Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, one-car garage. 2000 square feet, though the real estate listing failed to mention how much of that was closet space. Behind the peeling eggshell paint and suspicious dark spots creeping down from the roofline—mold or otherwise—lay what passed for prime real estate these days. In the suburbs, even a rat's nest could be gold, for one reason alone.

  I'd gotten a deal on the property through a contact but it still cost a solid chunk of selve. Pre-dome dwellings had to be updated within system stipulations to be bought and sold for selve, and while the houses and properties with system add-ons could be quite luxurious, civilians, who couldn't interface with most of those user-styled luxuries, preferred houses like this one, the only real update coming in the form of registration. Which unfortunately, also wasn't cheap.

  It was a scam, but let's be real, to some extent, the housing market always was.

  Jackson was still alert in the driver's seat, though he'd relaxed enough to pull an old-world magazine out of the glove box while we waited.

  Leaned against the hood of the car, I lit a cigarette—the third that I'd bummed so far from Jackson since we met—and smoked it down to the filter, orange corona hovering at the edge of my vision, mirroring the sun as it bled out over the horizon, threatening to slip behind the cookie-cutter rooflines. Nothing special about it, except that it might be the last time I'd draw breath to see one.

  Annoyed at the thought, I dropped the cigarette to the cement and stamped it out.

  Rubber ground concrete as a large white-panel van came to a full halt at a T intersection fifty feet away and turned towards me. Jackson clocked it immediately in the rearview, then looked over his magazine at me, eyes asking a silent question.

  I pushed off the hood and made a "we're good" gesture to him. Jackson folded the magazine as the van approached and started the car. I'd told him to wait at the nearby 7-11. Close enough that he could pick me up easily if there was a problem, far enough to give a semblance of privacy. Once the taillights disappeared around a distant corner, I removed my mask, then my hood.

  The door opened and a man's head popped out, dreads trailing with the movement as he examined his surroundings with a great deal of trepidation.

  To be fair, it made sense. One of the first things I'd learned about Greg was that his cheery, carefree disposition was only partially real. There was a craftiness beneath the surface. Solid instincts. Instincts that were likely at this very moment reminding him that the suburbs were generally an unsafe place for him to be. In the old world, the white panel van alone navigating the neighborhood at a reasonable speed, would prompt no less than a dozen pearl-clutching posts on Next Door, at least a few calls to the cops, a percentage of which would jump at the opportunity to bust a few socioeconomically disadvantaged heads.

  It was different now, but the instinct, and the fear, remained.

  "Matty?" Greg approached cautiously, constantly looking around him, as if danger could come from anywhere.

  "Hey Greg."

  "You okay?"

  I cocked my head, then nodded. "I'm alright."

  Greg visibly sighed relief, deflating a little. He peered at me in something approaching irritation. "Not like you to make plans last minute. Not like you at all. Got me worried something was happening. Spooked me."

  "Appreciate you showing up, regardless of the scare. Something is happening, but that's not what this is about." I went to take another drag, then belatedly, remembered I'd already stamped the damn thing out. "Got a smoke?"

  Greg pulled a black and green pack from one of the pockets of his cargo shorts, smacked the bottom against his palm a few times before drawing one out and handing it to me. "Menthol?"

  I hated menthols but who gave a fuck. The small buzz, as rapidly depreciating as it had been throughout the day, was still enough to serve as a distraction, the smallest balm to my nerves. After I nodded, he lit it for me, and I pulled deeply, ignoring the feeling of frost that settled deeply into my lungs.

  My request sated, Greg looked around. "There a reason we're here?"

  "Yeah." I answered.

  "You mind uh, telling me what it is?"

  He was right. I was dragging this out. It was difficult to say why, exactly. There was probably a part of me that still didn't want this day to end. As shitty and stressful as it'd been, it felt like the end of an era. The sum of the equation. Time was up, pencils were down, and now all there was left to do was pass in the Scantron and pray.

  I'd always been good at that part. Accepting that what was done was done, and no amount of worrying or stress or regret would change the result.

  But in that moment?

  I would have traded almost anything for one more day.

  In lieu of that option, I gestured to the house. "What do you think of the place?"

  Greg turned, rotating so we stood side by side. "This place—the house?"

  "Yeah."

  He crossed his arms and took it in. "Not bad. Nothin’ too flashy but that's your style if we're keeping it a hundred."

  "Yours too."

  "Ha. True." Greg scratched the stubble on his jaw. "Looks nice enough. Can't say too much without seeing it from the inside, but I think, based on where it is, what's inside don't matter much."

  "How do you mean?" I asked him.

  "Location." Greg nodded seriously. "Everybody been real uninspired about city living since the transposition. Tryin' to move away from the center, be on the fringes when the next one hits. Surprised you lookin’ though. I know you're technically in the city but you got plenty of protection being around your guild and associates. Out here might actually be more dangerous."

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "True. Then again, it's not for me." I withdrew a small weighted manila envelope from my pocket and tossed it to him. Greg caught the envelope with weathered hands that trembled slightly as they tore open the seal. He stared at the contents for a long time before he looked up again.

  "This a joke?" He asked, something close to betrayal heavy in his voice.

  "Not even a little."

  "I—I ain't never worked you for a handout." Greg said slowly. "Even on the devil's nights, when it flash froze outta nowhere and I ended up crashing on your couch, you always invited me. I never asked. Outta respect."

  "That's true."

  "Got a better hustle going these days. Something solid. Don't have my own place out of frugality, not because I don't have the means—"

  "Again, that's not what this is about." I went to take another drag off the menthol, found it spent, and tossed it away. "Some part of its recompense, sure, but mostly it's me keeping promises I've made to myself."

  Greg's eyebrow arched high, suspicion written in every line of his face. "You promised yourself... you'd give me a house?" A forced laugh. "Who you tryin’ to be, Oprah?"

  "Get off my dick already." I complained. "It just… always felt fucked up to me. You helped me find my feet after mom crashed out. When we were weeks away from eviction. For a while—a long while, we were out there together working the same angles, hustling like our lives depended on it because they absolutely did."

  Greg chuckled. "Never forget how scandalized you were after we stripped that first brick and mortar."

  "Fuck copper. It's a shit hustle. The asshole gave us twenty bucks for an entire day of backbreaking work. Completely unreasonable." I shook my head.

  "Entry level, like I told you." Greg laughed and wiped at his eyes, suddenly wistful.

  "Difference was, at the end of the day, I got to go home and you didn't. That's the part that never sat right with me. Because you helped me a lot. Back then, and more recently with the Steward. And sure, I tried to return the favor when the PD were out menacing encampments, or the weather was bad, but there were days I couldn't find you. And those days bothered me." I looked away, annoyed with myself for how saccharine it all sounded. "So, yeah. At some point I decided that when I could afford to do something, I would. This is that. You don't have to keep it. Sell it, give it away, it makes no difference to me. But if you decide to hold on to it, this should be far enough way from the city center to provide decent shelter during the second transposition."

  For a long time, Greg stared at me as if trying to work out a puzzle, weathered skin stretched tautly on his forehead. "You sick, Matty? In trouble or something?"

  "I'm not sick, Greg."

  "So, trouble. And enough trouble to be out here sucking down cigs and getting nostalgic when I've heard you talk plenty of shit about people who do either."

  "It's... not good." The words came easy with Greg. Always had. Maybe because he'd seen me at my worst. "If anyone comes asking, just act like you haven't seen me for a while until we find out where the chips fall."

  "How will I know when to stop?" Greg asked.

  "If it lands okay, you won't hear anything. If it doesn't…" I trailed off with a thin smile. "You'll figure it out."

  "And there's nothing I can do to help?"

  There's nothing anyone can do.

  "If I think of something, I'll contact you."

  "Alright, okay." Greg nodded noncommittally, experiencing a degree of whiplash between the gift and the accompanying somber news. He seemed to make a decision. "It's too much. But if you're insisting…"

  "I am."

  "…Then I'll keep the place." Greg relented, a little stunned. "It's in a good neighborhood, and if I'm being honest, the only reason I haven't shopped around more for a spot of my own is cause it's been busy and I'm used to the way things are now. But change can be good, right?"

  "Sometimes." I agreed, a little forlorn. The sun was gone and the sky turned dim. Begrudgingly, I sent Jackson a message, requesting a pick up at the end of the street.

  "Should probably say thank you." Greg mused, still awkward and off-balance. "But it doesn't feel like enough."

  "Don't bother. Like I said, it was overdue."

  "You probably don't need my advice. Probably got better people for that." Greg tried, testing the waters.

  I shook my head. "Once upon a time your guidance kept a roof over my head. My family's head. I'll always listen to what you have to say."

  Greg nodded along, his mouth tight. "Come along way from being that pissed off little kid. In some ways that's a good thing. But it's easy to forget. You remember what I taught you?"

  I thought back. "Nobody gives a shit about my problems, and no one's gonna fix them for me?"

  "No—" Greg cut off, half peeved, half embarrassed. "Well, I did say that. To the purpose of waking up an entitled little shit to the reality of his situation, to be fair."

  "It worked." I shrugged.

  "The other part."

  "To park my ego at the door."

  "Exactly." Greg agreed, his typically cheery expression suddenly stoic. "Dignity, pride. That's for other folks. People who don't gotta worry about where they're going to sleep for the night. If your life's on the line, the fight doesn't stop when you're tired, when you're stressed the fuck out of your mind. The fight never stops period. If something pops into your head and you find yourself saying 'that's below me,' take a step back and check it. Because whatever you're throwing away outta stubbornness might just save your life." He put a hand on my arm and left it there until I looked him in the eye. "Find your way out of this. Whatever it is. You're a scary motherfucker when you need to be. Use that. Don't let this be the last conversation we have." He gestured to the house. "Gotta see what I do with the place after all."

  Slowly, I nodded. As so often before, Greg was right. Part of me had seen this final expedition with Miles as a prison, but this was good to remember that it wasn't that. It was a fight. Not against the monsters of the tower, or the Necromancer that took a swipe at my region—though those were both serious threats—but against Miles himself.

  And just like the old days, I needed to be ready to grab onto any opportunity. Pride be damned.

  While I was lost in thought, Greg had removed the key from its envelope, and was spinning it idly. There was a tremor in his voice as he spoke. "Well. Might as well check the place out. Gonna have to decide what to keep and what to toss." He grinned and jerked his head towards the house. "Wanna ride shotgun?"

  I did. But there were lights at the end of the road. Jackson was ready for me, and I was already running late. "Wish I could."

  "Oh." Greg paused, then nodded. "Alright then."

  I walked away, fishing around in my inventory for the mask. A few seconds later, Greg called after me. "Catch any static on the way in?"

  I couldn't help but smile. He'd asked me some variation of the same question hundreds of times, often on greeting or parting. "No fuzz to speak of. Supposed to drop into the forties tonight though. Stay warm."

  "I'll do that." He called after me. "Take care Matty."

  /////

  On the way back to the apartments, I retreated into the mask's unnatural calm, letting the tranquility sand the edges off the rollercoaster of emotions oscillating through my mind. I used the time to send messages to as many people as possible, reinforcing contingencies, making arrangements for my absence where it would be felt.

  We pulled into the complex's parking garage, and the last message I tried to send bounced back. Because someone—or more likely, an entire team of feds—had thrown up a field around the building. An invisible net suppressing every comm trying to slip through.

  Pencils down.

  Read ahead on the Patreon!

  Join the Discord and get Chapter Pings