Vol. 3 Chap. 5 Making Arrangements

Vol. 3 Chap. 5 Making Arrangements

The countryside in Jeon felt different than in Siphios. Truth couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was different somehow. His usual loathing of farms did trigger, but none of the people he saw triggered his loathing of farmers. It took him an embarrassing amount of time to connect the dots. He didn’t hate the farm laborers he met back at the Garage in the Free State. They were really great. And these poor bastards doing the harvesting didn’t make him feel anything but sad.

They weren’t “farmers.” They were laborers. And they did not own the fruits of their labor.

Truth wondered if he could whip them up somehow. Explain to them how completely fucked they were, how utterly hopeless their situation. How stupid it was to work for nothing. Just keep what you make. Sleep where you like. If someone disagrees, fight them. There are more of you than them. Then he sighed, depressed.

Level One’s or Zero’s, with no combat spells, no combat talismans, no organization. They wouldn’t last an hour. And even if they did have talismans and organization, one reasonably on the bounce squad of Level Two PMC soldiers would annihilate an entire army of them. No, the fires of chaos would have to be set widely and exist more in the minds of the enemy than in reality. His trainers were clearly right about this.

He finally caught up with De’Ponte and hopped into the sprinting chariot. He ground himself into the supple leather seats. It had not been fun crawling around the checkpoint. Time to let someone else work for a bit.

>

Oh? Got an idea?

>

Okay?

>

I don’t know any snakes that can tell the future. And yet.

>

Truth felt his brain lurch for a second as if reality had suddenly snapped into a new focus.

Of course! He figures out what his target needs to hear to make them see the world, makes them understand reality the way he wants them to. He doesn’t need to force his projected identity on others if they already believe it themselves. They make themselves helpless. Obedient. The longer they are exposed to his words, the weaker they are for him.

The entirety of Incisive played out in front of Truth, the whole glorious system of it. Botis was a wild, arrogant demon, but it slithered its way out of the depths of Hell. It was all about survival. And for a predator, survival came down to energy and risk. How to spend the least energy, to get the most energy, at the least risk.

So then- the precognition had a high energy cost, but if you ran it at its most short-term, limited level, it wasn’t very expensive. For someone alert and skilled, it was more than enough to avoid danger and take advantage of opportunities.

Since opportunity was fleeting and danger came fast, the high energy-high risk fighting element, the fangs, would be essentially dormant except for the shattered instant of their use. The scales created your identity at a low cost, with all its benefits, and the venom weakened your prey and shaped the battlefield.

It was all one system. All one spell. Everything worked together all of the time. It had to! The world wasn’t neatly divided into “Safe” and “Dangerous.” Everywhere was a battlefield and a hunting ground. Everyone was both predator and prey.

You didn’t just use the spell like a pocket knife, slicing apart one small problem after the next. You chose to love yourself. Love yourself so much that you define yourself, define the world around you, and make people define you the way you wanted to be defined. And since things didn’t always work out, you would be ready. And you could deal.

Truth laughed and laughed and laughed. De’Ponte drove on, enjoying the seats covered in the tanned hides of his former toys. Enjoying his power, proven through his cruelty for those below him. They would slave for him soon. All with the blessings of the Government. The blessings of Starbrite itself. He wasn’t the problem. He was the future.

Truth looked over at De’Ponte, guessing much of his thoughts.

Hey, System, grade my technique. Let’s see how well I learned from you.

Truth ran Incisive, all of it. Leaning over, he whispered in De’Ponte’s ear. “Of course, it would be so much better without competition. It just makes sense. We are used to managing animals already. We should be the only ones responsible for feeding and watering them. We should collect from both sides- those who want the jobs done and those who want to eat. And if a few people have to learn that the hard way, fine. That would be fun too.”

De’Ponte didn’t even wonder where the thought came from. He just started smiling, wider and wider. Truth did too. The more energy Starbrite and Jeon had to spend keeping the denizens in line, the less energy they had to defend the System Astrologica. And wouldn’t it be just the worst if the gangsters and the corpo-rats ate each other alive?

_________________________________________

De’Ponte pulled his sweet little chariot into the garage of a small, quietly luxurious apartment building in the small, quietly unremarkable city of Gwaju.

Around lunchtime, De’Ponte stirred himself. He showered, made himself presentable, and set up shop in the back of a club the One-Legged Bird Ring owned. He called for various underlings, scheduling what in other industries would be termed “interviews with independent contractors.” One such contractor was found close at hand. Truth slipped out of the room, relieved said contractor of all his future worries, and waited by the bar to be called.

“Grico?”

“That’s me.” Incisive was humming along. It seemed that the world needed very little persuading that Truth was really a thug for hire.

De’Ponte fixed him with a hard look. “It says here you got a clean record. Provisional Citizen, even.”

Truth displayed his forearm, having drawn the correct sigil while waiting at the bar. De’Ponte just snorted, looking unimpressed. “You are in a heavy line of work for a Citizen.”

Truth shrugged. “Expensive habits. And I learned years ago I just enjoy the work.”

That had De’Ponte giving him a different kind of look. “You enjoy wetwork.”

Truth looked awkward. “Well, you know how it is. Mostly there isn’t any call for real wetwork, and that’s all I do. I don’t want to sell shit or collect protection money or any of that. I just... enjoy wetwork. Which people generally don’t need. So I can’t afford to be full-time in just that. I have a day job. It sucks.”

De’Ponte sniggered. “You don’t like being shift supervisor down at the dump? With all those wonderful people you work with?”

“Everyone is on the take, everyone is getting paid for their side job, so why not me?”

“Fucking hilarious. You know about the new benefits system?”

Truth’s smile became very ugly. “Oh yes. Yes I do. I’m not on the list, officially, but in practice?”

“You get it, you get it.” De’Ponte nodded. “Listen, Grico, I’m going to be straight with you. I see this all as an immense opportunity. I need people I can work with. People with vision. People who love what they do. And, of course, people not afraid of a little competition.”

Truth shook his head. “I have to disagree with you there, Sir. One thing I learned in the dump- competition is for losers. I only win.” Truth smiled slightly.

“Grico, I think we are going to get along just fine. I have a little job for you. Something in your area of expertise. Let me lay it out for you...”

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The Gwaju City Municipal Sanitation Department did not employ any sanitation workers. The janitorial work in the office was done by a contractor. The trash pickup was done by a corporation contracted to do the work, which leased trucks from another company and hired independent contractors as the “Public Sanitation Technicians.” People who were often, by amazing coincidence, denizens. And such delegation required supervision.

Bosce Huelle, Contracts Supervisor for the Gwaju City Municipal Sanitation Department, was therefore a very powerful man in his little world. Notionally, he answered to a Department Head. In practice, his reports were delivered via envelopes full of cash. The arrangement satisfied everyone... whose opinion mattered. He certainly wasn’t going to let some gangster get a piece of his suddenly even more lucrative pie. He had dipped into his own pocket and hired some off-duty cops for security. Or so De’Ponte told Truth.

Seemed like his removal would inconvenience a hell of a lot of people. It would be hard to hush up. Besides De’Ponte didn’t want the job done quietly. He wanted everyone to hear about it.

Truth whistled as he drove the one-tonne wagon up to the rooftop parking deck of the parking garage where Bosce kept his car. The timing was a bit tight, but he reckoned “close” would be close enough. And Huelle should be walking up to the garage about now.

“Whhh Swisssh Shwwwhwip OH COME ON!” Apparently neither body cultivation, nor the personal spell of a giant snake demon, nor the love of a good woman, was enough to let Truth whistle.

He put the wagon in motion, gunning it for the sheet metal ramp he had built up over the lip of the wall. All safeties carefully disengaged, as was the speed regulator. With a furious roar, the wagon charged forward, up, leaping into the air as Truth leapt out of the cab and back onto the roof. In a graceful parabola, the wagon began its descent.

The last thing Bosce Huelle ever saw was the logo of the Starbrite Heavy Manufacturing Company, coming down from five stories up. Truth left the ramp in place. Along with a message, burned onto the pavement.

“Huelle was the first. There will be a second. The Star will fall, and the Tiger shall rise again!”

Truth patted himself on the back. Good job, well done, sure to ruffle some feathers, time for a cold tea, a hot meal, and catching up on the latest stories. He strode away from the edge of the garage.

There was a high-pitched tearing noise and the smell of crematorium smoke. A pillar of flame shot up from where the truck fell.