Chapter 017: Delivery to Heaven
[I tried to give a damn, but I seem to have misplaced it.]
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{MORNDAS, SOLYRA 23, 999 – 08:05}
{LUCIAN GILFORD}
The elevator doors slid shut behind me with a low, hydraulic sigh. For a moment I expected the lurch, the mechanical shudder, the usual rhythm of cables and counterweights—but none of it came. The lift simply rose, silent and impossibly smooth, as though the whole world had decided to accommodate my upward motion.
My reflection followed me in the polished metal of the walls, warped slightly by the gentle curvature. I leaned back against the railing, studying the faint runic etchings along the seam between panels. They glowed faintly, steady as an LED strip, pulsing in even intervals that almost felt familiar. Magic, sure—but it mimicked an electrical circuit so closely I could almost hear the hum of voltage that wasn't there. Someone had reinvented the same idea, just with a different vocabulary.
The air didn't move, yet my ears popped. Pressure equalized in real time. That meant enclosed magic—or something operating on the same principle as air compressors and seals. My phone buzzed faintly in my pocket, a proximity alert from the beacon app confirming that the LIDP authorization had transferred correctly to the Tower's main elevator grid. Which, to me, raised one simple question.
Why the hell did this thing feel exactly like an Otis?[1]
I checked the display panel near the ceiling. Instead of floor numbers, it showed symbols that shifted, melting into new forms every few seconds. It reminded me of language patterns on ancient elevators back home—the way older systems displayed "B" for basement or "P" for parking—but here it was… living script. Each line flickered as if breathing.
I let out a low whistle and muttered, "Magic elevator, huh? And everyone acts like that's normal."
When the doors opened, a subtle breeze brushed my face—cooler air, scented faintly of white marble, incense, and something floral I couldn't place. Ahead, a long corridor stretched out under a vaulted ceiling, gilded sconces burning with a pale, heatless light. The space carried a quiet so absolute it bordered on reverent, and for a second I understood why people whispered the word divine when they talked about the Tower.
Still, I wasn't impressed so much as curious. Because the sensation—floating lift, light panels, pressure seal—it wasn't mystical. It was engineering by another name.
I stepped out, phone still in hand, and noted absently, "So either they've got better architects than they let on… or somebody's been here before with a serious understanding of physics."
The thought followed me as I crossed into the upper halls of Babel. I wasn't awed. Just wondering why a god's tower felt so much like home.
My steps echoed soft against the stone, the sound swallowed by the stillness as I followed the faint tug of the delivery beacon toward the gilded doors at the far end. I didn't need to ask who waited there—the air already told me.
Ottar stood before the threshold, still as a statue carved from muscle and restraint. Up close, he was even larger than rumor suggested, his sheer presence pressing against the space like a second gravity. He inclined his head once, polite but warning, a wordless reminder of the difference between the mortal world and the one I was about to step into. I nodded back, keeping my movements measured. Slow. Deliberate. The last thing I wanted was to look like prey.
Beyond him, through the half-open doorway, a glow gathered—warm, silken, and soft in a way that felt wrong for stone. It wasn't light so much as invitation, a radiance that coaxed instead of burned. Every instinct told me to brace. Goddess of beauty. Freya. If half the stories were true, a single glance could unravel the will.
The door opened wider.
Freya stood there, framed by pale curtains that moved without wind. Every story I'd heard about her—the goddess whose gaze could undo armies, whose smile could drive mortals to madness—felt suddenly inadequate. Beauty wasn't the right word. Beauty was manageable, familiar, something a human mind could catalog and name. She was something else, an idea given shape. I'd seen paintings back home that tried to capture perfection, symmetry so complete it made people uncomfortable. This was that, but alive.
And the first word out of my mouth was a quiet, incredulous, "Syr?"
Her lips curved, the same faint smile I'd seen at the Hostess of Fertility the night before, that same gentle tilt of the head, the same voice when she finally spoke. "You remember me."
The words slid through the air like silk. My pulse jumped despite every rational thought screaming at me to stay grounded. I blinked, trying to find something solid to focus on—her hair, her dress, the way light pooled around her feet like liquid silver—but even that shimmered when I looked too long.
"I—uh." I cleared my throat, stepping just inside the doorway. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."
Ottar remained motionless by the door, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. I could feel the weight of his watchfulness like a blade resting against my back. Freya's eyes, though, never left mine.
"Few expect to," she said softly. "And yet you came."
"Technically," I managed, "your people came to me first. I'm just here for delivery confirmation." I raised my phone, more as a talisman than a tool, and added, "Protocol."
She stepped closer, the hem of her gown whispering across the marble. "You bring interesting things into my city, Lucian. Water purer than any spring. Goods no craftsman here can name. You even sell comfort as though it were ordinary." Her gaze dipped briefly toward the device in my hand. "And you carry that."
"It's… just part of my trade."
"It's more than that." She stopped within arm's reach, and I realized too late that I'd made the mistake of meeting her eyes again. For a moment everything slowed—breath, heartbeat, thought—until the world blurred at the edges and all that remained was her.
My hand tightened around the phone like it could anchor me to reality. "Lady Freya," I said, careful to keep my tone level, "if this is about a purchase, I'd prefer to keep things professional."
Her laughter was quiet, nearly soundless, the kind that moved through the body rather than the ear. "Professional," she repeated, tasting the word as though it were new to her. "You're cautious. Sensible. Refreshing."
She turned slightly, the light shifting around her like it obeyed her will. "You'll find the beacon site has already been prepared. Ottar will escort you."
"Right," I said, forcing myself to look at anything else—the floor, the doorframe, the faint blue shimmer of the runes carved into the ceiling. "Beacon placement. Got it."
"Tell me," she said as I started to step back, "what does it see, your little device?"
I paused. "See?"
"When it looks upon this world," she said, her smile returning, "what does it find worth keeping?"
I didn't have an answer for that. Maybe she didn't expect one.
Freya turned away, silver hair cascading over her shoulder as she faced the open window once more. The conversation was over. Ottar's subtle motion at my side confirmed it.
As I stepped back into the hall, every instinct told me not to look back. But I did. And in that brief glance, I caught her reflection in the glass—watching me still, her smile unchanged, serene and certain in a way that sent a chill through my chest.
Ottar led the way through the tower's marble corridors, the sound of his heavy boots setting a rhythm I could follow without thinking. I moved behind him, careful not to fall too far back, trying to ignore the lingering static in my head that still carried Freya's voice. It wasn't even her words that stayed with me—it was her tone, soft and slow, the kind that wrapped around a thought and refused to let it go. Every time I blinked, I could almost feel the warmth of her presence again, like perfume that clung to the air long after she'd left the room.
I kept walking, one step at a time, trying to let the simple act of movement break the spell. The hallways were broad and white, lined with polished stone and golden sconces that gleamed like they'd been cleaned five minutes ago. My reflection stretched along the walls, smaller and thinner compared to the mountain of a man ahead of me.
"Does she always do that?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Ottar's reply came without turning. "Do what?"
"Make it feel like breathing hurts a little."
His pause lasted long enough to make me regret the question. "That is her nature," he said finally. "All who look upon her remember."
"Yeah," I muttered. "I noticed."
We reached the main lift again, the great doors sliding open with a sound too smooth to be mechanical but too exact to be magic. The platform began to descend, and I leaned back against the rail, staring at the glowing runes set into the floor. The whole thing reminded me of home—of stainless steel panels and quiet elevator music—only this one had the faint vibration of mana pulsing beneath my boots.
"She seemed…" I hesitated, searching for the right word and failing. "Different."
"She is a goddess," Ottar said, still facing forward. "Different is expected."
"Yeah," I said again, softer this time. "Expected."
But the truth was, the moment I'd met her eyes, it hadn't felt divine. It had felt human in the most dangerous way—like seeing someone who already knew what you'd dream about before you did. Even now, I could still see the faint curve of her smile, the way light gathered around her hair, the quiet certainty in her voice when she'd said my name.
The elevator slowed, the motion smooth enough that I barely felt it stop. Ottar stepped forward as the doors opened, the sound of distant bells spilling in from the city below. I followed him out, the cool air of Orario rushing over me, carrying the scent of stone and dust and the faint sweetness of the gardens beyond the plaza.
Freya stayed in my head the way smoke stayed in cloth—subtle, pervasive, impossible to wash out. I told myself it would fade by morning. It didn't feel like a lie, but I wasn't sure I believed it either.
Ottar led the way through the winding marble corridors, and I followed in silence, trying to focus on the rhythm of our steps instead of the ghost of Freya's smile still clinging to my mind. The air felt cleaner here—too clean. Everything in Babel gleamed like it had never seen dust or wear. The floor's reflection followed me as I walked, each step perfectly mirrored, like the tower itself was quietly watching.
Halfway down the corridor, the question finally surfaced. Why had she even needed to meet me herself? Ottar could have handled this. He was her right hand, her voice, her force. He knew where the delivery site was, and I would've followed him without complaint. There was no reason for Freya to appear—none, except that she wanted to.
And that thought stuck like a splinter.
She knew. Gods like her always knew. She didn't step out of her chamber because she had to; she did it because she understood exactly what would happen. She wanted me to look at her. She wanted me to stumble, to feel that pull under my ribs, to carry her with me even after I'd left her presence. It wasn't affection. It was design.
That realization crawled up my spine, hot and cold at once.
She'd looked at me like a child might look at a toy she hadn't decided how to play with yet. And the worst part? It worked. My pulse still beat out of rhythm from her voice, my thoughts still circling back to that unbearable stillness in her eyes. She'd set her snare with nothing but a smile.
I hated that.
Not the beauty—not the power. The manipulation. The presumption that mortals existed to be moved like pieces across some divine board. It made my stomach tighten, made me wish I could scrub her from my thoughts like a stain that refused to fade.
Ahead of me, Ottar turned down another hall toward a set of tall doors banded with dark iron. The faint hum of magic pressed against my skin; this must have been the outer edge of Freya Familia's private grounds. I pushed the thoughts aside, forcing my attention back to the job—just plant the beacon, confirm delivery, and leave.
Still, as the doors opened and sunlight spilled through, I caught myself glancing over my shoulder once, half-expecting her to be there. Not because I wanted her to be. Because part of me already knew she could be, if she wished it.
And that, more than anything, made me hate her all the more.
Ottar walked ahead without a word, his footfalls heavy enough to make the marble tremble, and I followed, keeping my face still while my mind seethed.
The goddess of beauty had made me feel something she could profit from. So be it. I'd make her pay for it.
If she wanted to toy with mortals, she could do it with a thinner wallet next time. I started running numbers in my head before we even reached the courtyard. Two bears. Two pallets. Whatever else she asked for after that. I'd give her every convenience her heart desired, but she'd pay for it like a queen trying to buy the sun.
Every crate, every beacon activation, every expedited order—marked up to the point of parody. The system said prices rounded down for me, not them. My discount was my leverage, and I'd wield it like a blade. Twenty-five percent margin? Not anymore. Fifty. Maybe seventy. Let the goddess of love pay the mortal tax for her arrogance.
If she thought her charm made me pliant, she hadn't met capitalism.
Ottar opened the courtyard doors, the morning light spilling over the stones, and I smiled to myself as the air hit my face. The fire in my chest cooled into something colder—measured, deliberate.
I'd sell to her Familia. I'd even deliver with a bow if she wanted the show. But every transaction would remind her that beauty might be free, but supply chains never were.
Ottar stood nearby like a statue while I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened the order screen. If Freya wanted service, she was going to pay for service.
I started a new invoice and spoke under my breath while I typed, just loud enough for him to hear. "Base item list—two bears at one million Valis each, two ration pallets at one point eight million a piece." My thumb tapped the add button again and again. "Expedited delivery, ten thousand per pallet. Courier fee, five thousand per escort. Site installation and activation of beacon, that's a ten-thousand flat. Administrative fee for divine-client processing…" I paused deliberately, pretending to think. "Let's call that another ten-thousand."
Ottar's ear twitched. He didn't say a word. Probably smart.
"And of course," I went on, "there's the matter of my lost work hours. Store closed, customers unattended, income delayed. At my rate of two hundred an hour, and we'll say it's been… two hours since I left the shop, that's four hundred for time expenditure." I smirked faintly and added it to the invoice. "Can't forget sales tax."
Except there wasn't any tax—so the line item read, in perfectly neutral script:
Sales Tax: 0 Ʌ̶
I left it there anyway, as a kind of signature.
When the invoice finalized, the total blinked on-screen:
5,645,400 Ʌ̶
I turned the phone around so Ottar could see it, the number glowing softly on the black glass. "Here's the damage. Standard Warehouse pricing, special rates for divine clientele. Payment on request, naturally."
He stared for a second, that enormous frame of his completely still, then gave one slow nod. No protest, no argument—just acceptance. That almost made me laugh.
I hit "Confirm" and watched the ground shimmer where I'd placed the beacon. A wide circle of stone paved itself smooth, a pale red G burning in the center like a brand. Ten seconds later, the air folded inward, and the first pallet dropped into place, followed by the twin bears wrapped in clear film that gleamed in the sunlight.
I stepped back, dusted my hands, and tucked the phone away. "Pleasure doing business," I said. "Tell your goddess her order's complete. And next time she wants to see me personally…" I let the words hang, smiling without warmth. "She can book an appointment."
[1] "Otis" refers to Otis Elevator Company, the oldest and one of the largest elevator manufacturers in the world.