Muggy noon. Thick fog coated city towers, admired its own dull reflections in every window. Gray clouds hung exceptionally heavily over the city’s brutal centerpiece, the Church, a massive pearl-gray block surrounded by a vista of - artificially formed - rolling green hills. The Church and its garden were enclosed in a huge square of sidewalk, which edged into ordinary asphalt roads and multi-storey buildings of considerably kinder architecture and unremarkable repute. In reverence, every immediate neighbor was no more than three floors, and those blocks were devoid of gardens.

Most passerby avoided looking in the Church’s direction on days such as these, and this year, there had been a lot of dull days. The greatest pain was that it was such an all-consuming sight but not a good subject of gossip, because nobody really had much to say other than that the whole image was unsettling, it was like being watched. There was nothing so resource intensive as a mysterious figure posted at every window, staring out, but those living outside couldn't be sure. When the sun hid, those giant windows inlaid in every wall turned pitch black save for the inky dots of what light there was, trapped and reflecting on only the tiniest imperfections of glass. Those ridges and dents glimmered like tiny eyes peering out of a hole punched in a blank sheet. The place was pearl, but it was caging something dark. That was the belief.

In all fairness, the Church was not so hostile in appearance on a good day, its colorful glass windows, and gleaming walls, faintly inlaid with iridescent flecks, made a welcoming enough sight especially to children with birthday cake on the mind, or adults with precious jewels in theirs, or vice versa. Those beautiful days were the the days when the real priests had to be on their toes, ready to open the doors and say something appropriately beautiful, make sure the chapel was clean and the reception desk open, lights on and the bathrooms unlocked, so on and so forth.

But on dark, colorless noons, the lights were switched off and the doors were locked save for emergencies. Or arriving spectators and other important guests. These guests made an immediate right from the entrance to the staircase. They did not so much as glance at reception if they knew what they were doing, and almost invariably, they knew. 

The further reaches of the first floor, the grand chapel and its high-ceilinged environs, remained barren, quiet, and undusted. An absolute sanctuary save for the occasional rumbling from above, if rain was decided, or from below, if a particularly great crowd was having a particularly entertaining evening.

So it was not so quiet that you could hear a pin drop, or a person come in - especially if the pin was light, or if the invader did not want to make their presence known.

Patches did not put too much consideration into his own arrival when he came in at noon. Hiding his footsteps or walking along the dark edge of the wall did not seem necessary. In his black priest's cassock and bandages, he was not used to being bothered.

He hadn’t been in many chapels other than this one, but having seen pictures, he was grateful whenever he arrived. It wasn’t particularly ornate, but it was, in a word, sufficient. It wasn’t lacking, but it was not excessive. This was why he preferred not to return to his room during his breaks.

There weren’t too many carvings in the benches or lattices on the walls and ceilings. Everything in sight was white, brown or gray, panelled or painted over, save for the carpet, which on a day such as this, barely managed a discernable grayed burgundy. The only true show of vibrance was the windows, which retained their dizzying abstract mosaic as long as there was even the slightest light pressing in. Even so, light didn’t matter, since there was the confessional booth.

“Off for your afternoon nap?” Lazlo said this almost every day before Patches went upstairs to the chapel.

“Yeah. I’m always tired at this time.”

“Aren’t we all. You don’t look it, though.”

“Neither do you.”

And he was excused.

The confessional had some modest carvings of ivy leaves over its two front doors, but the inside of either room was just a flat bench and four flat wooden walls, one of which was inlaid with a metal grate covered with diamond-shaped apertures. Having sat on both sides on separate occasions, Patches knew that you could not actually see through the grate from either side. On these bleaker days, you could barely see the grate itself. He was not entirely sure whether it was a flaw in the design or intentional. But then, the design and use of the booth weren't his duties.

All he needed were the walls and the dark. The sound of rain and such was welcome, but it wasn’t in the forecast today. He took the righthand booth that had very, very marginally better lighting.

After a few minutes of empty silence, his one good eye began adjusting to the dark. He peeled the gauze off his other, which was little more than dried fragments in a sagging, long emptied socket. Cool air dried the sweat that had gathered under the bandages. The falling temperature was pleasant to the touch, but there was still some of that summertime humidity that aggravated his old injury.

Something about his eye, the opening sensation of it in spite of the piece itself not being there, and the small wooden booth, reminded him of his childhood. This was something he thought to himself, it about as many words. I had an eye and a small wood treehouse at one point. But someone was there with me, sometimes. That makes this experience imperfect. Oh, well. 

Imagination wasn’t his strong suit. Dreams didn't come to him.

That might have explained why he napped as he did. That is to say, he didn’t nap at all. He scarcely closed his eyes. Instead, he stared at the wall in front of him, face blank as a sheet, his one working eye and large frame not so much as twitching. He was not exactly tired. This was all he really wanted to do, or as close as anything came to something he really wanted. Whether he was expecting some sort of revelation or one of those old childhood memories to come back to him, not even he was sure when he sat, in all honesty, he was not really thinking of anything, nor did he feel the desire to. And in those four not-quite sealed walls he was able to do, or rather experience, simply nothing. It was only nothingness that was natural.

As close as it got to natural.

If he were really on confessional duty or the like, and a penitent soul had wandered into the opposite booth intent on making good for themselves, they might have thought to call an ambulance. Or as it were in this town, on this sort of day, faced with a so-called Priest of this so-called Church, that visitor might leave as quickly and quietly as possible. But today, the one sitting in the darker half of the booth was not such a visitor.

For all his dullness, Patches could be dull with near unbeatable intensity. Arms loosely at his lap, one just barely curled around the grimy bandage, he stared so long and hard at such a pointless subject it seemed he might simply expire. At a certain point, you could not be sure he was even breathing. Attempting to imitate such silence was not as easy as it looked. So naturally, his unseen neighbor, in spite of their desire to remain so, ended up either having a light loss of control, or breathing in a fleck of dust and choking it back with a very small, very slight “hm.”

And when that happened, Patches noticed immediately. He shifted to face the black void beyond the grate.

With his feeble imagination, he rarely doubted what he saw as reality. Unfortunately, with his damaged vision, what he saw was not always clear. The grate was to his right, and incidentally, it was his right eye that was carved out. The loss of range was something that had not truly hindered him for years, and it was a faint surprise to be thinking of it now. A surprise indeed that anything would even be sitting beside him. The concealment was almost too perfect.

The movement in the other room had been more of a feeling than absolute truth.

Okay, something out of sight. Normally, not a problem. He just had to go and make sure. Get out, pull open the door, they would never get out before he reached them.

But before he arose another feeling occurred to him. He wasn’t sure how to put this one into words. ‘It reminds me of my childhood?’ It was just that one tiny noise. In the wooden booth, in the dark. Someone was close by, but for the first time in so long, Patches was confused as to whether they were really there breathing through the grate in the dark inches from him, or whether they were simply close in a memory. He remembered a friend, breathing near him, in the summer.

So, this time a little less self-initialized, Patches resumed staring at the wall in front of him. For some reason, this time, he saw the ivy carvings. Hold on - there were carvings on this side of the door?

After some unknown quantity of time, the floor began to rumble. That had to mean a new round was starting in the Ring of Light. Back to work. He pulled the gauze back up to his eye and gave it a firm pat to secure the tape. Then he got up and pushed open the door.

Even with the lights out, the chapel always blinded him after emerging from the dark confessional. Was it like that for others? He turned back to the booth, to the door opposite his. From where he was now, in (sufficient) light to see (somewhat) clearly, he could not longer hear that half second of voice or breathing that had seemed so plausible moments before.

He pulled open the booth door, and checked the tiny enclosure. Nobody was there.

What were you expecting? Someone you knew?

He was more confused at his own muddled expectations than what he was seeing. But as confused as he was, fear didn’t occur to him at all.

---

Magnus Long despised broken schedules, and what he had scheduled to be a manhunt (which was to be enough trouble from the start) had mutated into a business deal for something he had no interest in.

Challenges piled up one after another and he had to give himself credit, he felt he had dealt with them pretty well, considering he’d have to enter some uncharted territory. That territory was the central Church, which he had intentionally avoided looking into - or even looking at - for years.

For one, it was frankly a disgrace of architecture in a city that was otherwise meticulously put together. Zoning was to be consistent and each district had its purpose and general visual effect - if he had any say in it, which he usually did. But some dimwit had thrown up this giant sugar cube and rolled out its huge lumpy park long before his time. He had cleaned up most remnants of that era; the failed rail stations, collapsing cement slums and frivolous underground bunkers full of rotten “emergency rations”, but people seemed to want this thing around, old establishments were what they were (mostly infuriating) so he couldn’t touch it.

Secondly, the Church had a habit of producing mauled corpses or near-corpses without making much effort to hide them. Now, being relatively pragmatic - after all, he was running a city - Magnus could tolerate an eyesore if it were really being put to good use. But the line of bodies coming out of that ridiculous cube was just a little - to put it mildly - unpleasant. Beyond the question of legality (again, a pragmatist - he could look the other way on occasion) it was a hell of a message to send to the one who was generously letting you conduct business unattended. Just throwing out battered corpses left and right and letting others clean it up for you, without so much as a thank-you, grated his nerves.

Magnus didn’t ask for fear, but he liked at least a little respect. He had the feeling he wasn’t getting any today.

This third reason for his ire that came to mind today was the fact that the place didn’t seem to have a parking lot. He’d had to park on the sidewalk to meet up with a contact that brought him through the church doors, no more than a couple feet into the building, then down the right hand staircase to the arena.

The noise was unbelievable. The place was obviously, unintentionally built for acoustics that it didn’t need. Whatever idiot had conceived of this underground pit had just taken shovel and dozer to the ground and dug out a big hole and let people run wild in it. There was clearly no manner of insulation, and only the most feeble and hideous of structural support.

To concede a point, at very least, everyone down in the pit seemed satisfied with the situation. After all, they weren’t here for easy listening and personal safety.

He just had to wonder where they all came from. The stands were packed. Some spectators were even eating in the upper levels on some dining tables that looked like they were glued together by children out of balsawood scraps. He had to wonder what kind of people were living in this town for such a place to be packed with such little above-ground notice. There really were all kinds of odd characters.

He probably should have had Uriel drive his car elsewhere.

Also a concession (though it was a weak one) in favor of the church, he had been allowed to meet with the seasonal organizer without being tied, blindfolded or menaced with a firearm. He was however, flanked by two men who each seemed twice his size, cloaked in the long black garb of the church staff, and adorned with pulverized knuckles and long, ugly scars - also trademarks of the church.

Usual suspects.

The organizer herself was a bit less usual among the Church brutes, but definitely suspect. She was also in some manner of long black robe, but was considerably smaller than her aides. Not small enough to be bobbing and tilting her face at him like a five year old, though.

Remember, this place keeps throwing up bodies. And they don’t seem to give a shit about you. Don't mouth off.

“See something interesting, Ms Cielo?”

“Hm.” She sat up and smoothed her sleeves. “You know my name. Have we met?”

“No. But I’ve heard of you.”

“What a coincidence! I’ve heard of you too. Small world, isn’t it?”

Small as the world was, it wasn’t too impressive of a coincidence. The Long family were renown architects and petty, prideful monsters, having devoted a great deal of their organizational talent to the ruin of competitors, critics, and anyone else who so much as tapped the surface of their toes. 

The Cielo family were less artistically inclined, having pulled out the middleman and dealt directly in money. Of course, you could do plenty of harm with that too, and harm they did. For what it was worth the two families had never seen reason to clash, and even if they had, the chance of Tiamat Cielo and Magnus Long in particular crossing paths was tiny. Their presences within those two titanic bodies had been negligible from the start. They wouldn’t have even attended any meetings, made any decisions, ended any lives. Taking them out of the equation wouldn’t have made a difference.

Which was why it was no coincidence they were the ones who ended up here.

“So, funny to see you finally taking interest in our - ah - endeavours down here. You never seemed the kind to turn to religion for any purpose. No need for it. A lot of happy alternatives.” She took a coy peek through the closed blinds of the office. It sounded like there was a riot going on outside. “Never seemed like you took to violence either.”

“Well, you’re right about that. Sometimes it feels like a shortcoming, but when there are happier alternatives, I end taking the easy way out.” He laughed. “And people are always watching me. And how about you? I had no idea you were with the Church.”

“It is surprising how things turn out. You knew I was in the city though, of course?”

“Of course.”

“And how do you know?”

“There are records and such, I get notice of anyone who has or will enter. Legal reasons. Unless I literally lose my mind, or hands, I can’t avoid having to read and sign everyone off.” It was a bad choice of words. So he smiled distractingly. Tiamat had her chin on her hands, intrigued.

“And you’re the one who feels that he’s being watched.”

“I can’t track their movements of course, once they’re in, they’re mostly free to do as they please.”

“And you no longer follow them?”

“There’s only so much I can do, no reason to intentionally search for, or follow anyone unless it’s a matter of public safety. Even then, I can’t see everywhere. Such as this.” He gestured around him, at the church. It ended up a rather lame gesture because all they could see was the office. “Didn’t even know this whole arena business existed until today,” he continued.

“And what do you think of it? The construction, detailing, and our above-ground castle, quite impressive, any input on how to improve - hah! Don’t answer that.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Well, in any case, this is interesting. I’ve always wondered how this fair city was being run, the logistics of it all, what you really had to do up in those ivory towers of yours. Of course, all the construction and buses and traffic seem to run smoothly, I’m still not sure how you do it!” She leaned back on the swivel chair, gazing down at her fingers. “Particularly interesting are those special exceptions in your people. You could, if you wanted to, track someone down if they… what did you say…? If it was a matter of public safety? So you do have the means to find, effectively, anyone.”

“Hm. If it were crucial, then I’d have to try.”

“Of course. Oh, I assume you mean the one trying would be your team, whoever they may be.”

The mention of public threats and his 'team’ (whoever they might be) took him back to his mission.

"I can't claim to do any heavy lifting, but I’m here today, aren’t I?”

"Not much to compliment if you're just here to visit."

"I'm here to look for somebody."

“Aha! One part of a mystery I didn’t even know existed has been revealed! You’re looking for someone.”

I’m looking for someone. Val blurted those words out frequently as if they were a bulletproof excuse, usually right after accosting random people on the street. Looks a lot like you. He never found the person he was looking for. But then, he wasted a lot of time.

Magnus smiled thinly. “My visit wasn’t supposed to be a mystery. I just got carried away in the talk, nobody’s really interested in my job.”

Tiamat was still interested.

“Sooo, tell me, what do you do when you catch a guy?”

“Catch a guy?”

“A threat to public safety. A real scoundrel. Total scumbag. You find him out, you know where he is. What do you do then?”

“Depends on the crime. Sometimes it’s only worth setting down a fine. A couple thousand and he knows not to do it again. If it’s a road crime, or tied to a particular place, there are bans and maybe a fine slapped on again. Nothing special.”

“Or you lock them up in a nice little cell somewhere.”

“You sound like a reporter. What are the conditions of the prisons? They’re up to code, I assure you.”

“Then they need to be brought down, for those that don’t deserve it.”

“Excuse me?”

Tiamat smoothed her sleeves again sat up like an attentive student. “I’m not a reporter, Long, so there’s no need to dress things up. Lord knows I’m certainly not looking my most respectable but it’s been a busy morning.” She chortled, Magnus felt his brain glazing over. “You’re diplomatic, I can appreciate that. And yes, I’ll admit, you do have a lot of eyes on you. But surely you realize - no, you probably know firsthand - that there are plenty of beasts that won’t be fixed with diplomacy, or warnings, or kindness.”

“That’s a problem any number of towns, hell, entire countries have these kinds of issues. I can’t just fling corporal punishment at anyone who steps out of line.”

“Oh, nobody would want that.”

“The city’s still growing,” Magnus sighed. “I’d love to discover a fix to an age-old problem, and maybe it would be easier to start small, but there are just so many ways it can go wrong with everyone watching.”

“I get it, you’re still figuring it out. That’s what I thought. And that’s why I agreed to see you here today. I think we may may be able to provide you some inspiration. Some facilities, even. Confidentially, it’s a bit of a favor, but see what you think.”

“What a coincidence. I have a favor to ask of you, too.” Magnus reached for his pocket, and predictably - so predictable it was almost comforting - the guards swung to attention, arms unfolded, aimed his way. Tiamat was unbothered.

“Let’s discuss this outside. It’s horribly stuffy in here and there’s an upcoming match I need to attend. Ha ha, you aren’t the only one with papers to sign! Oh, you should see it too. Come on, I’ll talk you through our arrangements on the way there.”

She waved at the stiffs by the door, and they shifted, arms dropping to sides as if hypnotized. It didn’t exactly give Magnus the confidence to get up and go, but he still had his manhunt to bring back on track. He left the papers in his jacket, gave a slight bow to the hovering guards and followed Tiamat to the door. The noise behind it was deafening. He was still eager to find what he was looking for, and get the hell out, stick to the schedule, as he should - but against his better judgment he was also tempted to take a look at what exactly was happening to the mess of moving bodies below.

---

Patches came through the tunnel at the bottom of the stairs and emerged into the dense clouds of dust and voices that filled the Ring of Light. The floor had to be cleaned and a fence partition had to be pulled back up, but some contestants were feeling so enthused that they didn’t notice the bell signalling the end of the round and were still loudly beating at each other with the regulation plastic pipes, today’s luxury item.

There was a hard crack and the audience murmured, but it was just the pipe that had broken. That meant it was over, for now, but the taller of the contestants continued gleefully waving the shattered prop, jagged edge swiping nearer and nearer with each wild swing.

The audience was clearly worried, and today’s major overseer, Ferris, had seen enough. He strolled over to the scuffle by the eastern wall and with one massive hand, snatched the pipe at the center of its arc in the air. It stopped dead. The contestants took one look at him (and they had to strain their necks a bit) and composed themselves. Patches knew Ferris could be very convincing but he was also kind, an admirable combination. He gave both of the contestants a pat on the shoulders and turned them towards the nearest exit, no doubt inviting them to come back and finish during the next round.

Then it was time for cleanup. Ferris gathered up some contestants’ lost shoes, and walked up to the supply depot with a small plastic broom. It was actually an ordinary ten-dollar broom, but in his hands it certainly looked tiny. Ferris was an enormous human being. He liked the broom because it made him look even bigger when it was useful, and during cleanup, it was useful to not have anyone wanting to wander in his way.

Patches headed over to assist him. Perhaps it was because he had been disturbed during his break, but he felt an unsual number of eyes on him. Yes, several of the audience members in the stands twitched as he passed, a few covering their mouths in a surprisingly delicate display of shock. Trying to hide their whispers.

Ferris put the broken pipe into a bucket that was already loaded with broken pipes and shook some dust out of his gargantuan black coat. He then turned to regard Patches. His eyes flickered briefly too, but he was not the kind to cover his mouth.

“Whoa, Patch! Forgot something?" He held one platter-sized hand up near his face and pointed at his right eye.

Patches blinked. It took a while for him to realize, his gauze eyepatch had started peeling off. Ferris tossed him a roll of tape. “Thank you. I didn’t notice.” The tape on the existing gauze was damp and no longer usable.

“Well rested, I hope?”

“Yes. As always. Any standouts this round?”

“Same old, same old. Think this one’s still worthy? Lazlo threw this one in, didn’t get a good look.” Ferris picked a pipe from the bucket that was chipped a bit on the edge. Not brutalized nearly as bad as the one used by that unruly straggler, but someone could still get hurt. Lose their eye, perhaps. Patches told him so.

Ferris laughed. “Right, better safe than sorry. Means not enough pipes for the next round, so I guess we’re going to have to make an announcement.” He looked at a clock above the bucket and nodded. “Good lord. Gotta announce this one quick. Man, hope we don't cut into the big one's timeslot."

Patches went to drag a some of the collapsed contestants out of the Ring. It was always best to put this duty off as long as possible, in case anyone got back up on their own. Ideally, they would wait longer for the fallen to get back on their feet - the break felt short even to the showrunners - but the next contestants couldn’t be kept waiting. He headed for the other end of the ring, noting this time that nobody turned their heads or covered their mouths.

Nobody that he could see.

---

Magnus tried in fruitlessly to sweep dust off his jacket. It just got everywhere, how could they stand it? Even a good number of revellers sitting down in the pit - in the sand and dirt, were kicking at it like horses, leaning close to the walls to get a good faceful when blood splattered - they were dressed like they were here for a cocktail. And the “Priests,” all in long dark garments like Tiamat and her guards, must have been magnets for the stuff.

As if the maimings and killings didn’t already instill fear for their sanity.

Magnus leaned gingerly on an incredibly flimsy looking wooden rail to see a with lumbering goon with dirty tissues plastered to his face stiffly cross the pit to what looked like a corpse, which he lifted by the collar and dragged over towards the dark tunnel of an entrance. As he did so, a thick voice crackled over some unseen but poorly maintained loudspeaker: “PIPES CANCELLED FOR THE DAY. SORRY, FOLKS.”

There was a bit of disappointed chatter and snide gossip but that was soon drowned out by another crackle and the voice continued:

“ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT. EVERYONE PREPARE FOR THE NEXT ROUND.”

From whatever alcove sat right beneath them, there was a rumbling of voices, feet, hands, pieces of people but nothing discernibly human on its own. Magnus glanced at Tiamat. She yawned. The ground beneath them trembled, and he was sure the entire upper level was going to collapse. Only a few seconds had passed, but it felt like hours - still, nothing had emerged from the tunnel. Magnus took a step back.

“Take it easy,” Tiamat assured him, “They aren’t even using pipes anymore.”

And then suddenly, bizarrely, a variety of perfectly normal looking human beings emerged from the gate and took their positions in the Ring of Light. A few of them spoke excitedly to each other, some were already getting rowdy (though they would never go so far under the watchful eyes of the priests), and Magnus was faintly relieved to see a good number looked rightfully nervous. But none were nervous enough to get up and leave as they should.

A man that Magnus could only describe as a giant strode out from under a barn-looking structure with a thatched roof, like something out of a nativity scene turned nightmare. Everything from his shoulders to his wad of hair to his black loafers looked like they could fall on Magnus and crush him. The giant priest was holding what looked like a cowbell in one meaty hand, and a little red broom in the other and had one of the cruelest pockmarked grins on his face Magnus had ever seen. He swung the bell and without a word, chaos broke loose.

The shape, the sound and the strange undulations of of the clash bewildered him in the manner of an optical illusion. There were any number of small events unfolding all at once, single fighters going for apparently random single fighters on the other side of the arena, two flipping on one, arms swinging and falling as needed but there always seemed to be at least two that synced up, there being so many.

Through the rising cloud of dust he heard a number of wordless howls that didn’t speak to him of either joy or pain, but then, he wasn’t sure he understood any of this. He may well have lost his grasp on language for all he knew, because, strangely, he did not hear a single recognizable word.

Almost instantly there was a scream and crunch audible even from the second floor where he and Tiamat were situated. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, Tiamat was staring at him with her childlike expression of false wonder.

“Something wrong?”

“It’s a lot to take in,” he said, “And I’m distracted by, you know, the reason I’m here. You had something to discuss.”

“Sure, sure, but first -- you have to see.”

Magnus turned slowly back to the arena and watched. The agitated mass of bodies going at each other produced at least one point of interest every couple of seconds. There went someone’s ear. And that was clearly a tooth (that someone in the audience leaned down dangerously to collect.) And of course -- every couple of seconds -- people were going down. There went one, against the fence to the far left. Everything important seems to happen just out of sight. Anyone important just be getting their skull beat in, just out of sight.

He frowned.

“So how many do you think will fall?” Tiamat asked innocently.

Magnus snorted. “I don’t know, all of them?”

She gasped in a completely unbelievable manner. “So you don’t believe in your own people! Nobody strong enough… even frustrated enough to stand up. They’re all here by their own strength, you know.”

Yeah, that’s how I know none of these are mine, he didn’t say. Because, just today, it wasn’t true. “Hm… well since you were gracious enough to let me watched the end of the last round - though I can’t say how many started that time - here I see, what’s 20-30 people? Let’s go with two or three.”

“That’s the spirit. How much would you be willing to wager?”