Even so, it took all day for his sense of despondency to pass. With Aumir mysteriously nowhere to be found, he pent the rest of the day lounging around his room, playing with Fyodor, and attempting to readThe Spirit Realm: On the Nature of Raequir, Godlings, and the Spirit Host, the book Fawkes had last sent him.
Fawkes…
She hadn’t answered his last couple of letters. That was alright, he told himself. She was probably busy taking care of whatever business it was that had taken her further on north. Still, he felt writing to her again. It was a bit like writing a therapy journal, only with a snarky old swordstress on the other end.
Dear Fawkes,
Hope you’re doing well. I’m feeling a bit down in the dregs, so I thought I might add a bit to the volume of mail you’ll have to catch up to once you get the chance.
Let’s start with the fact that I’m not on Aernor anymore. As I’m sure you already know (and still never managed to mention), there’s these things they call Propylon Arches, which they take you to these places called the Ways, which in turn take you to other mini-worlds. I’m in one called Taravus, the humble abode of the 999 Spirit Sage.
(Why 999, you ask? Beats me. Something about that other sage that used to be her teacher, yada yada, false humility.)
Anyways.
This Sage, she’s made me an offer. I’ll stay here in Taravus for the next few months and have all my needs and wishes taken care of.
(Which may or may not include that thing I know you also thought about. She wasn’t really clear on that, though I got some definitely questionable vibes from her.)
In exchange, when my time in this side of things is over for good a few months for now, she wants to leave this body to her. She wants to possess it and use it to walk around Aernor, because apparently she can’t leave this place.
(She made it sound better, though that was still the gist of it.)
She’s suspect as hell, of course, but I still think I might play dumb and say yes. She can have this thing, for all I care. It’s not like I’m going to have any use for it, am I?
His welcome thoroughly worn out, this here Transient will be sent back home for good, and godspeed to him.
(I know I sound unhinged, sorry for that, got my noggin seriously messed with, but it’ll pass.)
Again, I hope you’re doing well.
Write back, or else.
-Hunter
Feeling somewhat lighter, he’d placed the notebook he and Fawkes used to correspond through back into the shared extradimensional storage space of the Arsenal Bracer, and logged out to spend a few hours touching some real, honest-to-god grass. It did him good, too, but not for long; when he logged back in Elderpyre, it didn’t take too long for his mood to turn somber again.
As he had since when he’d first arrived to Taravus, he re-entered the world to find his body returned to his bed. That was new; back on Aernor, he always returned to the world in the exact spot and poisition he’d left.
That discrepancy was probably the product of some change in how the System worked—which, coincidentally, checked out with the error messages he’d received back when he’d crossed a Propylon Arch for the first time.
If he died, he wondered, would he pop back up at the Wayshrine of St. Ronnom, behind the log cabin, back in the Weald? For a moment, he had to suppress the thought of cutting his own throat just to find out. What was the point, anyway? This is not a game, that’s what the note from Bob the prison guard had slipped him a few months back—insinuatuing, far as Hunter could say, that the world of Elderpyre was somehow real.
Well, what if it was? What if Bob was right? What if the Sage was right too, and he was somehow projecting his will to a world in the other side of the universe, piloting a flesh suit so perfect it felt more real than his actual, physical body?
What a grand notion, he thought, and the thought made him chuckle.
When had he graduated from thinking Elderpyre was a secret government PSYOP to thinking… this?
And what did it matter, anyway?
Even if this turned out to be a scenario straight out some ’90s sci-fi TV show, what would be the difference to him?
Even if he managed to deal with the long-term physical and mental stress of splitting his life between Earth and Aernor, how much time did he have left?
In less than a year, he would be released from the Happy Motel, and he’d be once and for all yanked back to his real life back on Earth, back to working dead-end jobs to barely make the month’s rent.
What did he care what happened to this remote-controlled flesh automaton he was supposedly piloting with nothing but his force of will?
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He had half a mind to go back to the Sage, sign it off to her, and be done with it. At least that would buy him a few months of living a better life than he could ever hope for back on Earth.
When all was said and done, none of it mattered, anyway, either on this or the other side of things.
How did that go again, that word Aumir loved so much?
Baheep.
So it goes.
His mind was going back to that train of thought again and again, much like a tongue returning to prod a sore tooth. It was in the dead of night, while lying im his bed back in the Happy Motel that he figured out why.
Thinking like this, it wasn’t like him.
These weren’t his own thoughts. They couldn’t have been.
In his life, Alex had had an above-average amount of shit shovelled his way, even for someone from his kind of neighborhood. Through it all, he’d always remained primarily a problem solver. Not necessarily a good one, granted. He’d panic, or he’d freeze, or he’d overthink, or he’d made mistakes. What he would never do was fall in this kind of hopeless, nihilistic rut.
As the realization settled in, he leapt to his feet and started pacing up and down, then put on his shoes and went out in the night. The tiny room was too small to contain the rage that was building up in him.
Had the Sage, Jadzia, done something to him? Was it some kind of incidious, mind-affecting charm meant to get him to agree to her ask? Was she simply messing with his head?
Hunter tried to cool off, to get his thoughts in order, but it was difficult to jump to conclusions.
For starters, the timing was suspect. If something would have shaken his resolve and general convictions, it would be their extremely close shave with Thraggoth, the Beast of Lethe, Tyrant of the Desolation. Not a cup of coffee and a chat with the Sage. And yet, it was during his visit to her audience chamber that he’d first felt this wretchedness take root in his mind and spirit.
His mind and spirit, which she had probed around six ways to Sunday, quite coincidentally.
She’d had every opportunty to plant a seed of melancholy and nihilism during that brutal character deconstruction she’d given him. She’d probably had the means, too; she was the friggin’ Sage of Nine Hundred and Ninety-Nine Spirits, for fuck’s sake. It would take far fewer than that to mess with his head.
Which, of course, left motive. And lo and behold, the Sage had motive aplenty, too: getting him demoralized enough to agree to her offer, strike an accord with her, and relinquish his rights to the future of his Transient body.
Could it really be this obvious?
Could she really have been that careless?
Or was it just arrogance?
Red-hot anger churned through Alex’s head as we wandered around the courtyard, clouding his thoughts. With a sigh, he headed back to him room and picked up the casque. He needed someone to talk it over with, someone to help him get his head on straight—and he knew exactly who that was.
Plus, it had been too long he’d had a Manhattan or three.
***
Hunter’s Shard, his own personal mind palace, had originally looked like an old-timey speakeasy, complete with a prohibition-era bartender as its custodian. Most of the tables and chairs had since been done away with, replaced with a reading nook and a sparring area.
The bar, however, was still in its place, and so was the bartender. If there had been one constant in Hunter’s life for the past few months, that had been good old Mort. The bartender had always been there for him, always ready to take on the role of the accidental, informal counselor, the first line of advice and support for troubled, late-night drinkers.
“Hey, Mort,” said Hunter as he took his usual place at the bar. “Long time no see.”
“Good evening, sir,” replied Mortimer, ever the picture of genteel politeness. “I trust you’ve been busy.”
“Well… you know.”
That was one of Mortimer’s stronger suits; he was technically a figment of Hunter’s psyche. Hunter wasn’t really sure how that worked, but the bartender knew everything there was to know about him. He usually was very discreet about it, but that innate understanding made Mortimer the best counsellor and confidant Hunter could ever hope for. Not to mention an excellent informal therapist, too.
“Drink, sir?”
“Manhattan, please. And keep them coming. Thank you, Mort.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
As the bartender deftly prepared his drink, Hunter’s mind raced. Most of the times he’d climbed on this bar stool to seek Mortimer’s help, it had been because he’d been conflicted about something, or because he’d needed help to sort out his thoughts and feelings. Tonight, however, he hadn’t come here looking for a therapist.
He’d come here looking for a strategist.
“Here you go, sir,” said the bartender as he placed a cocktail glass on the coaster before him. “Enjoy.”
Hunter took a sip of burnt-orange colored liquid and smacked his lips, savoring the drink’s familiar warmth and rich, bittersweet taste. He’d associated it with these late-night heart-to-hearts with Mort, and it immediately helped him feel more grounded.
“So, how can I offer assistance tonight, sir?” the bartender asked.
“As you know, I followed Aumir to Taravus, the so-called paracausal realm of the Sage of Nine Hundred and Ninety-Nine spirits. As it turns out, said Sage wants me to leave my Transient body to her, once my time in Elderpyre is done. In exchange, she’s promised to make that remaining time as pleasant as possible.”
“So far, so good, sir.”
“Thing is, I have a gnawing suspicion that she’s tried to mess with my head, to somehow get me disconcerted enough to accept her offer. She’s had the motive, the means, and the opportunity.”
“I see. And how does that make you feel, sir?”
“Frankly? It makes me feel like I’ve been jerked around one time too many, and it’s high time I started doing something about that.”
The ever-solemn Mort leaned in, and for the first time, Hunter thought he caught the faintest trace of a baleful smile beneath that immaculate mustache.
“Most excellent, sir. Let us see what we can do about that.”
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