Hello There:
The electronic chime that plays when a bill is settled is the same sound they use for a successful Infection screening. I'm not sure if that's deeply philosophical or just cheap sound design. Either way, it's the sound of my bank account flatlining.
The number on the screen stares back at me, a single, pathetic '100' where a '5100' used to be. Gone. In one click. The entire triple payout from Thorns—which, let's be honest, was either a catastrophic accounting error or a quiet nod from a certain red-haired Colour Agent—vaporized to cover a night in a white room and some cream for second-degree burns.
You'd think surviving a Higher Being would earn you a discount. Silly me.
The doctor, a man whose voice could read a eulogy for a calculator, had already vanished. His final clinical advice was, "You should check out one hour from now if you don't want to pay anymore." Real compassionate. I half-expected a follow-up invoice for the oxygen I'd consumed while listening.
I lean against the cool wall, the ghost of heat still prickling my skin. Something is fundamentally broken in the Compass. This isn't payment; it's financial predation. And the scary part? No riots. Not one in a hundred years.
You see the problem, right? Either everyone in this city has the spine of a wet noodle and just… accepts this, or the people who did complain are now part of the city's foundation. Literally. Without a trace.
My stuff is in a bin by the door. A moment of silence for my suit, which is more gore and spider-silk than fabric now. Trash. But my katana is there. Old faithful. The scabbard is half-melted, a nice charcoal black on one side. Still fits, though.
I strap it on. The weight is a familiar comfort.
The walk out is a parade of sterile misery. An open door to a private room. A kid, sleeping. My eyes flick to the nameplate. Leo. I don't know why I bother to read it. I just do.
Then, the sound. A woman sobbing, raw and desperate. A man's voice, hushed, trying to be a rock in a hurricane. "We'll find a way, for Leo. We'll give everything."
The Best Hospital in the West. They're willing to give everything. And they don't look like they have much of anything to give.
And just like that, I feel involved. It's a stupid, fleeting impulse. What am I going to do? I have 100 credits to my name and a half-melted sword. I can't even help myself. Stepping in would be like offering a bandage to a corpse. Pointless.
I push through the main doors, the natural light of the city—filtered and artificial as it is—hitting my face. I just faced down a truck-sized spider-manager and a walking inferno. I should be ranked higher.
But then again, maybe not. The truly competent ones probably don't get bills this high.
The outside air of Lavender City hits me like a perfumed brick wall. No, literally. The place smells like a flower shop had a baby with a chemical plant and then decided to spray everything in a five-mile radius. You get used to it after a while, or so they say. I'm not there yet.
Every breath is a reminder that Lavendera, the perfume corp, owns this entire sector. Their logo is everywhere—a stylized purple blossom on every streetlamp, every bench, every agent's armband. Yeah, the patrols here are all bound to Lavendera, wearing those purple armbands like a badge of honor. They stride through the crowds, looking important, while normal folks shuffle past, heads down. The main philosophy of the West: look busy, stay quiet, and maybe the bill collectors will miss you.
The streets are wide, built for vehicles, but you only see a handful of cars. And each one has a tail—two or three other vehicles following close behind, packed with hired muscle. Protection details. I've been on that kind of mission before. Stand around, look tough, try not to get stabbed while some rich exec goes shopping. Only the wealthy can afford wheels these days. The rest of us walk.
My battle-worn suit feels stiff and uncomfortable, the fabric scratching against healing burns. It's seen better days, but it's all I have until I get back to my place. I keep my hand near the hilt of my katana, the burnt scabbard a constant, crinkling reminder of how I got here.
Massive screens plaster the sides of every skyscraper, blaring ads into the open air. The light from them flashes across the faces of the crowd, a dizzying strobe of consumerism. One screen shows a woman inhaling deeply from a lavender-colored bottle, her eyes rolling back in ecstasy. "Lavendera's Serenity," the ad chirps. "Breathe in the calm."
And you know what? It's not just a slogan. I tried a sample once. That stuff really does something to your head—dulls the edges, makes the world feel less like a meat grinder. For a few minutes, anyway. Then reality comes back, and you're just a guy with an empty wallet and a scent-induced headache. As an Agent, I don't have the credits to keep that particular habit going. Leaves me… well, leaves me like me.
Another screen cuts to a Thorn Company ad. They're bragging about their recent "achievement." My achievement. The Smiling Spider. The footage shows blurred, dramatic shots of the Lavender City skyscraper, with text overlays shouting about "valor" and "victory." They mention they "contributed" before Agent Flare arrived, but the way they edit it, you'd think they soloed the thing. They try to downplay her role, but it's clumsy. The ad practically screams, "We did it! We, the Thorns!"
Funny. I don't remember seeing any Thorns in that room after the first five minutes.
Then the screen shifts to an interview. And there she is. Agent Flare. No flames around her now, and her hair is dark red, her eyes like smoldering coals fixed on the camera.
This is her 'normal' form when she out of combat.
Also, she looks… irritated.
The interviewer, a smarmy guy in a too-tight suit, asks, "How difficult was it for you to bring down the Smiling Spider?"
Flare's jaw tightens. "Smiling Spider?" she repeats, her voice flat. "I don't see it smiling even after I burnt it."
The interviewer chuckles, but it's nervous. She's dead serious. She seems offended by the name, like someone lied to her about the monster's dental habits.
Then the guy goes in for the kill. "Now, about the Agents that helped you beat the monster—how much did they actually contribute? I even heard you vouched for one Agent that managed to hurt it!"
Flare closes her eyes for a second, and when she opens them, there's a weight in her gaze that makes the crowd around me go quiet. "If not for their effort," she says, each word measured, "the infection would already be terrorizing the city. They did good." A pause. "I wish they all rest in peace now."
The screen cuts back to a perfume ad.
I stop walking.
They… all?
She thinks I'm dead.
Of course. When she found me, I was covered in blood and spider silk, barely breathing. She probably assumed I'd be flagged as an Echo during the screening and… dealt with. Or that I just didn't make it. So she vouched for me, made sure I got paid triple, even though I never even unsheathed my katana. A posthumous bonus for a dead man.
I shake my head and finally look up from the pavement, intending to just keep moving, to put this whole mess behind me.
But I stop.
Right in front of me, blocking the path, is… a woman? Or maybe a high schooler? It's hard to tell. Everything about her is white. White hair, white clothes, white books clutched to her chest, even a white bag slung over her shoulder. And her eyes… they're white too, clouded over, indicating she's blind.
But she's staring right at me. Or through me. It's unnerving.
We stand there for a long moment, the flow of people parting around us like we're rocks in a stream. The perfumed air suddenly feels thick, suffocating.
Awkward tension? You could cut it with a rusty katana.
She doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just… stares.
My hand twitches toward my scabbard. "Excuse me," I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. "Can I help you?"
Her head tilts slightly, but those milky eyes don't waver.