Brinn stood on a shadowed street. Afternoon sunlight painted the rooftops of the heavily fortified, mostly-empty business district a smoggy orange. The area around the gaudy well-lit, yellow food van buzzed with cheap hunger-spells, making her stomach growl and her head spin.
A hunched, glowering man stood behind the counter.
He said: “Fish. Or chips.”
Brinn squinted at the sign: “Don’t you mean fish and chips?”
Saffucious Dagon, one of the most elusive, hermit-like necromancers any world had ever known, tapped beautifully manicured, very long finger-nails against the worn lino counter. The orange of his apron clashed with the sunny yellow of his food van.
“Fish,” he repeated. “Or chips.”
Brinn stared at him in confusion.
“Order,” he said. “Or leave.”
Brinn’s gaze dropped to the teleportation wards inked onto the bloodstained concrete around her worn-out, taped-up boots. She consulted the selection of blood-stained, scuffed-up coins in her hand.
“Ah, okay. I’ll have an order of fish. Then I’ll have an order of chips for my mate.”
She set the coins in two piles on the counter.
“Been working here long?” she asked.
“Step away from the counter.”
“Making you work right until final bell?” Brinn scratched her greasy scalp, checking the inside of the van for obvious eggs, spores or nests of nasties. Her anti-parasite spells were failing. She could tell, from the head-lice.
“That’s rough,” she said. “Most people knock off an hour before final bell.”
Dagon put his back to her. Brinn rocked up on her toes to peer over the counter, trying to spot the fish.
“Ever get the urge to resurrect the little buggers?” she joked.
Silence.
“Get asked that a lot, I bet?”
More silence.
“You know,” she said, “we met once. Well, a few times. I saw you in chains at Hollowbone, and up on the wall at Bonemere. But we met up close… well, closer, at Dreadmore Castle. You were sneaking out the back door. I was playing dead in the ditch.”
Saffucious Dagon did not respond.
Brinn tapped the lino bench with blunt, filthy fingers. The whole stall was designed to be easily hosed off (and out) if something ate the vendor before they were able to close up. Nasty runes inside the van prevented the vendor from closing early, or remaining in the van overnight.
“You’d make more money if you sold fish as well as chips,” she said. “Both in the same bundle. That’s how this normally goes.”
The wards around Brinn’s feet began to glow an ugly colour. She jumped sky-high as a paper-wrapped bundle hit the bench in front of her.
“The chips.” Dagon paused dramatically, then deposited a second bundle. “And the fish.”
Brinn studied the packages sceptically. “They let you near fish?”
“It’s not real fish.” His tone remained flat. “Have a swell time.”
Brinn’s gaze lifted to the sign above his head. The logo was a flaccid wave.
“That’s bad,” she said.
He set his back to her.
“Ever seen the ocean?” she called.
“Twenty minutes until final bell.”
“I haven’t either.” Brinn ripped open the paper bundle to take a cautious snip of… thick, crunchy batter and clean white flakes of ‘fish’. “Wow. This is good. It’s not actually fish? What is it?”
“Have a swell day.”
“You already said that.”
“Step away from the counter.”
“I’m gonna sit here.” Brinn plopped down into one of the two plastic seats next to the single plastic table right in front of the van. Nothing on her jangled or rattled against the plastic. She’d sold her last shabby knife to make rent last week.
“Gonna enjoy my fish and chips.” She checked the home-made sign. She wasn’t great at reading, but it did say ‘fish or chips’. Dagon either didn’t get the concept, or he was being difficult.
“I worked for the other side, mostly.” Brinn crammed ‘fish’ into her mouth. It was piping hot, making her wince and blow air out past it. “Witch-hunters and merc groups. Never fitted in well with the Templars. It’s weird, isn’t it?” Brinn said. “The folk you meet in Hell.”
She sniggered a laugh at that. Hell: the colony world they had landed in was actually called Hell.
He gave her a look. “Only when they talk at me.”
“I expected to find you in a shop.” Brinn ripped open the larger bundle of chips. “Off the street. Out of sight. Working out the back somewhere?”
He gave her another dirty look, wiping down the bench where she had set her hand and coins.
Four warriors staggered into the brightly lit patch outside the stall. Judging from the fact they ordered fish or chips each, they must be regulars. They ignored Brinn. She was dressed in her street-hosing rags and alone. No threat to well-armed, well-trained thugs like them. Their paper-wrapped bundles hit the bench within seconds of them ordering it. They were civil to Dagon.
Brinn watched them depart, moving in the alert, confident way of any good pack. One of them ticked something off in a note-book. Buy products from an arch-enemy, perhaps? Have a conversation with (without killing) a dark-mage? The Colony Program set all sorts of challenges to test ‘community spirit’. Brinn had lost her checklist a few months in, in the first rental property that had kicked her ass to the gutter.
The warning siren started – an eerie wailing noise that rose from towers all over the cramped little city. The sound iced Brinn’s belly. Nearly a year living in this Hellish place, and it still scared the fizz out of her.
“Ten to,” she called, unnecessarily. Everyone knew the bell system. You got your ass inside heavily fortified houses before the sun left the highest rooftops, or you died.
The front grill slammed closed, making her jump.
“Move.”
Brinn scrambled up, juggling paper bundles. She watched him wipe down the table and chairs, carrying them over to and stacking them inside the tiny van.
“This stuff is really good. Do you cook it yourself?”
“No.”
“Teleported in? How do you know how much you’ll need?” She had to raise her voice as he was making as much noise as he could, slamming hatches and grills down. The smell of food would attract predators in the night.
“Apron,” she called.
Dagon glanced down. Stepped back to remove it. Underneath the ghastly orange uniform, he wore a simple robe, looking like any other half-rate wizard.
“Still reading your bones?” she asked. “That was your thing, right? Collecting a finger-bone from each master?”
She wiggled big, blunt fingers playfully. Brinn had all her fingers, mostly on account of the fact she had never worked all that hard, and liked to play dead in battle.
Dagon stepped past Brinn. The street was deserted. Not another soul in sight.
“No,” she guessed. “They won’t let you near bones, will they? Did they make you a vegetarian? They made Sour Saddy go vego.”
Dagon stopped in the middle of the street, so suddenly she nearly crashed into him. He gave her a sceptical look.
“I had a drink with Saddy,” Brinn said. “We talked.”
“You talked at her,” Dagon guessed. “As you are talking at me.”
“Yeah, well.” Brinn studied the gouged up, blood-stained concrete under their feet. Marked by the last moments of the previous vendor, she assumed.
“And?”
The question caught her by surprise. And, what?
“She’s dead,” Brinn said. “Or… transferred. Not my fault,” she added, quickly. “We talked a few times, then…” she waved a vague hand.
Then, gloomy Sour Saddy was gone. A stain in a concrete somewhere. Bones shat out for a mug like Brinn to hose into a stink-shielded gutter.
“What do you want?” Dagon asked. He had a paper-wrapped bundle clasped against his chest.
“Is that fish?” Brinn asked. “Or chips?”
“You’re harassing me,” he said.
“I’m making conversation.” Brinn stepped past him. Harassment was a serious charge.
To her relief, he started following. Out of necessity, probably. He needed to get home, behind his wards and shutters. Nasty things rose with the afternoon shadows. Bigger things flew in when it got full-dark.
Their boots crunched through a frosting of delicate black spikes growing out of the concrete. Black-spike. Growing anywhere blood had been spilled. Which… was the whole street. White things like roots or worms churned and writhed down the gutters, rising out of the drains.
“You live down Stokes Way,” Brinn said. “I see you walk past the pub in the mornings. I clean up a bit before they open. Angling for an inside job, but…” she winced. “They still see me as a thug and bully, don’t they? Come all this way, play all these games, but they still see you the same way.”
No response from Dagon. He was fairly new. Been here about a month, a bar-fly had told her. Long enough to f-up a few times. Long enough to realise what he had stepped into.
“Can’t believe they make you work right ‘til final bell,” Brinn said. “That’s a dick move. You must have really pissed them off.”
She edged him a look.
“Yes,” he admitted.
Hope squeezed at her guts.
“This your first placement?” she asked, casual-like.
Dagon was silent so long she thought he was ignoring her. Then he said, “No.”
“Where else did they put you?”
“A yoghurt stall,” he said. “Then, a fruit market.”
“A fruit shop?” Brinn shook her head. “That’s dangerous, right? All the spores?”
“Yes,” he agreed. “My necromancy… can tell when something is dead. Including spores and eggs and… things hiding in fruit.”
Brinn mulled over that a moment. Lots of folk lost their hands, working the fruit-markets. A fruit-market was nearly as bad as an exposed food-van open until final bell.
“You know what happens next, right?” she asked, voice low. “Folk who don’t fit in? Who can’t make this work? They vanish.”
“Into suburbia.”
Sour Saddy, in suburbia? Brinn snorted a laugh.
“They don’t let functioning people out of this shit-box, Dagon, let alone people who can’t play nice with others.”
“Harry,” he said.
“What?”
“My name is Harry.”
“They called you Harry?”
His shoulders lifted with a helpless sigh.
Brinn scratched her scalp. If she had Hell-lice dancing about, she’d have worse things in her gut. Her pockets were alarmingly empty. She might hose enough coins out of the gutter to buy dinner, but it wouldn’t make the rent this week.
“If the stories are true, we get a limited number of shots at this. We make this work or…” Brinn shrugged.
“There’s no proof of that.”
“’Course there is. Where are all the fuck-ups?”
“Cities are dangerous. The Colonies, more so.”
“Only if they fill the Colonies with laze-abouts, sadists and hot messes. No. This sad little tub? This is the starter pool. They toss broken mutts like me, and gelded twats like you in here, to channel us one of two ways. Have you applied for suburbia?”
“Yes.”
“So has every single person I know. And I know a lot of people, Dagon. I don’t know a single person who has got through to suburbia. Not a single one.”
“They are very selective.” Dagon’s voice was so low Brinn had to edge in to hear him. “The average life expectancy for a new colonist is three nights.”
“That’s why you need the right people with you,” Brinn said. “Watching your ass.”
He edged her a sideways look, looking her up and down. She was still solid and well-muscled, despite the grime and rags.
“Recruitment hasn’t been going well?” he guessed.
Brinn winced.
“Maybe I’ve been fishing in the wrong places,” she joked.
“Why would I partner with you?” he asked.
“Because you know what comes after the ugly orange uniform.”
“Partnering to do what?” he asked.
Good question. Brinn was not particularly good at ideas.
“Guess that’s something we talk about,” she said, trying to sound wise.
“Proposing what sort of partnership model?”
Yikes, he talked fancy. Well…
“Fish.” She displayed the paper-wrapped bundles. “And chips.”
They’d reached Dagon’s lodging-house. He unlocked the door to his cell-like room, relaxing when it did unlock. Somewhere up the street, something howled. They studied the scratch marks outside his door. Fingernails, snapped off in a crack in the concrete.
“New place?” she guessed.
“Yes.”
“Nice inside?”
“No,” he said.
“Maybe I’ll catch you tomorrow, Dagon.”
“It’s Barry.”
“Is it?”
Dagon paused. “No.”
Brinn grinned and headed home.