Again, Jack found himself consumed by darkness. Bet the scene through the hole at the end of this tunnel has gotta be nice—he thought to himself. Voices of people and crowds went and passed by, and so did dust and clouds thereof from the hooves of passing cavalry and wagons. The rustling of the leaves tempted his skin to feel an absent breeze—if only he weren't wrapped up in a damn carpet. That his clothes were hot didn't help as much.

"Sir, you can't—"

"No, let him through."

"But the carpet! He obviously needs a furniture permit—"

"Look, man. Look at the clearance."

"Oh—oh… Okay, then."

Were those guards? Neruz didn't even speak back there. Voices and footsteps echoed, and the rustle of the leaves had gone. There was a sway in Neruz's step, and a pattern to the other footsteps: step, step, step—quiet—step, step, step—stairs? They must be going up, then.

A door creaked open and closed shut.

"Ah, Neruz. What brings you here—"

Jack's gravity went in circles until he found himself splayed upon the ground. A wash of fresh air evaporated the sweat on his skin, and a blinding light racked his brain. Dazed, he sat up and realized that it was just light through a window. He looked to his right, and there was a mister eyeing him from behind a desk—a cigar in one hand and two brass stars on his shoulder. Though half his receding hair was silvered, the other half remained coal black. His brown skin remained clean and taught, even if scarred in some places, though his forehead wrinkles were plain to see.

"A new friend?" the man asked. Neruz helped Jack up.

"I believe him to be one of your people. I found him on expedition to your Cryo 6."

"Cryo 6? That facility's been abandoned for years."

The general cut his cigar, wrapped it up, and set it aside. He eyed Jack up and down, and noted his Nighkey-branded shoes.

"Any good reason why you brought him in a carpet?"

"Red Faction."

The general sighed, taking his cigar out and lighting it anew. I hate my life—words that quietly escaped with his first puff.

Jack stared outside the window, overlooking a courtyard and the thick walls that shielded it. A troop of militia, with uniforms that looked like they'd come out of World War 1, stood to attention for their commander in front, who had all these gadgets on his helmet and body, clearly something which had come from a more modern time. A ramp led up to the top of the ramparts, where cannons, sophisticated in their design, mounted on oh-too-simple carriage wheels, stood sentry, pointed towards the surrounding city, or maybe even beyond it. The general saw him in this daze.

"Has Neruz filled you in?" he asked. Jack snapped out of it, surprised.

"Uh—well, somewhat, I think?"

The general looked back at Neruz, half disappointed, half annoyed.

"You see," he replied, "He was supposed to arrive here last night, if it were not for the Faction's alleywaiters."

"Understandable."

The militia outside started singing, and their commander whipped them with words to spur them along the jogging track. To Jack, watching some 21st century spec-ops dude drill a bunch of infantrymen in outdated uniform brought out a kind of chronological dissonance that could only ultimately be summarized as "heh".

"Strange, isn't it?" the general asked. Jack nodded. "Before we came here, there was a king. Lorded over a thousand people. He had knights in scrap armor, conscripts with crossbows, and a thin sheet of steel surrounding his city—guy called it a wall, even. Said he didn't need us. Heh, that's 'til one day, a ten thousand-strong horde came out of nowhere. The farmers that paid him tribute all abandoned their farms and flooded the city. They couldn't leave. They had maybe a week of food."

"What did you do?"

"Sent in B Company, swept up 10K in a few days, got the king worshipping firearms and heavy artillery for the rest of his life, and struck a one-sided deal trading economic and military control of Samarin for essentially nothing, of course."

"I'm not sure if you're playing dirty or the guy's a real pushover."

"A bit of both, maybe."

"I suppose that concludes our understanding," Neruz said.

"Wait, hey, where ya going?" Jack asked.

"Back to Faction territory, of course. None of those attackers from last night have died, after all."

The door closed behind Neruz. Jack showed the general a confused face.

"You saw him in action?"

Jack nodded.

"Neurotoxins. It's like pepper spray, but coursing through your blood."

"Sounds rough."

"I'd know."

"What?"

Ignoring Jack's inquiry, the general handed him a form and a visitor's pass. "Bring this to the office down the hall and come back. We can't do time travel, but you can still have a life here."

"That's nice of you, huh, general?—General, right?"

"Paladin. General Paladin."

They shook hands. "I think we'll be seeing each other around here more often, sooner or later—and Neruz, too, though he's a busy man," he added with a smile.

Like Paladin said, Jack went out into the corridor and followed the line of white paint on the cobblestone wall to the administrative office. He was surprised to find functioning printers and computers in there. "Alright, sign here, here, and here," said the assistant. At least this one scene was familiar to him. He was surprised to find that he actually missed this kind of bureaucratic treatment. It inspired both a sense of consistent inconvenience—and of civilization.

He found his way back to General Paladin's office, but when he opened the door, there was no general. Rather, there was a militiaman with a sash across his chest, belt worn way above his hip, and a revolver holstered by his left arm. He carried a clipboard and started with a "Sorry, the general went about t' the Johnny. He told me t' bring you downstairs. Is that alright?"

On Paladin's desk, his cigar laid on the ashtray, uncut and still smoking.

Jack followed the militiaman downstairs. He led him past the courtyard, where the militia looked beat, scattered about the grass in various states of exhausted, their commander scolding them for tapping out without his permission. They arrived at a cul de sac, and it was there that Jack stopped and regretted being a pushover. He thought about running away. Looking behind him, there was another man following them, wielding a club.

Now or never—Jack's hand went for the pistol in his pocket and pointed it forwards. The man with the club stopped in surprise. Though Jack aimed the pistol at his would-be assailant, he couldn't squeeze the trigger—he was about to kill someone. The face of the man in front of him twisted from surprise into a grin, and that was the last thing he remembered before blacking out and hitting the ground.

He came to in a lightless place. I couldn't do it—he thought, recounting his moment of hesitancy. It smelled like piss—that's awful, for real. Dirt and grass gritted his face and lodged themselves under his nails. Water soaked through his shirt.

Why, even? Why him? He squirmed up against a wall just to sit himself up. There was something in his mouth—a gag. So that's what used rags tasted like. There was a rectangular outline of light.

It opened. The sudden brightness hurt his eyes. A silhouette of a militia guy was standing there. "This the one? Really?" he said, "Don' see why they'd want him in particular."

Another militiaman stepped in and started tying a blindfold around Jack. "Eh, not our job t' think."

They stood him up and held him by the arms, pushing him along. The light got brighter, even under that blindfold. It echoed differently here. He bumped his shoulder against a wall, so the other guard yanked him on and away. Tight quarters. There weren't any other voices, but there was something—horses?

For a moment, he thought of the possibility that Paladin sold him out, somehow, for some reason. None of it made sense to him.

"This the one? Show me his face."

For a moment, they took off his blindfold, and there in front of him was another one of those spec ops guys. Jack's suspicion of Paladin grew. They put the blindfold back on him and tossed him into a wagon.

It's nothing like a car. He tried doing one of those movie things where you'd track the speed and count the number and direction of turns that the car'd take—guess that only worked when the suspension system was actually good. The carriage juddered him around until he threw up, choking on his own spit.

He managed to get the blindfold off by hooking it against a splinter in the box he was dumped into. He wasn't sure why he even tried; he was still tied up. They breezed through checkpoints, for the most part, but stopped at one. For a moment, the lid lifted open, and he and an inspecting militiaman made eye contact. The guy was visibly surprised. He looked up at the driver then back down at Jack. His wide-eyed surprise turned into wide-eyed fear, and he quickly put the lid back on. "Alright, it's good," a muffled, quavering voice said from beyond the lid.

They threw him down from the wagon, then picked him up, and threw him into his cell. Two guards walked in and picked him up, pinning him face-flat against the wall. They took off his blindfold and untied him, pulling him away from the wall and throwing him down again, knocking the wind from his lungs. The bars closed. He took off his gag, gasped, and laid flat, his eyes tracing the sun-lit cracks in the ceiling.

"Well, they sure like throwin' ya 'round, huh?" a familiar voice asked. Jack scanned the room and saw the shadow of a man in tattered fatigues leaning over from behind another set of bars. "Hey wait-a-minu't, do I know ya? Well, darn! Ain't it the guy from yesterday?"

"What—Singer? You're Singer, right?"

"Con-tra-ree to popular belief, I ain't actually good at singin'—well, I'm right 'round fair, I'd say."

Jack dragged himself over to the bars where Singer was singin'.

"So," Jack asked, "What're you in for?"

"On the pain o' death? Jaywalkin'."

"Hmm. Yeah. Makes sense."

Singer looked down at him with a sly smile.

"No, for-real," he said, wiping his sly smile and replacing it with a straight grin.

"I still don't believe you."

"What?" Singer laughed, "I'm fine sure lots-a people did it back then, arenairight?"

"Well, sure, but the worst that could happen was a 2k fine or something, not a death sentence!"

"Money? That's fine light for darn jaywalkin'!"

Jack looked up at him.

"Wait, what do you mean 'jaywalking'?"

"What?"

"You don't sound like you just crossed the street."

"Cross the str—well, I darn well crossed somethin' alright!"

"What?"

Singer slumped down against the bars. He let out a sigh.

"Lookie 'ere. Found me a shady bunch, but I'm shady too, so tha's fine. Anyway—they's said they'd set me up for a runner out o' the city. I coughed up the gold they want'd, then they's said 'hah, we gon' run ya outta the city alright'! Managed t' nail one-a them, but the rest-a his buddies got the drop on me."

"Sounds rough."

"Aye, well, I hear kidneys been pricey nowadays. How bout you? Your kidney worth anythin'?"

"I don't know, man. I've been rolled up in carpets, thrown around, knocked out, locked up, thrown around, and locked up again. Kidney's probably busted."

Jack began crying. "I was just delivering pizza the other day—the hell, man!"

"Pizza? Can y'eat that?"

"Yeah," Jack wiped his tears, "It's amazing."

"Darn, even the history food's outta this world, huh?"