Al’Corvo, and not for the first time, let out a long groan. His ribs felt like they were shattered, his left heart as though it had just had several false-ribs jammed into its pulmonary artery. Perhaps, Al’Corvo thought to himself, because they have, and it did.

Only a few minutes ago did Al’Corvo wake up, feeling even worse than he did now. At first all he could see was a bright fluorescent light along with sterile white tiles. Looking around he saw several IV drips hooked into his arms. Two were filled with clear liquids he assumed were painkillers, while another hooked into his left hind-arm was filled with a dark crimson liquid. The final IV drip was filled with a neon blue liquid that seemed to pulse with life.

“Impressive innit?” Al’Corvo whipped his head towards the sound, feeling a headache growing, immediately regretting his action. “A tad o’ ectoplasm n’ you’re almost good as new.”

Several groans later, Al’Corvo saw who spoke. Sitting on the opposite side of the room was a heavily armoured story snatcher. Only their head was left uncovered, revealing a slightly flat, yet wide face. Two large chelicerae adorned their face, along with two small upwards facing fangs. Eight lidless green eyes rotated independently of each other, taking in the non-details of the white hospital room. Interestingly, the Ward’s shell was a sandy colour rather than Al’Corvo’s pastel-blue shell. Al’Corvo coughed as he tried to speak.

“None of that now, yer still recoverin’. Yer quite lucky there was sum ectoplasm nearby.”

Al’Corvo coughed, “Where,” another cough, “did it come from?”

“Roots, I think yer head got hit a bit too,” the Ward stood up and walked over to Al’Corvo, leaning in to look at his head. “Whaddya last ‘member?”

Al’Corvo closed all eight eyes, groaning in agony again, “Fuck um… Shit, Il’Shar! Is she alright?”

The Ward leaned back, a frown (or frown equivalent) replacing their smirk. “You bashed ‘er ‘ead in real good. If it weren’t for ter fact that she was already dead, you’d be in a cell rather than a cushy hospital bed yeah?”

The memories of the last few hours rushed back into Al’Corvo’s head, at the exact moment the next dose of painkillers rushed into his veins. Al’Corvo slowly began drifting back to sleep, but not before hearing the Ward say something.

“I’ll be seein’ you around Al’Corvo. Names Al’Shor by the way. Rest easy pal, you deserve it.” And with that, Al’Corvo’s thoughts went dark.

Once again Al’Corvo woke up, still lying down in a hospital bed. Looking to either side of his body he noticed his head no longer pounded with every subtle motion. That and all of the IV drips were no longer hooked into his arm, although the bandages were still wrapped tightly around them. He probably wouldn’t be working for a good few days. Slowly rising from the creaking bed, he noticed how grimy the room was, at least in the corners. He noticed some standard-issue Ward clothes neatly folded on a chair next to his bed. Shrugging, he replaced his hospital gown with the heavy woolen clothes.

Slowly walking to the door, he also noticed that his ribs no longer hurt as much, the pain reduced to a meer light throbbing. Such was the power of ectoplasm, a few litres of the stuff and most fatal injuries would be healed. As Al’Corvo walked into a dimly-lit corridor, he saw countless half-armoured Wards lining the walls, each one with small packs of ectoplasm fed into their wounds. Crushed shells, eyes weeping unknown liquids and other maladies besides. Such minor injuries warranted a day or two in the corridor with a litre or two of ectoplasm. The workers, the spellcasters and, like Al’Corvo, the electricians, were the ones given rooms. While they didn’t leave the wall like Wards and Immunes, they weren’t trained in combat techniques, nor were they given spells to help them survive the times where maintenance went wrong. Al’Corvo was a testament to the damage caused by ghosts.

Finally Al’Corvo arrived at the reception room, a gloomy room with rows upon rows of seats. Most of them were empty and those that weren’t were frequenters, people with diseases and chronic pains.

“Al’Corvo is it?” Al’Corvo turned to face the receptionist.

“Yes.”

“I was told that you might be up soon. I am also required to inform you that you have been unconscious for 4 days, and will not be required to work for another 3,” the receptionist rummaged through their desk and finally pulled out two plastic trays. One had a blood-pack-shaped packet filled with more vibrant, pulsing blue ectoplasm. The other had a box of pills and a densely packed sheath of papers that indicated that Al’Corvo was free from work.

“Anyways, use the ectoplasm at night and take one pill if you are still in pain,” Al’Corvo reached to take both trays. Popping one of the painkillers, he gave a quick wave to the receptionist before walking into the streets. As he opened the door, a sudden blast of cold air hit him, chilling his shell immediately. After a few more unsteady steps, Al’Corvo began walking towards his home in Sector 8. Unfortunately, sectors weren’t named after when they were arranged. They were named after their size. Not only was Sector 8 aboveground, the hospital, which was a valuable asset in the apocalypse, was in Sector 19 and underground. 19 square kilometres of cold, damp streets. The only thing illuminating the cavern was dull fluorescent lamp posts, with various cables that occasionally sparked. If Al’Corvo wasn’t on leave, it would’ve been his job to fix them.

Despite the dismal atmosphere, hundreds of people rushed to and fro, carrying goods and supplies to various stalls and buildings. Al’Corvo even saw a few people climbing up buildings to resupply the ectoplasm generators, holding large tanks of the stuff in their hind-arms.

After several bends in the central road, Al’Corvo reached a large shaft with countless story snatchers moving up and down. If, for whatever reason, the pylons or walls fell, this shaft would act as the final defensive measure. Several layers of steel would slam shut, electricity would arc between each layer. Such was the last hope of the story snatchers. Since it was fairly safe, most electricians who were still used to how the old world worked, the world without ectoplasm, would begin working on this shaft. Basic repairs, the trivial stuff.

Usually Al’Corvo would’ve simply clambered up the shaft like everyone else, but after several days in hospital he didn’t feel up to it. Instead, he walked over to the disability access area, which was several ladders one could use to get to the top. There were even several alcoves one could rest during their ascent/descent.

The topside of the city of Raqmu was much brighter, both figuratively and literally than the underground. Winters around Raqmu weren’t freezing, though they sometimes produced snow, but no matter what they always covered the sun in an overcast haze. Mist licked at Al’Corvo’s heels as he moved from Sector 7 to Sector 8. Looking to the south, he was glad to see the once-broken pylon crackling with life once more. It seems that the Wards managed to flip the switch and keep more ghosts from flooding the city.

Although it wasn’t like there weren’t safeguards in place for that possibility as well.

Finally arriving at his house in Sector 8, Al’Corvo sighed in relief. It had been a long week, what with all the preparations for some big project the higher-ups decided would be a good idea. Unfortunately for Al’Corvo, his apartment was higher up the complex, owing to his status as an electrician. Not that he was actually higher-ranked than the other inhabitants, it’s just that he was better at climbing than most.

Grunting with the effort, Al’Corvo began the climb up to his apartment, taking every opportunity to rest whenever there was an alcove. The grey steel was cold from the air, making his weary arms tingle in pain whenever he touched the bare walls. His gloves were probably lost after he got knocked out. He would need to buy new ones if he wanted to make it through the winter with functional hands.

Shaking his cold hands, Al’Corvo saw one of his neighbours hanging some clothes over a slightly rusty balcony rail.

“Hey Corvo! How’s it going? Where have you been for the past four days? Oo, I bet it was some secret thing to do with the Hope Project right?”

Al’Corvo let out a groan. He didn’t quite hate his neighbour Il’Abna, but sometimes he wished she would shut up. A true gossip she was.

“Roots above, how many times have I told you Il’Abna? You’re not my damn sister. Use my formal name or don’t use it at all!”

“Aww don’t be like that,” her eyes “blinked”—focused and unfocused—a few times as if remembering what she was going to say, “Yeah, that’s right, so where were you? Anything you could share about the Hope Project?”

“I wish. No, I was in hospital. Right now I just want to sleep and enjoy my 3 days off.”

“Hope you’re feeling alright. Oh yeah, a Ward came by and told me to hand you these.” Il’Abna handed over an envelope with the official Ward crest on the front, but only a broken wax seal remained on the other side.

“Did… did you seriously… read an official Ward letter? A sealed Ward letter? Did you just do that?” Al’Corvo stared at Il’Abna with his jaw open. He was shocked by the absolute gall she had. If he was a more scrupulous individual, he could’ve gotten her locked up for a few months for reading classified documents. Well, technically classified.

“Hmm, yup! Interesting stuff, didn’t know you could fight off ghosts without an electrical man-catcher. Sorry about Il’Shar by the way, sweet girl she was.”

“Only if you didn’t know her,” Al’Corvo grumbled under his breath. He swiped the letter and continued his climb to his apartment.

A few minutes later, and he finally fumbled his keys out of his pocket. He didn’t know how it got there though, he guessed that maybe the Wards put it in there with his wallet. Opening his door, he beelined straight for his old, worn couch. He didn’t care about the dirty plates that were stacked high in his sink. Those could wait. Looking around his apartment, he realized he could probably do with cleaning the whole thing. Old music cartridges lay scattered around various desks, and one corner of his living room was a tangle of wires and electronics of all sorts. A side-project that was doomed to fail, an attempt at making ghosts easier to kill.

Opening the envelope, Al’Corvo quickly skimmed over the letter. Most of it was standard commendation stuff, in fact Al’Corvo could see the lines where his name was written in manually. At the end though, Al’Corvo blinked several times, rubbed 4 of his eyes, checked again then rubbed the other 4 eyes.

“...The recipient of this letter, [AL-CORVO], is hereby recruited into the Wards for [PERMANENT] service. This is due to [AL-CORVO]’s [EXCELLENCE] in the field, and the recipient should be [PROUD] to have the chance to fight [FOR KING AND COUNTRY]. [CONGRATULATIONS], not many have the chance to join the Wards.

Expect a Ward to [DELIVER FURTHER INFORMATION] on your [SERVICE] within the next [24] [HOURS].”

After confirming that he had indeed just been conscripted into the Wards, Al’Corvo wasn’t quite sure if he should weep for joy or sadness. Being a Ward was noble, when he was a kid they were like superheroes. Now though? The prospect of needing to fight more ghosts made him question his will to live. Rather than continuing to ponder his own existential dread, Al’Corvo simply opted to scream.

He heard a thump coming from his right, and an angry voice.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP CORVO OR I SWEAR TO THE FUCKING SERAPHS I WILL THROW YOU OUT THE WALL MYSELF!”

“SORRY CHIH! I JUST GOT CONSCRIPTED INTO THE FUCKING WARDS!”

There was a brief pause.

“SORRY MATE, CARRY ON THEN!”

Al’Corvo began curling up on his couch, before he heard a knock on his door. A loud, heavy thumping sound that could only really be produced by someone with a gauntlet.