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DATE:29th of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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Eventually, I returned.
The walk hadn't cleared my head. If anything, the cold had just frozen the irritation in place. The tea shop I'd found was already closing, some minimum-wage drone inside flipping chairs onto tables under flickering, half-dimmed fluorescents. I stood outside for ten minutes like an idiot, staring at the synthetic menu board through the glass before turning back.
Empty-handed. No less restless.
The hotel room was dark when I opened the door. Only the faint glow from the city outside filtered through the curtains, painting the room in bruised shades of gray and muted blue.
I found her in the bed.
Pamela had curled into a tight, defensive ball, shivering despite the heavy blanket draped over her shoulders. Her face was scrunched. Not peaceful. Just wrong. Her breathing came in short, irregular gasps, like the mechanics of her lungs were misfiring and couldn't find a rhythm. Her fingers clutched the sheets so hard the joints had locked tight, the knuckles completely drained of blood.
Nightmares.
Perhaps like mine? Can Ghosts dream?
I wondered what she saw. Her husband's blank, dead face? The stone hand punching through her chest? Twenty years of wandering as a ghost, invisible and forgotten, screaming into empty rooms that never answered back?
Or maybe she dreamed of something worse. The realization that she'd never get those years back. That merely deflating could not undo what had been taken from her. That she'd spent the best years in a human's life mourning a man whose name she couldn't even remember anymore.
I stood there for a moment, watching her shake.
Then I moved to the edge of the bed—the far side, as distant from her as the mattress allowed—and stretched out fully clothed. The foam mattress was finely lowered under my weight.
She didn't wake.
I stared at the ceiling, tracing the fancy art piece covering the ceiling with my eyes. My chassis ached. Ribs, wrists, trachea. The extreme-dose aspirin had worn off hours ago, leaving behind the dull, mechanical throb of tissue trying to knit itself back together. Muscle fibers that just wanted to quit.
I didn't have the courage to suppress the pain. Yet even then, it was distant. I had to focus to even perceive it. It felt like I lacked the nerves themselves…
I expected to lie there for hours. Waiting. Thinking. Replaying every moment of the day until dawn came and I could pretend I'd slept.
But exhaustion hit me like a freight train.
My eyelids grew heavy. The sounds of the city faded into white noise—honking, shouting, the hum of a thousand lives I didn't care about. The bed was too soft, the pillow too warm, but my body didn't care.
I went to sleep.
That night, we slept in the same bed.
I didn't dream.
No monsters clawing at the edges of my mind. No void, no quest for some forgotten princess…
Just... nothing.
Silence.
And for the first time in a while, I woke up rested.
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DATE:30th of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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I woke up in the morning with her hugging me.
The realization came slowly—first the weight across my chest, then the warmth pressed against my side. Her arm was draped over me, fingers curled loosely against my ribs. Her face was buried in my shoulder, breath coming in slow, steady rhythms that tickled the base of my neck.
One of her legs had hooked over mine, tangling us together beneath the sheets.
Too close. Ugh.
My skin crawled. Not from disgust—from something harder to name. Discomfort. Violation of space. From the sheer, unadulterated annoyance of it. Though this wasn't the first time, something made it feel different.
I pushed her out of bed. Her unconscious body didn't provide much resistance.
Not gently. Just a sharp, decisive shove with both hands against her shoulder and hip. She tumbled off the mattress with a startled yelp, limbs flailing, hitting the marble floor with a dull thud. The blanket came with her, half-covering her face.
"What the hell were you doing?" I demanded, sitting up. My ribs screamed in protest.
She blinked up at me groggily, still half-asleep, confusion flooding her features. Her hair was a mess—tangled, sticking up at odd angles. For a moment she just stared, trying to process where she was, what had happened.
Then recognition dawned. Her eyes widened.
"I—I must have moved in my sleep," she stammered, scrambling backward and pulling the blanket around herself defensively. "I wouldn't consciously touch someone like you."
The words landed like a slap.
Someone like you.
The silence stretched between us—heavy, awkward, damning.
Then she realized what she'd said. Her face went pale, then flushed red. Her mouth opened and closed, searching for words.
"I'm sorry," she added quickly, voice breaking slightly. "I didn't mean—that came out wrong—I wasn't thinking—"
But she had meant it.
Every word.
And she was right.
Obviously someone who could see through me—who'd watched me beat her unconscious, kick her broken ribs, strangle her until she couldn't breathe, impale her on my arm like some grotesque puppet, spit on her face while she lay bleeding—wouldn't like me.
Why would she?
I'd shown her exactly what I was. No pretense. No mask. No careful performance. Just the ugliness beneath, raw and unfiltered.
She could see the floating letters around me-Aionis or whatever else was branded into my cursed soul. She'd peered into the parts of me I couldn't even access myself and found... what? A monster wearing human skin? A corpse pretending to be alive? A ghoul clinging to the illusion of humanity?
Of course she wouldn't want to touch me.
Not willingly. Not consciously.
I swung my legs off the bed, standing and turning away from her so I wouldn't have to see the apology written across her face. The pity. The regret that she'd hurt my feelings—as if I still had any worth protecting.
"Forget it," I said, voice flat and emotionless
"William—"
"I'm going to shower."
I cut her off. Listening to her stutter was exhausting
I walked to the bathroom without looking back, my footsteps heavier than they needed to be. I closed the door behind me with more force than necessary—not quite a slam, but close enough to make my point.
The lock clicked.
The mirror greeted me with the same scarred reflection as always. Bruised neck—purple and black fingerprints still visible where she'd strangled me. Hollow eyes ringed with dark circles that never seemed to fade. It wasn't even that I was taking it emotionally because I frankly couldn't care whether she appreciated my presence or not, but it did remind me of yesterday.
So does she consider me a hero or not? I don't get it…
Someone like me.
Yeah.
That sounded about right.
I turned on the shower—piercing cold, the way I liked it—and stripped off yesterday's blood-stained clothes.
The water hit my shoulders like icy needles. It didn't wake me up. It didn't cleanse my soul or offer some ridiculous moment of self-care clarity.
A cold shower is good for you because…. Why am I even reiterating this self-care nonsense when it doesn't even help me?
Whatever.
I got out of the shower and found Pamela eating a salad at the small table by the window.
She'd changed into fresh clothes—another borrowed set, probably from the hotel's laundry service. Her hair was still messy, but she'd at least tried to comb it with her fingers. Two bowls sat on the table, both filled with greens, cherry tomatoes, sliced cucumber, and what looked like grilled chicken.
"I took the initiative to order for us," she said without looking up.
I grabbed a towel, drying my hair as I walked over. "How easily you spend someone else's money..."
She finally met my eyes, expression flat. "It's not like you're in a state to care about vain things like money."
I opened my mouth—wanted to say she doesn't know me, that she had no idea what I cared about—but stopped myself.
Because she was right. Again.
What was a hotel room service charge compared to ventium missiles? Compared to the Combine? Compared to whatever the hell I was even doing anymore?
I sat down across from her and grabbed the other bowl without another word.
The first bite surprised me. "It's surprisingly fresh."
"They have whole farms on call," she said quietly. "The receptionist told me when I called down."
We ate in silence for a moment—awkward, heavy, neither of us willing to address what had happened earlier.
"Did Mike or Mundi call?" I asked.
I speared a piece of chicken. The meat was actually tender. The greens were crisp, the tomatoes snapping pleasantly against my teeth. Real food. A rare luxury that felt entirely wasted on my currently hollowed-out mood.
Pamela sighed, setting down her fork. "You should get your own phone."
I raised my free hand. Folded my fingers against my thumb like a yapping mouth. "Blah, blah."
She glared at me, but there was no real heat behind it.
The phone vibrated against the table.
Pamela answered it, listened for a second, and wordlessly slid the device across the wood toward me.
"Mike," I said, putting it to my ear.
"Zaun." His voice was gravel. Rough. Dragging with the dead weight of an all-nighter. "Got something. There's a gala tonight. Organized by the family of the Crusader. Traditional thing they do every year to show off their extravagant treasures from 'exploring' ruins."
I chewed the chicken. Swallowed.
"The Crusader," I said.
It took a while to pinpoint the name.
The self-titled knight. The fanatic who used his hero badge to play judge, jury, and executioner out in the streets.
"The dead one," I added, my voice hollow.
"Yeah," Mike muttered.
I kept my eyes on the salad bowl. I didn't want to look at anything in particular.
I remember the idiot got his entire team butchered when fighting Barryvard back at the Don's compound. Did his family have this large an influence? He was at the very least a team leader in what was back then the strongest agency in Concord so I suppose it makes sense.
Honestly, I never bothered to care about it. Especially after his death. I had larger problems. But 'Exploring'?
That certainly wasn't the whole explanation. Probably in Salvia if I were to think about it. Weren't the locals considered pagans by the Unified Church?
Also, wasn't his wife rotting in a cell for helping him string up bodies? I remember back in that thing with Sarah that she was blaming SuperiorWoman for her husband's death.
Pathetic.
More likely dreadful.
And he came out of Zenik. Just like all the other heroes and villains. Although compared to Blazer or the Haymaker he was merely a thug…
"What does a dead hypocrite's gala have to do with anything?" I asked.
"The reason Crater was even in that warehouse," Mike said, speaking slowly, "was to organize some kind of deal between the Combine and a faction of the heroes. My searches pointed toward this gala being the meeting point."
I set down my fork. The metal clinked sharply against the ceramic.
"Which faction?" I asked.
Morgan's?
"Don't know yet," Mike said. "But whoever they are, they're wealthy enough to attend that kind of event without raising suspicion. Old money. Hero families. The kind that wear their masks at charity functions and call it networking." Ehh, that's a bit of a stretch.
Any hero could genuinely be at one of these parties. And old money? Heroes appeared 20 years ago so that's also a bit much. Mike was playing theatrics for sure.
I stared at the painted wall of the hotel room.
Some of them were probably part of the Agencies. Too bad I can't even remember them.
And here I saw myself as a fraud. A longshot.
I breathed out.
"And you think the deal is happening tonight?"
"I think it's the best lead we have," Mike said. "The Psyker was spotted near the estate yesterday. Could be scouting. Could be delivering something. Either way, we need eyes on that gala."
"Crater won't show," I interrupted. "Not after our little chat at the warehouse. He's bleeding, not stupid."
"The Combine is too ambitious to cancel something like that," Mike countered. "They must have been planning this for weeks, maybe months. One failed extraction won't stop them. They'll just adapt."
"So what's the play?"
"Use your name," Mike said. "Flash the title. Look for Crater or Combine suits. I'll handle my end."
"What will you do?"
"Infiltrate as staff," Mike said matter-of-factly. "I'll Kill the representatives of the hero faction before the deal goes through." As if declaring war on the ocean moves it…
I scoffed. The sound scraped the back of my throat. "Explain the details."
"The gala starts at ten PM officially," he said. "But there's always a masked pre-party for the elites—private, exclusive, before the main event. Your title should get you in. That's where the real deals happen. Backrooms, closed doors, away from the cameras."
He paused.
He paused. I could hear his breathing. Ragged and thin over the secure line.
"I'm on catering," he continued. "Lighter security. I find the targets, I drop them. I have sourced a neurotoxin that should take out any of them if ingested."
Stupid.
He was talking about heroes. Even the fat, corrupt ones sitting in boardrooms had altered physiology. Bone density. Cellular regeneration. Mike was just a man. A guy with a gun and a bad sleep schedule planning to slip poison to demigods.
"And when that inevitably fails?" I asked.
"Then it gets messy," Mike said flatly. "But either way, the deal doesn't happen."
I leaned back. The marble or whatever material the tall chair was made out of made it really uncomfortable. Is this really what rich guys prefer?
"What about the Psyker?" I asked.
"Wild card," Mike said. "If he shows up, priority sh—"
"I know how psionics work, Mike," I cut in.
Just the thought of him made the base of my skull itch.
"He's more dangerous than the politicians," Mike finished, his tone sharpening. "Don't fuck this up, Zaun. We only get one shot."
I stared out the window at nothing in particular.
Mike was getting awfully comfortable giving orders. I thought the whole power gets to your head thing was a cliche but he seems to be overestimating his abilities. Teleporting can only get you so much and that isn't even an inherent ability. He loses the watch and turns into 'just another killer'.
And for the power itself, I assume it doesn't come free. Emily had the power of a thousand minds or something like that so I don't doubt she could process the exact coordinates, but Mike is merely a grief stricken human.
A guy with a gun if you will.
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered.
I ended the call without saying goodbye. Tossed the phone onto the table. It slid across the polished wood and hit Pamela's empty ceramic bowl with a sharp clack.
Too many variables. Too much noise.
I'd have to find a suit. Squeeze into some stiff, suffocating fabric. Then I'd have to spend hours breathing the same recycled air as those self-righteous, cape-wearing aristocrats, pretending their little charity fundraiser meant a damn thing while the streets bled out.
Outstanding.
I shifted my gaze to Pamela. She was staring at her empty bowl, wiping a smudge of vinaigrette off the rim with her thumb.
"We need to prepare," I said.
She looked up, dropping her hand. "What do you need me to do?"
"Look presentable," I told her. "Act respectable. And for God's sake. Remember the control thing? We didn't really do any of those supposed sessions so don't inflate unless someone is actively trying to kill us."
She blinked. A flat, utterly exhausted stare.
"I know how to behave at formal events," she said.
"Good," I said. I pushed myself down the tall chair. My right knee popped loudly in the quiet room. "Because I don't."
A lie, technically.
The old me knew exactly which fork to use. Knew exactly whose hand to shake and whose ring to kiss in these high-society snake pits. I had that training beaten into me for two decades,
But the current me?
I couldn't trust myself to not act up.