “Because I want to learn stuff. I’ve heard there’s a lot of good books in the Library. If your boss is okay with me paying a visit, that is.”

“What do you want to learn about?”

I had no idea I was signing up for an interview when I walked in here. But I guess if I was the Librarian I’d be pretty careful too. I pan my eyes around the room before saying a very dirty and controversial word.

“Magic.”

The unusually large doll nods, very slightly. “You are an arcanist.”

It says this without any kind of emotion at all. It’s not a question, or an accusation. Just the statement of a fact, with a machine’s confidence. I’m not sure if it guessed or if it somehow knows things from out of thin air. I don’t know. I’m just along for the fucking ride, here.

“... Yeah. Is that a… problem?”

“No. Not intrinsically. The arcanist seeks knowledge of magic. The river flows to the sea. This has happened for many thousands of years. What you seek is power, as knowledge sublimates into power in the mage’s hand. And you seek it in full awareness of the risks. Plainly, the conflux of fate has made you incredibly strong of body, yet you wish for more. Why?”

I really cannot express in succinct words how goddamn unnerving it is to listen to this thing talk. It’s so, so close to being human, but just off the mark. And worse, now it’s trying to get personal with me.

“Why do I want power?”

“Yes.”

“Is that something you need to know?”

“Yes.”

“... Why?”

It laces its fingers together on the table. The motion makes a sound like paper folders sliding over one another.

“Because to the Librarian and to many others, knowledge is also a currency. Sharing it with you is akin to an investment. And within this dynamic, bad investments can become catastrophic. So explain yourself. Or leave.”

Heh. Not the first time I’ve ever had to defend my life. Thankfully, I don’t even have to lie.

“Some bad things might happen to some good people soon. Some people that I know. The stronger I am, the better I can help them. And the more likely it is that I can catch those bad people, to stop them from hurting anyone else.”

The homunculus doesn’t move. “You seek power for altruistic reasons only? To defend the weak from evil?”

I snort. “No. Those same people are also trying to kill me, and I’d like to increase my chances of making it out of all this with my bones still connected to one another. Self-preservation motivates me just as much as anything else.”

“And once the danger has passed? What will you do with your power then?”

… Huh. There’s a cutting question. Frankly, I’m so used to living in this exact second that I hadn’t stopped to consider what life might be like once all this is said and done. If I don’t die, the things I learn could turn me into… something else. More, than I ever had the impetus or inclination to become before. New abilities could be great. Or they could be a horrible curse, in the end.

I don’t really care. It just has to happen. The future can show up at its own pace.

“I don’t know. I honestly hadn’t thought about it. But I’m probably not going to try to overturn the Reclamation or anything. Way too much work. And I just don’t care enough.”

The homunculus’s not-eyes stay on my not-eyes for a heavy second. I’m not sure what it’s trying to see. I don’t even know if it can see anything. But honestly, I don’t know a goddamn thing. That’s why I showed up here in the first place.

It finally replies, “What have you brought?”

I swing my backpack around and lay the books on the table. Carefully. While looking around to make sure the law hasn’t walked through the door in the last few minutes.

The thing glances down for a split second, looks back at me, and says, “There are multiple copies of these volumes within the Library. The Librarian has no need of more.”

I rub my face with my hands exasperatedly. I knew it was a long shot. I was told as much. But the idea that I came all the way out here for nothing is really mashing my potatoes something fierce.

“Y’know… I’m betting you guys could save a lot of wasted time by just putting out a damn registry of what you do and don’t have.”

“The Librarian has infinite time. And a public listing would be traceable. You have nothing else to offer?”

I take a big slug of my beer and clunk the tankard down on the table, eyes looking directly at the core of the earth. I don’t have anything else to offer. I don’t have a goddamn thing. For the Librarian or Em or to anyone else. Maybe I should leave the city. Just… fuck right off and go be a monster in the mountains. No need for money, no need for cars or property or paperwork. Fuck it, all of it. At least then I could punch bears to death and terrorize villages and feel like something. Win at least some animal glory using nothing but the contents of my own-

Wait.

The contents of my own body.

My lenses snap back up to the doll. “You’ll take media other than print, right?”

“Yes.”

I reach into my coat and whip out a blank data drive and a transfer cable.

It’s a hell of a thing, being able to record literally everything you see. It makes it much more difficult for other people to call you a liar when you can literally show them what you saw, right out of your own eyes. That’s why I keep these on me. I don’t have to use them often, but in my lines of work it’s helpful to be able to prove my experiences to people with footage hot out of the brain boiler.

One end of the cable goes into the drive, and the other stabs directly into a port at the rear of my occipital lobe.

For the record, it is the peak of stupid for anyone with a cerebral array to just shove connectors into their skull without sanitizing them first, unless they happen to be a huge fan of aggressive meningitis. For reasons already explained, however, I do not have to give a damp hoot. Microbes are idiots. I am the bastard fuckspawn of magic and technology and I will not be stopped.

I hit a little switch on the side of the drive and wait a second for it to boot up. Unstoppably.

The light turns green and there’s a spasm of connection errors and driver misfires across my vision. My automatic interface software shows up with a gun and calmly explains to them that nobody has to get hurt as long as I get access to this drive right the hell now. The warnings and errors hold up their hands and reply that everything’s good here man, no need to do anything drastic. They show me to the door.

The drive connects.

This sensation is very hard to describe for anyone that’s never used their brain to talk to machines before. This is just a blank drive. Empty space. A clean warehouse in a white void, just patiently waiting for someone to put something into it. And right now, it’s connected directly to my brain. It has physically made the total volume of my brain larger. Not more full, not better at processing data or anything, just bigger.

Imagine you’re hanging out minding your own business in your living room, sipping coffee and reading a book or whatnot. Then, for no reason, a huge door appears in your wall and opens, revealing a colossal amount of empty space in a huge room that wasn’t there before. That weird sudden shift of air pressure and subtle echo of newfound hugeness is kind of what this feels like. It’s unsettling, because the brain was never meant to receive these kinds of inputs in this specific order.

This is right around where a lot of people puke, because the conflicting sensory data causes the brain to go completely haywire. It’s like motion sickness or vertigo - there’s a sense of something physical that just happened, despite the fact that the information from my eyes and ears tells me that I’m very much still sitting in a booth at a bar across from a freaky golem. I close my eyes. Less incoming information to try and juggle.

I can’t upload literally everything, because that much video would take days to compress and upload. But I’ve got a different solution.

After about a minute, I have my autoconnect software let the poor drive management programs go, and take my leave. I yank the cord from my head. This causes a painfully loud SNAP in my ear, makes my vision flash lightning-white for a moment, and puts a taste like liquid copper on my tongue. I bump my head with the palm of my hand once, and the static clears from my eyes.

I turn the drive off and push it across the table toward the human facsimile. Then I point at it for emphasis.

“That is an autotranscripted text log of every single conscious thought I’ve had since I was eighteen. That’s eleven years of a person’s life, straight from the source. The parts where I’m drunk are probably full of spelling errors. However, the autotranscript program might have processed some of my dreams, if they were vivid enough. So that’s something.”

The homunculus just tilts its head at me, like a dog that’s heard a funny noise. “And why would the Librarian be interested in this?”

“I have no idea. But I can promise you he doesn’t already have a copy - I’m one of a kind. Tell him to read it and find out.”

The thing regards me silently for another long moment. Then it takes the drive and puts it in a coat pocket.

“... Very well, Mr. Featherlight. The Library thanks you for your contribution.”

It holds out a tiny business card. I try to take it, but its other hand whips up like a striking viper and clamps around my wrist. Its fingers can’t make it the whole way round (my wrists are as wide around as some people’s biceps), but the sheer force of its fingers digging into the meat of my arm is enough to make me grunt in pain.

“But know this. Should you choose to disclose this information to another living soul, you will cease to exist. There are eyes everywhere. Be wise.”

There’s still nothing in its eyes. That’s the face of an accountant showing up to his 15,936th day of work.

Its hydraulic hand lets go of my arm, and I have to actually fight back tears from how fucking bad it hurts. If I’d been anyone else, that amount of pressure would have squeezed clean through the meat and bone of my innocent limb like a fat divorcee through ice cream. It gently places the rectangular card into my palm, gets up, and leaves the bar.

Okay.

I’m just gonna finish my beer, and pretend for just a few precious moments that I’m a guy that was never cursed with an interesting life.

To my supreme irritation, the entrance to the Library is currently outside the city, tucked up against the outside of the Wall at the bottom of some dug-out earthen stairs that weren’t there yesterday. Northeastern quadrant, somewhere. So I’ve got to go all the way to Eleven, out the Gate, and then aaaaaall the way up and around the perimeter of the entire fucking city until I find the hole it’s in. And I have to do it within the next couple of days, or the entrance is going to move and I’ll be further back than where I started. I can’t even begin to guess how many miles that is. Without a lift, it’ll be midnight by the time I get to the spot, and I do not love the prospect of trying to find one small hole in the Desert by light of grainy night vision. Not to mention my knees will probably just stage a revolt and suicide bomb themselves out of my body before I’m even a third of the way there.

Who do I know that owns a set of wheels? Em doesn’t. Ten doesn’t need one - her best friend is basically a diesel truck with fists and she just rides around on his shoulders.

And that’s all the friends I have. When I started that paragraph I thought it would be a longer list, for some reason.

Okay. Time to call in a favor.

The inside of my head rings a few times, then beeps once. There’s a familiar voice.

“Deepwell.”

“Hey Lieutenant.”

“... Featherlight. Is someone dead? Or about to be?”

“Not this time. Are you on lunch yet?”

“In twenty minutes. Why?”

“I need a favor.”

“... What kind of favor.”

“A ride.”

“I’m not a goddamn taxi, take a train like everyone else.”

“I need a ride out of the city.”

“Okay. That’s great. It’s also out of the question.”

“You owe me.”

The line’s quiet for a second. I can hear him light a cigarette, then exhale once.

“What’s this about, Featherlight?”

“The case. Sort of.”

“Okay. It’s my case. So, be more specific or I’m hanging up.”

“Alright, it’s not directly related to the case. But it’ll help move everything forward. Along with every other case in the future, probably. Or lead to some fun new ones, what do I know.”

“... Spill it or I’m throwing this phone out my goddamn window.”

“That would be a really stupid thing to do to your own phone. You know I’m not physically inside your phone right now, right? It wouldn’t even hurt me. Well, apart from my feelings-”

“Five seconds.”

“I’m going to the Library.”

I can hear him take the receiver away from his head and look around the office, making sure no one’s around to eavesdrop.

“And I’m supposed to help you do this because… ?”

“Because you owe me. And because me becoming a better operative only benefits you in the end, boss.”

“Benefits me how, exactly? If anyone catches wind of this, I’m gonna be ashes before sundown. Do you have any idea how much of a Category Five shitstorm would break out if it was discovered that one of the Watch’s most decorated detectives was caught helping a mage get to the place where mages learn more magic? I can save the time by just hanging myself right here in my office, Featherlight. I can do it with this very fucking phone cable.”

“Now now, Lieutenant. Everyone knows the Library doesn’t exist. And who’s gonna find out? I’ve got scramblers, which you already helped into my hands. You’re just giving me a lift out of the city. No one’s the wiser.”

“You still haven’t explained how you becoming a more aberrant aberration helps me or anyone else in any way.”

“Have some goddamn imagination, Deepwell. What, you don’t trust me?”

“Only sort of?”

I sniff indignantly. “Well. I’ve never done anything but help you advance the cause of justice.”

“And your bank account.”

“And the safety of innocent civilians everywhere. Look, Deepwell. I’m being watched. I’ve already been attacked on the streets once. People are after me, and some of them are even heavier hitters than I am. Now, I haven’t done a goddamn thing but help nudge your career ever forward, for years, at a penny rate that most other self-respecting human beings would interpret as a flat insult. I might not be a paragon of moral fucking purity or anything, but I’ve never put a single toe wrong and I’ve never not been on your side, since day one. You can either be a friend now and lend a guy a goddamn hand, or sit high and dry with every other reptile that’s tried to fuck me over for being what I am. Pick.”

Frankly, this is overdue, maybe by years. It’s time for Lieutenant Deepwell to either engage with me on a human level, or admit to both me and himself that he sees me as nothing other than a tool to be used for his own benefit and discarded at the first sign of flaw. Either way, I want to hear him say it. This is the breaking point. I brace for impact.

He doesn’t say anything for a good long while, but I can hear him smoking, calm as ever. But he finds his voice eventually.

“Alright, Featherlight. Mother and Father help me, but alright. I can only pray that I’m not helping make another goddamn monster. Just thinking about your after-arrest paperwork landslide is enough to give me indigestion.”

“I’m already a monster, babycakes. Fortunately for you, I’m one of the decent ones.”

“I guess we’ll see. Where are you?”

“Meet me at the Sector Sixteen entrance station.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Got it. See you then.”

We hang up.

I’ve got a fucking police escort, baby.