Joshey was escorted back to his quarters by the other handlers.
"When Lord Viggo calls for you, you will be alerted. Stay safe, brother," said one of the handlers.
Stay safe. So they gave a damn. Whelp, that wasn't of concern right now. What even mattered? How was Lucia doing? Had she killed anyone yet? That was obviously not an answer he could get anytime soon. Joshey sat down and thought hard... then resumed training. "No time to become le penseur," he muttered. He would leave all those thoughts for later. Joshey had a deep drive to become stronger, because if he didn't, he felt a crisis he wouldn't be able to avoid would meet him. That was the life he knew: you needed to be smart and physically strong in order to do anything, or to do what you want—though those who go around and harming others are doing what they want while bringing harm to others and that's just being careless, which meant you were being a wild animal. Power and knowledge were meant for people who could actually use it. Joshey was not the type of person to say "with great power comes great responsibility" where the responsibility in question was to protect the weak. No.
Joshey initially did not care much about all of that. People he did not know were not his responsibility, but in this scenario, his "responsibility" was himself and the ones he held dear. By using his strength, he could micro-manage every situation and outcome, or so he thought.
After training, he noticed a manual on top of the desk in the corner. It seemed to be a pamphlet: Briefing Notes and Protocols. Apparently, not publicly wearing your handler's ID was one of the biggest crimes here. "How the hell is that higher than murdering people?" This world was another world at this point, but unlike before, Joshey now felt the self-coercive force that made him want to help others even though he did not know them. Was this some kind of redemption? No. In truth, he had always been this way but forced denial upon himself. Without any kind of organization attached, he could do as he wanted.
The list of protocols had "Punishments" listed underneath for failing to adhere to them.
Protocols:
Handler Identification Badges must be worn visibly on the outer garment at all times while on duty within the Granary District.
All cargo manifests must be verified and stamped by a shift foreman before loading or unloading commences.
Unauthorized communication with laborers in the holding pens is strictly forbidden.
No handler is to leave their assigned sector without explicit permission from their unit captain.
All incidents, including disturbances, injuries, or inventory discrepancies, must be reported to the watch officer before the end of the shift.
Punishments for Non-Compliance:
First Offense: Deduction of one week's wages and mandatory re-training.
Second Offense: Demotion to laborer status for a period of one month.
Third Offense: Permanent revocation of handler credentials and indefinite consignment to the deep marsh work crews.
Note: Violation of Protocol 3 (unauthorized communication) is considered a Second Offense, regardless of prior record.
But as he read the punishments, he understood. It wasn't about the act. It was about the principle.
First offense: docked pay. Second offense: you become a slave yourself for a month. Third offense: you go to the deep marsh crews. A death sentence.
And there, separate: talking to the laborers. Unauthorized communication. That was an automatic second offense. No warnings.
It was so clear it was chilling. This place wasn't run by mindless brutes. It was run by someone who understood people. The badge meant you belonged to Viggo. You were marked. Talking to the slaves was dangerous. It reminded you they were human. It could give them ideas. Better to crush that impulse the moment it appeared, by making the talker share their fate.
This was the Guild's uglier, meaner cousin. No fancy points system, just a shorter chain and a quicker drop into the pit.
He tossed the pamphlet back on the desk. So that was the game. Clear rules. Brutal, simple, efficient rules designed to keep everyone terrified and in line.
A weird sort of calm settled over him. He knew the rules now. He knew the price for breaking them.
Somewhere in this mountain, Lucia was navigating this same evil logic. Michael was suffering under it.
Joshey flexed his hands, feeling the raw skin on his knuckles from earlier.
Alright then.
Log Entry: [SITUATION NORMAL - ANOMALY DETECTED]
The handler—Lucia had already mentally catalogued him as Scowler, ID# 882, right canine chipped, favors left leg—slapped the incident report on the corner of her desk without breaking stride. The gesture was pure contempt, a test for the new, quiet woman in the monitor's chair.
Lucia's blue eyes, which had been fixed on a shipping ledger, slid to the slip of paper. Her face was a placid lake. She gave a single, shallow nod, the barest permissible acknowledgment. No words. Scowler grunted, the sound implying she was beneath even his disdain, and stomked out, his uneven gait echoing down the hall.
The moment the door clicked shut, the placid lake iced over into a perfect, calculating mirror.
Her hand moved, not with haste, but with an economical precision that spoke of deadly training. She picked up the report. Her eyes scanned it once, twice, in under three seconds.
FIRST-PASS TRIAGE: COMPLETE.
Subject: Recruit Vulcrest, Elias. Handler #1670.
Reported By: Handler #882 (Scowler). Assessment: Superficial. Observant only of surface-level violations. No initiative for deeper inquiry. Credibility: Low for strategic insight.
Offense: Failure to publicly display Handler Identification Tag. First Offense.
Priority Level: ROUTINE. Not a breach. Not violence. A procedural slap on the wrist.
Hidden Value Potential: HIGH. Subject is Elias. The Self-Sufficient Asset. A routine, idiotic violation was statistically improbable. Therefore, the violation was intentional. Probable Motive: Forced administrative contact. Seeks a measured, low-risk encounter with command structure.
Her mind, a vault of cold protocols she'd absorbed in minutes during the mind-numbing orientation, presented the next steps with flawless clarity. She did not forward the original. The original was a potential poison, a thread leading back to Scowler's sloppy observation and her own desk.
She pulled the heavy, leather-bound Relay Ledger toward her and opened it to the next blank line. With a sharp, clean quill, she began her transcription.
FROM: Handler Monitor (Station Gamma) RE: Daily Incident Relay – Shift 2 ENTRY: 1. Recruit #1670 (Vulcrest, E.). Offense: Protocol 1 (Tag Non-Compliance). Source: Handler #882. No escalation observed.
This was the sanitized version. The story for the machine.
Then, in the narrow margin reserved for Monitor Notes—a space most filled with bland checkmarks—her quill hovered for a heartbeat. This was her layer. The only place her silent assessment existed.
She did not write her opinion. She did not write "This is a ploy." She inscribed two tiny, pre-agreed symbols, as crisp and deliberate as sword cuts:
[R-C/I]
Routine. Counter-Intelligence Interest Recommended.
The annotation was a ghost in the machine, a whisper only the next link in the chain would understand. It transformed Elias's clumsy mistake into a flagged data point. It painted Scowler as a man who'd brought her a piece of ore without realizing there might be gold—or poison—inside.
She closed the Relay Ledger with a soft thump. The original slip from Scowler was taken, not filed, but placed into a small, iron-banded strongbox under her desk, locked with a key she wore on a thin chain under her tunic. Source File secured.
The procedure was a rhythm in her blood now. She stood, the movement smooth despite the persistent, gnawing ache in her abdomen she continued to ignore utterly. Ledger under her arm, she became a different kind of ghost—not one hiding in alleys, but one moving through administrative halls with unimpeachable purpose.
She did not go to the opulent rooms where Viggo held court. That would be an error, a breach of protocol as glaring as a missing tag. She went to a nondescript door at the end of a quiet corridor. This was the Bridge.
She knocked twice, sharp raps.
"Enter." The voice from within was neutral, devoid of gender or emotion.
Lucia opened the door and stepped into a sparse, windowless office. The man behind the desk was gaunt, his features sharp and forgettable. He was the human filter between the chaos of the handlers and the attention of the kingpin. His name was irrelevant; his function was everything. He was simply the Bridge.
She approached the desk, placed the open Relay Ledger before him, and tapped the fresh entry with a fingertip. "Daily relay," she said, her voice a low, clear monotone. "One routine. Marked."
The Bridge's eyes, the color of old slate, flicked down. He read the entry. His gaze lingered for a half-second on the [R-C/I] in the margin. No change crossed his face. He gave a slow, single nod.
"Acknowledged," he said, his voice still that same neutral tone. He made a note in his own ledger, copying the reference. "Source file?"
"Gamma-Seven," Lucia replied immediately, citing her station and the strongbox compartment number.
"Dismissed."
Lucia retrieved her ledger, turned, and left without another word. The door shut behind her, sealing the silence.
Back in her own sterile room, she sat. The procedure was complete. The machine had been fed. Elias's "mistake" was now a tiny, flagged stone dropped into the deep, dark pond of Viggo's intelligence apparatus. It would cause ripples, but the kind only sharks would sense.
A faint, almost imperceptible quirk touched the corner of her mouth. Go Elias, she thought again, the warmth of the thought a stark contrast to the cold room. Your move is on the board. Let's see what the shark does.
She pulled another ledger toward her, the ghost returning to her post, the pain in her body once again relegated to a distant, ignored signal. The wait continued.