Val took a long time in the bathroom. Patches dozed off, his head pleasantly hollow, echoing with Val's words and the rattle of the heating pipes.

Val must have returned sometime in the night, because there was a brief window where Patches saw him on the bench, feet up, shuffling a newspaper in the lamplight. There hadn’t been any questions or condolences, Patches had only blinked blearily for a moment before falling back to sleep.

The exact same scene awaited him when he woke to proper daylight.

“Do you ever sleep?” Patches asked. It seemed like an simple jab, but Val was slightly taken aback.

“Of course I do.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you do so.”

“I just don’t need much of it. Though I did sleep last night. I’m sure it’s not too interesting to watch.”

“You’re probably right. It was just a thought.”

“Believe me, the mystery is more exciting.”

Considering this, Patches concluded he was right. An innocuous mystery.

---

They were dining at a nearby bakery. There seemed to be an unlimited number of tiny shops surrounding the church that Patches never noticed before. They all had very similar looking tan and brown display items, but Val was enthralled by every one. He closely inspected and admired the pile on his plate, but their apparent beauty didn’t overcome his appetite. The coffee cups didn’t get quite so much ceremony before they were gone too.

“You must really love coffee,” Patches commented.

“It does what it needs to,” Val shrugged. “Hey, if you drank some, maybe we could both be up all night.”

“You said that you slept.”

Val finished what he was chewing on and pondered this. “I said, I slept last night.”

Patches accepted this and stared down his single croissant.

“And you,” Val said, pointing his finger in mock horror, “Do you ever eat?”

“Yes. And you’ve seen me eat.”

“Yeah, but not nearly enough. I could sleep plenty in the time you aren’t looking. Like when you’re asleep. What else would I be doing at three in the morning? But I think I’ve seen you at every meal since we met up, so I’m pretty sure when I say you don't eat enough. And I don’t think you’re out eating more when I’m asleep, because that’s when you’re asleep too.”

Patches took a hesitant bite.

Val inhaled a buttered roll. “I wish I knew what you liked. When I think about it, we didn’t really eat a lot back in the day, at least, I didn’t eat at your house.”

“You did, all the time.”

“Really? I don’t remember that at all. Guess I didn’t think so hard about what I ate then, like I do now.”

He was on the verge of eating his napkin.

Patches snapped the napkin away. “Maybe you're thinking of meals. You never had a real meal at my place. Though my grandpa didn't have real meals very often. You mostly brought snacks over, had them in the treehouse. Chocolate. Gum. Chips. Dried fish and meat. Cheese in plastic, that went bad once after it was unwrapped, and stuck to the floor.”

“Oh. Did anyone eat it eventually?”

“Someone may have, because it disappeared one day.”

Val laughed. “It’s coming back to me.” With that, he started to pile sugar into one of his coffee cups.

“You always liked sweet things.”

“That’s not outrageous. I’m definitely a fan today.”

“I can see that.”

Val stirred his coffee, and there was a rocky grating from inside the cup. Patches watched his ritual of taste-testing his mixture, adding more sugar, stirring, and testing it again. Val clicked his tongue in consideration. “Still kind of bitter. But I’m out of sugar.”

Neither of them moved to get more, so he had to suffer.

In spite of all the white powder that had been unloaded into it, his cup was still black as liquid night. Patches rested his eyes on the ripples and said, “I forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“The name. There was some sort of candy you brought over often. A favorite.”

“I can’t recall this at all. Was it chocolate? I probably liked chocolate even back then. Hm. I wonder if they're selling advent calendars yet.”

“It smelled odd. It was a dark color, like that.” Patches nodded at the coffee. “But it wasn’t chocolate. I would have known if it was.”

“What did it taste like?”

“I wouldn’t know. I never had any.”

“Didn’t look good to you?”

“The smell was unusual. But no, you always ate it all. That’s why I assume it was your favorite.”

Val snickered and groaned in the same breath. "My bad."

Patches shrugged. “I don't mind.”

“And I’m glad for that but, I know you would have minded a lot, back then. I’m surprised you let me live.” Val had a dreamy scythe of a grin going. “Now that you’ve said it, this mystery is gonna haunt me.”

Patches smiled back faintly.

“Are you already done?” Val asked as he finished his coffee.

“Yes. We can go if you’re ready.”

Val glanced at the plates and stood. “What do you have back at your house? Or, that shared kitchen you always ask me to check out.”

“Oh, our dining area. At this time...” It was still morning. “There would only be leftovers from last night.”

“Why don’t we check that out today?”

Still morning. He searched Val for something beyond that casual curiousity. Entering the communal kitchen and dining area seemed like something he wouldn’t have wanted to do. It was out of place, even for Val. But that was motivator in itself.

Patches stood. He left behind a half eaten croissant.

---

“Okay, you go ahead and get what you need,” Val said.

They were in a dimly lit hallway between the cloister and one of the main wings, a worn carpet path with old teak panelling, a few low sconces and a familiar musty smell that put Patches at ease and Val, it seemed, on edge.

He must have realized that the priests would be dining at this time.

The clinking of silverware and glasses coming from one of the sunlit rooms down the hall confirmed it. He was clinging to the wall, trying to lean nonchalantly, but his resistance flattened him like a moth attempting camoflauge.

“You’re going to stay here?” Patches asked.

“Yep, once you come out, we can go somewhere.”

“It could take a while. My friends are in there.”

“Your friends.”

Patches looked him up and down. “Val,” he said quietly, “Why did you take our contestant from the Ring that night?”

“Can we talk about this elsewhere?”

“Sorry if this is unkind, but I need to know.”

“Why now, though?” Val groaned and tapped the back of his head against the chipped wooden wall. “It was a job, that’s all. Magnus asked to do it.”

“So it was Magnus.”

“Sort of. It’s what he wanted, but he could never do it himself. Likewise, I could do the work, but I wasn’t so interested in why. What I heard was: the guy who was in your cell, he’s someone important. Magnus made it sound like the world would end if he didn’t get back home safe. But when the guy was freed, he and Magnus got into a spat and-” Val waved his hand in the air. Any reason there was, flapped away.

Patches looked him in his mismatched eyes, then to the side, then nodded. “Okay.” He reached out a hand.

“If you really want him back, I could go and grab him again, I mean, seems like Magnus changed his mind,” Val babbled quickly and crab-walked away from the hand headed in his direction.

Patches fastened his fingers around Val’s wrist - firm but careful - and led him towards the dining room entrance.

“Patches. Patch! Wait.”

He thought of simply dragging on, but the tone, it was calm. So he stopped. “I’ll introduce you," he explained, "If anyone recognizes you, I can tell them it wasn’t your fault. You were doing your job.”

“That’s not a great excuse. It’s my excuse, and even I don’t think it’s great.”

“It’s fine. I know these people. And nothing will happen to you.”

“You’d fight them, for me?”

“There won’t be a fight.”

Val swayed but the grip on his forearm didn’t loosen. “I didn’t even deny anything. I stabbed you, what, four times? Messed up your night, your boss's night. You forgive too easily, which is good for me, but I’ll be frank, I don’t know these other guys.”

“You can get to know them.”

“That’s not easy. I’m actually a little afraid of them, you know? Kind of hard to make friends when you’re afraid.”

“That’s true. I know you can do it. Of everyone I know, you're the most capable.”

“For a guy who supposedly has no imagination, you have some crazy ideas.”

“They aren’t imaginings, it’s what I remember about you.”

Val licked his lips. “You remember more about me than I do. Alright then.” He fastened a hand Patches’s sleeve now, so they were loosely holding each other. Patches was tugged lightly around to face him. Val smiled harshly. “Explain away. We’ll see how it goes.”

And he led. Patches was struck with the notion that something had gone wrong, he wasn’t sure what, but now he was the one trailing, and unlike Val, he couldn’t form the words quickly enough to stop it.

The dining room was abandoned. There was not a greeting or introduction to be made. It was a bizzare magic act. There were still glasses of juice and water on the table. Reheated, but still unfinished bowls of last night’s supper. The microwave door was blinking, having just completed a cycle. Everyone was gone.

“What a surprise,” Val said.

Patches let go of his hand and circled the table, cautiously putting the chairs back in place, as if moving too quickly would disturb the spirits. He reached the large white window at the end of the room and looked out onto the rolling hills of the church parkland.

“This is what you guys eat?” Val said, inevitably attempting to sample one of the bowls.

Patches swept back into the hallway, headed for the stairs and the main complex. There, in the entrance hall at the front of the chapel, Tiamat was in grave discussion with an officer of the law. She was backed by Ferris, Cain, and two other priests. The officer and his cohort looked like they wanted to dissolve into the wall with every word they had to put before her.

Patches waited patiently to the side. Inside the foyer, Tiamat was cornering the officers, but through the tall front doors he saw there were several labelled police cars circling the premises. There was also a sleek black, distinctly non-police vehicle parked a little further away.

Tiamat waved and the officers hurried out. Hard-faced she followed them to the door and made sure they were a good distance away before storming back in, flopping onto the bench (which just days ago had seated three dead or dying contestants) and huffing loudly. Patches stepped out of the hall.

“Where were you?” she said in her aggrieved singsong voice.

“I was out in the morning.”

“And you just now returned?”

“I’ve been back a while, I was just speaking to a friend-”

At that moment, Lazlo came limping out of the hall, single crutch flying heroically, crying, “I’m here! What's with all the cops?” and Tiamat decided against further interrogation.

“It’s just one misfortune after another,” she lamented, “A contestant escapes judgment, for the first time, as far as anyone can remember. A life spared, at the very least. But that wasn’t enough, after his escape the police say he’s disappeared again, off somewhere else. And so now - even though we've specifically declared that we lost him - they choose to investigate the church.”

The priests stood in festering silence.

“We’ll need all of you on duty, making sure those fools don’t go upsetting graves and private quarters, finding things they don’t need. At the same time, we want to make sure they check thoroughly, and know that this important fool of theirs isn’t here.” She turned her flaming eyes on Patches and Lazlo. “You two look somewhat recovered. But no need to go trampling around the fields. You’ll be guarding the entrance.” And all eyes drifted towards the closed door that covered the winding staircase towards the basement. The Rings.

Tiamat pulled the rest of the staff out into the surrounding park to herd up the roaming officers. The mission proceeded in admirable silence and diligence. Val was nowhere to be seen, but Patches admitted that perhaps it was not the best of time to introduce him to the priests.

With one of the main hall’s grand wooden doors was left flung open from the morning commotion. A cool breeze wafted through, heavy with dampness. It was going to rain.

When the skies finally let loose, there were several cries of annoyance. Patches pushed the door slightly less askew as raindrops began to gather on the ivory tiled floor. He noted, obscenely, that the single long, pure black vehicle parked by the trees chose this moment to open. Inside there was a cavity of fabric so red his eyes burned even with the filter and shadows of rain.

Magnus emerged from the fire, taut with some unhappy purpose. He approached Tiamat, and she must have seen him coming because she intentionally kept her face turned, arms crossed. Neither of them spoke before they met eyes, but the air grew unbearably heavier, heavier than it before the rain broke.

Patches closed the door. Lazlo went to retrieve the rubber doormat and ear-splitting, industrial dehumidifier. Preparations done, they stood across from each other in the hallway, in pious stillness until one of their own returned with a report: absolutely nothing had turned up. The investigation would be resumed tomorrow.

A congregation began to gather in the hall, officers were eager to dry up and get out. Thunder cracked overhead and Tiamat strode in, sullen but civil. She dismissed everyone, even the officers who were not technically under her command, but they took it gladly. Once he was free, Patches found that he was, in fact, a bit hungry.

----

“So after all that trouble you, me, Magnus and your friends went into, the guy just disappears. It’s almost funny how perfect that is.”

Val wanted spaghetti for dinner, and Patches wanted nothing, so they had spaghetti. The restaurant was in a high-end Southern locale, spacious and very red. On their red tablecloth was a red candle in a mason jar and three plates loaded with red tomato sauce.

The rain was still pouring down. The windows were thick and sealed out the noise almost entirely, but once in a while the wind blew a sheet of drops that landed with a line of pattering, or a wave of thunder made its way over them. There were a few other diners, and they all spoke in hushed voices. Patches being in his black coat again, everyone stayed a good distance away, so all he could hear was whispers. Even Val toned his chatter down just slightly.

“Does it bother you?” Val asked.

“The investigation?”

“No, your contestant running off like that. He was supposed to be your task of the day, your job, and then I cut into that. And then he disappears. Nobody wins.”

“Maybe he was the one who won.”

Val snorted and a speck of sauce hit the table. It was hidden among the red, so who knew how many other specks there were. “Won, by escaping? To where? No, Magnus would have done anything to keep him safe if he knew this was going to happen. By disappearing, he loses Magnus’s protection too. You know the guy is some inspector from the mainland, right? He could shut the city down if he wanted to.”

“Was he going to do that?”

“Magnus had a talk with him but I’m sure his time at the church didn’t make him too happy.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Val waved him off and, from some inexplicable source, more specks went flying.

“And then I kidnapped him. At the end of the night, we saved his life, and look at the thanks we all get. I should have left him to you.”

“You had your job to do.”

“And you had yours, that I should have let do see through. I care more for you than my jobs or that ungrateful prisoner.”

He stared Patches in the eye. Patches chewed at a slab of ravioli and stared back thoughtfully. “Without his escape and your interruption, we may not have been able to meet again.”

“You’re giving the guy too much credit. You might as well thank Magnus.”

“I will.”

Val laughed into a napkin. Before he'd even swallowed he tried to flag down somebody he could bother for coffee. Patches slid back in his seat, folding himself into the tapping of the rain and the whispers of the people around them. There was a clink of glass, and he wondered if ordering wine would be too costly in this district.

The candlelight was mesmerizing. It recalled that moment in the dark booth were he and Val had spoken, and Val had only been a set of glowing, grinning teeth set over thin collarbones and a thinly lit hand. That had been enthralling in its own right, but having the full person beside him felt justified. It was right, and he didn't need the thrill: it was a comfort.

Val waved a hand inches from his nose. “You tired?”

“Not exactly.”

Val’s hand waved left and right, then stopped, out of sight, over his right eye. Patches automatically snatched at the air in his blind spot and Val jerked back.

“Why do you wear a bandage?”

“To cover my eye.”

“I meant, why the tape and white stuff? Looks like it needs changing, a lot. You could get a permanent eyepatch. A patch? - hah, it’s because your name-”

“I get it.”

Val fell to the bowl of marinara.

Patches touched the gauze absently. Of all the jokes Val could have made, this one felt repugnant to him. It hadn’t even been spoken in full. Jokes usually fell flat to his ears, even the worst and most crass. He knew what they meant, but amusment was out of the question. Perhaps another memory of his childhood. But his eye hadn’t been a problem then...

Val twiddled his fingers on the table guiltily until his coffee arrived. His happiness loosed Patches out of his tension.

“There’s no medical reason for me to keep the bandage. It’s ah… it’s how people look at it. Injuries to the face are common in the Rings, and others always just cover them with bandages. It blends in.”

“Ah. So it doesn’t look permanent.”

“Even though it is. I prefer that the audience didn’t know. It’s a matter of...” he shook his head. “Permanent damage doesn’t look good. So it's a lie. The priests know, of course. Even if they didn’t to begin with, they know, after a time. A few have permanent injuries of their own. My dormitory neighbor wears a facial mask to the Ring because one round-”

“But you didn’t lose your eye in the Ring.”

“No.”

Val was stirring at least twelve sugar cubes into his mug. They rattled merrily before disintegrating. He tasted his spoon and perked up. “So why do you still wear the patch when you’re off work?”

“There are still people looking. There are always people looking.”

“Hm. Not in your room.”

“You’re there, now.”

“Yeah, but I'd like to see it.”

“Not even the priests enjoy seeing it,” Patches said. He couldn’t help but smile just a fraction. “You should come help at the Ring.”

“I don’t love looking at everyone’s cuts and sores! Just following you on that day you had to remove the bodies - I could do without.” Val laughed with fond remembrance. “And work as a priest? No way. The coat and the audience I don’t mind, but I couldn’t do the job. You’d be dragging me out the next day with my head caved. And probably my lungs and arms and legs.”

Patches smile softened. “I’m sure you’d do better than you think.”

“And I keep saying you’re too kind, to come up with things like that.”

“No, I believe you could ruin me, in a true fight.”

“Do you remember the night you blasted out of that wooden stall in the church? I could have died!”

“I’ve seen proof otherwise.”

Val snorted into his coffee and Patches continued to smile, but felt slightly ashamed. He folded his arms and looked for a waiter. They would have some wine after all.

He had a few glasses. Val had one and confessed minutes after swallowing that he had splattered some tomato sauce on the bandage, and that was the reason for his sudden interest. Patches felt his smile taking on some permanence, without requiring his willpower now. Everyone still hushed, and against the static of rain, he heard Val babble about obtaining him a permanent eyepatch. Black, so stains wouldn’t show, and you wouldn’t have to wash it that often. Or brown. Or skin tone, but that might be awkward. Perhaps you could draw an eye on it, in pen. Pen on fabric? No, black was the ultimate winner. It matched the priest’s uniform.

Patches eventually reverted to staring at the ceiling. Val’s words seemed to lift him, even though their meaning no longer registered. Morose, Val started to eat sugar cubes raw from the bowl, and at this Patches murmured to him that he remembered the name of the candy Val had loved so much. Then it was simply time to go.

---

The glass rattled, and Patches awoke to the stormy morning. His room was cast in a blue haze, the wood walls nearly black and the red drapery turned matte and indigo. It was as if it were evening again, already.

He would never sleep through a whole day if he could help it.

Patches got up and looked out of the gated window. His lumbering steps were quiet against the constant drum of rain. The window, under the canopy of the stone arch, was dry and clear and outside he saw a steady downpour obscured the courtyard. There was only the faintest wash of daylight making its way through. It wasn’t particularly evident, but the sun had been up a while. Ever the early riser, Val seemed to have woken and left already.

Patches turned the small clock on the table to face him. It was almost 9. Underneath the clock was a scrap of from a corner of newspaper with a message: Out today. Be back at 1-- the written time was incomplete. Whatever Val had used to write it had run out of ink.

Patches washed up, retrieved a new bandage, and went to the communal dining hall. Lazlo was there, as were two other, older priests, all of them not yet donning their black coats. It was too humid, the coats were draped over chairs and nearby hooks. Instead, the older priests were all wearing plain white shirts and Lazlo was wearing a gray tee with cats on it.

Out the window, water streamed down on a number of white canopies that had been set up on the grass of the surrounding park. The police cars had returned, and doubled in number. Magnus’s black limousine may have stood among them. The small dark imprints of people rushed back and forth; the window was too blurred to name anyone specific, but some were in black, and some were in blue. Everyone was already hard at work.

“What a joy to return to work,” Lazlo sighed.

“How was your trip?”

“A joy to behold as well. I think my sister’s thinking of getting married. Or maybe she already is. But she didn’t bring it up while I was there, but I had to wade through the tension. Awkward-ass man I didn’t recognize walking around, what was I supposed to think?” Lazlo slurped hot tea. “But not half as awkward as this whole investigation business. I’m not sure what they’re expecting.”

“They’re looking for the contestant who got away.”

“Exactly. He got away. Tiamat has her fuck-ups, don't we all, but she's not one to happily admit them. And not on the job. She wouldn’t say we lost a contestant unless it was true - and say it to the cops, no less. But those idiots insist. Apparently the contestant was a real important guy. So anyone with even a the tiniest suspicion is given free reign to waste as much time as they please.”

“I heard he’s some sort of inspector for the city,” Patches said.

“Oh man, if gossip was reaching even you, he must really have been important.” Lazlo slapped down his cup. “So you have to wonder why they’re piling everyone in here, and dragging things on for - what is it? - two days now.”

“Even the heavens are trying to turn them away,” one of their fellow priests said solemnly.

All four considered the ongoing storm. There was a flash of daytime lightning.

“So, what have you been up to, Patch?” Lazlo asked, digging up some old cereal.

“Not much.”

They both knew Patches tended to do little with his time, though Lazlo had never seen the extent of Patches’s nothingness and listless wall-staring. “Stunning. Well, I suppose you got more rest than I did.”

“I also met with an old friend.”

Now that was unusual. “Really, how did that happen?”

“It was... an accident. He had been looking for me, so it might have happened sooner, but I had no reason to leave the church until last week, and he finally...”

“He wasn’t a regular at the rings or anything, I get it. And he wasn’t, oh, you’ve probably seen it by now if you’ve had a walk around town. He didn’t look at you weird? People tend to be pretty scared of these big black coats.”

“I know. I heard. He’s not scared,” And Val wasn’t. Of Patches, at least. “He’s visited, too, he doesn’t need to be afraid. He tries to hide it, but he’s pretty powerful. One of the strongest I know.”

“Oh man. I don’t think I can stand two guys like Ferris in my life.”

“No, he’s…” Patches trailed off in thought.

It was true, Val was not a giant like Ferris, nor was he particularly graceful or quick. He splattered food, babbled nervously and complained about the shared toilets whenever someone else happened to be using them. It was like something trying to struggle out of its own skin. Much like he had always been. That was why Patches was compelled to convince him that he belonged, even if he didn’t know how to say it. And now, with something to talk about over the breakfast table for once, Lazlo with his sister and Patches with his friend, he wished that he could say it.

“He’s very different. He’s… someone I’d like to face in the Ring.”

“Well then, there’s a matchup fate intended. Unlike--” Lazlo jutted his chin towards the fiasco outside.

On the lawn in front of the church, an unmistakable black shape pulled into view. Patches got up without finishing a single piece of toast.

---

Tiamat was organizing a search plan, and chirping poisonously at the search party under one of the canopies. She was funneling a lot of energy into playing hostess. It put the officers in a better mood, but they seemed to interpret her courtesy as a step down, and instead they were gathering around Ferris for leadership. Utterly confused, Ferris was trying to sneak his oversized self out of the situation and throw out some excuses. Their backs turned to her, Tiamat's energy was about to turn to hot rage. Patches, even with his poor vision combined with the layers of rain, could see that warning smile from several meters away. She didn’t seem to have time to give extra guidance to her own staff, so he continued to the hill where the cars were parked.

The ground was upturned with muddy bootprints and becoming spongier by the minute. The rainwater was running down his face and he had to hold a hand up to see.

Yes, there was the limousine, ink-black and shining amongst the other gray and whites. Even its windows were dark on the outside, though Patches knew having ridden in one, that the view from the inside was perfectly normal. He walked to the front of the car, knocked some chunks of dirt off its ornamented silver grille. It may have been a trick of the (minimal) light but the windows were so incredibly dark he could not see so much as a reflection.

“Catch.”

“What?”

“Catch,” came Ritz’s voice from a short distance away. Patches shook his face and hair off violently and squinted. He saw Ritz, with a black umbrella over his head. In his free hand, he was raising a second umbrella like a javelin, aimed at a Patches who was not a meter away from a car’s prone windshield.

Patches lunged to stop him, and grabbed the umbrella’s end a bit too hard.

He was left to open a slightly bent umbrella over his head. A river of rainwater was streaming out of an unintended hitch in the frame, where the canvas folded like a gutter. With his undamaged umbrella, Ritz stalked around the cars and surveyed the scene below them with amusement.

“They won’t find anything,” Patches told him.

“Yeah.” Ritz was not visibly concerned. “I don’t come here very much, so I don’t know if there’s anything to find.”

“There isn’t. You know as well as I do, the contestant - the man that night -he isn’t here.”

“I don’t know. I never saw.”

“He was an important man. My organizer knows, she wouldn’t lie. I’m beginning to think she knew that night, too. She wasn’t upset, she didn’t make anyone go after him - so maybe she knew that keeping him would-”

“Did Val tell you about it?”

“He did. Some of it.”

“Hm,” Ritz murmured. “So he found you.”

Thunder broke nearby. There were minor grunts of approval from the camp. Patches saw Ferris loudly and effectively berate some uniformed men with shovels.

“I recognize them,” Ritz said.

“The police?”

“Them.” Ritz pointed vaguely in the direction of Tiamat and her task force. “The white covers. You use them for funerals.”

“They are also used in weddings. And public lunches,” Patches offered lamely.

“I’ve never been to any of those.”

“Ritz, that’s enough.” It was a voice that was soft and exasperated, but managed to maintain clarity even over the blast of rain. Ritz and Patches both turned to see Magnus making his princely way up the muddy slope, loafers drenched, umbrella waving madly in a bid for balance. He regained his footing and set a hand on his car. There was a small splash and he rolled his eyes. “That was lovely. Thanks for your assistance.”

“You’re welcome,” Ritz said promptly.

Patches said nothing.

Magnus looked from one to the other and took a wavy wheeze, then stood himself up, more or less composed. “Well, well, well. It’s been a while.” This was directed at Patches. “How are you holding up? Stitches all fine, all good?”

“Yes. Very good.”

“Excellent. Even a little bit of good news is welcome.”

In protest, the rainfall seemed to double. Magnus’s voice continued smoothly, but he was clearly straining to be heard without loosening his jaw and screaming.

“This is a mess, isn’t it? I just don’t know where he could have gone.”

“The contestant?”

“Verd. Call him by his name, one Mr. Verd. It’s just bizarre, after that sudden disappearance at the event, I just heard from your organizer that he was being kept in-”

“He’s met Val,” Ritz cut in.

“Christ,” Magnus said, forgetting to lower his voice.

Patches’s ears started to throb. “Is there a problem?”

“How much did he tell you?”

“I don’t understand.”

Magnus could have started spewing flames. “Val finally found you. So you know he was there, then? The night your contestant disappeared? You know what he was doing?”

“Yes. Yes, I know he was there, I know he did it. I knew he was there, even without him telling me. He said that you-”

“Alright, I get it.” Magnus raised a hand to denote silence.

Ritz and Patches gave it with minimal resistance.

Magnus groaned. “It’s true. I had all hands at the ready to get the guy out of here safe and sound. You might also have heard that Verd was a very important man. That’s also true. He was here on behalf of our mainland benefactors, so you can see why it was crucial to treat him well. Of course, by the time Val bailed him out it was too late for that. Now, I don't know what your particular stance here is or what exactly he did to you but it was going to be in our best interest to make sure the remainder of his trip went as smoothly as possible. When I say 'our best interest' I'm not talking my company, or your company, or everyone but us or just me – it's everyone, everyone who lives here, every little sorry soul whether they want to live or not. The fact that they have the right to even think such things depends on the outside. And the outside, whether the church wants to believe it or not, prefers a living inspector with a bad report over a kidnapped reporter, or a corpse.”

“You think he’s dead,” was all Patches had to say.

“For everyone’s sake, I hope not. But, between you and me, I’m not especially hopeful.”

“Why are you telling me all this now?”

Magnus rubbed the bridge of his nose. Questions, questions, everyone always expected him to explain himself. ”Because you’re here. Have you seen Val recently?”

“He was here earlier today. I thought he went to work. Oh - does he work at the tower?”

“Went to work. No, Val doesn’t do that kind of thing. I have to really dig for him when he’s needed. And I’ve been trying to do that all night.”

“He was here last night.”

Magnus frowned. “Here? Of all places. What was he doing? Did he go inside, did you see anything suspicious? Did you see him carrying anything, like a tool or a big bag?”

“No, nothing like that… We ate dinner, and then stayed in the room the rest of the night. He slept there. I think. He sleeps late and wakes early.”

Patches was hesitant to add more, because Magnus was now gawking at him as though he’d uttered some horrific gory lie.

Magnus let his umbrella fall slightly askew and tapped is hand against his chin, considering the unspeakable future. He remained this way until Ritz gave him a hard jab to the shoulder, to warn him of impending trouble. Tiamat was headed their way.

“Aren’t you interested in your own investigation, Mr. Long?”

Magnus glanced at her, then back at Patches. “So he didn’t tell you anything that might suggest he knows where this guy Verd went? Where and when? Did he mention Verd at all? Has he been hanging around you a lot, enough that he wouldn’t have time--?”

Tiamat stepped between them. “You must be fairly desperate. Most people wouldn’t resort to harassing our staff.”

“Just helping this guy clear his name. He may know someone involved.”

Tiamat glared, then extended an open hand to Patches. Safe to speak, for now.

“I don’t know. Val’s not here all the time. He said he did the job, and that he didn’t care about it, but never talks about the contestant. I can ask him.”

“I’d appreciate that. Yes. Maybe that will work.”

“Does this put the matter to rest?” Tiamat asked.

Having forced himself to ease, Magnus simply shrugged and nodded. “I think I’ve heard enough for now. But you heard the man, I expect news.” He slouched towards his car.

“Why do you think Val had something to do with this?”

Tiamat seemed surprised Patches had thought of something to say on his own. Ritz looked back too. And tensed.

Magnus paused and looked into his tinted side windows, rivulets of rain throwing the little light there was. “Because he can be dangerous. And he's an idiot. I don’t know what he’s told you, or how he used to be, but he’s got more power than it seems. It’s not the power you and your priests have, it’s not as straightforward. It’s not even what I have, which is already a convoluted path. It’s not a human trait, it's the unhinged stupidity of someone who's actively trying not to be human. It’s useful sometimes, after all, who else would walk into a den of priests on a time limit? But maybe predictably, he’s prone to throwing all he has into the wrong decisions.”

“That’s…”

“Do you really trust him so much? How can you? Maybe this sounds familiar - you meet him, you speak to him, maybe he does something for you, makes you feel like you’ve accomplished something. But then, he disappears, and the thing he did for you starts to rot. It falls apart like a dying vine, maybe worse than before, and the only one who might know how to fix it is the person who caused it, and that's exactly the time he chooses to hide. It’s like a contract with a demon. It’s like he never existed. You have a feeling, but you’re afraid to look any further, because maybe you’re just out of your mind.”

Patches felt a burning at the base of his skull. It was a sensation he’d had a lot as a child, and like then, it was for no reason he cared to name. What Magnus was saying was true. That’s what his conscious mind registered. He was right. It was a good description that he could use on Lazlo, later, tell him about Val over dinner or breakfast the next day. And the last statement, too, meant Magnus knew. But there was that unpleasant protrusion. Something out of place. Maybe it was himself.

He stepped forward again. The mud made a dull slap beneath his feet, and he braced, a hand clenched. Ritz swept down between him and Magnus like a wall. Patches stopped.

Ritz hadn’t done anything wrong. Neither, really, had Magnus. Patches noticed his own fists were clenched, and soon he was standing over Ritz. Similar as they were, when they took preparatory stances, Ritz crouched and Patches rose. He knew Ritz would strike first, that tension was built like a spring. He couldn’t match that, but maybe-

Magnus grabbed Ritz by a handful of his wet shirt and yanked him back. Ritz nearly fell in flat in the mud, but deftly executed a midair roll and regained his footing. Patches blinked and lumbered back, until he was behind Tiamat once again.

“Don’t worry about it,” Magnus said in his easy, even tone. “I’d prefer it if he wasn’t involved either. I just have to know, to give us all peace of mind.”

“Yes, we could do with some of that,” Tiamat said flatly.

Ritz threw his hands in the air. He’d seen worse, everyone was nuts, etc, etc.

“Just a fair warning. I don’t know exactly what you’re getting into with Val, but be careful.” Magnus had just unlocked his car when there was a loud call from the church gate. "At the same time, I've never seen anyone take a visit from him so gladly. I expect to hear good news from you soon."

---

The investigation had come to a halt for a late lunch, but the rain had not let up in the slightest. Several priests had headed out in search of food, or were scrounging around the communal kitchen, radio turned high to battle the downpour, but Patches had returned to his room and was, of course, lying on the bed and staring into some dimension beyond his ceiling. It seemed quiet - perhaps not pure silence, but something stable. Like static.

His eyes were glazed, his body was sinking into the covers, but the thoughts would not let up.

Just before they had stopped, blood had been found on a block of pavement, just outside the church.

Any blood on the premises had probably been drowned in the mud by now, but the concrete was less secretive. Nobody could say what original splatter pattern, puddle shape could have been, what it meant, how it happened, but it was blood sure enough. Tiamat and Magnus, apparently having finally been given something to fight over, had gone silent. No conclusions could be drawn just yet. The investigation would have to continue.

Nobody was pleased.

Patches was more preoccupied with Magnus’s words. They had settled in him like leaves in a crevice. Rustling quietly over the rainfall: Do you really trust him? He’ll disappear. You’ll go mad. Contract with a demon.

What a thing to say. Patches was offended on Val’s behalf, but at the same time, he wholeheartedly believed what Magnus said too. He didn’t have the sufficient anger to argue for one or the other. It was possible that Val might like such comparisons.

He rolled the strip of paper in his fingers. Back at 1 -- The flimsy newspaper material was fraying. It may have been 1.00 already.

He was hungry, possibly, but didn’t want to move. The carvings in the ceiling shone with their usual mockery, and ridges in the wall beckoned him to sit up. Cain was out, so nobody would hear. His stitches were itching. The room seemed to fill with a consistent fuzz of noise and light. He wanted to tear his chest open, pull and rip the holes in his back until they met in one massive hole that would let air flow into his torso. But he also couldn’t bring himself to get up.

The ceiling stared down at him. He took off his bandage and closed his eyes.

---

The room was a large square. Save for the wooden floor tiles and heavy, round-topped wooden doors, most of it was white, painted concrete, as per tradition (or lack of tradition, you might say.) The difference in Patches’s room was centered around the bed. The wall behind it was the near-black teak panelling with engravings in the shape of ocean waves; disorderly, overlapping in places, and chiselled out in large blunt wedges. This pattern covered the entire wall, but it was blocked in part by the bedside table, a shelf, and the bed itself, to which it served as a headboard. Patches was often glad he did not have to face it.

Directly above the bed was something that did not go ignored as easily. There was another thick wooden panel, made of slightly lighter wood, oak or walnut maybe. It was large, but did not cover the whole ceiling, and was not centered either - it only covered the square above the bed, right between the four corner posts. In it, near indistinct among the wood grain and whorls, were heavy handed carvings far more intricate than the kind seen in the panel behind the bed. In the wrong lighting, it just looked a cataclysm of criss crossing scratches, with deeper holes drilled in randomly. But Patches, having laid in that room for most of his life, having spent a good amount of time staring up from the bed, in all seasons and climates, knew what it was supposed to be. They were angels. But not the sort he cared to explain. They were his grandfather’s angels.

The room had belonged to his grandfather, before the Rings had been constructed, before they started hiring certain kinds of priests. And it was his grandfather who had requested the construction of the wall and ceiling. The old man had been adept with the saw and hammer, but his coordination and sight had deteriorated in his old age. He had half-completed the project, half directed others to work in his stead. The result had not been pleasing. It may not have even been completed. He stayed there exactly one month before returning to his homestead outside the city, taking Patches with him. He hated the angels he had made. He'd hated a lot of things.

The angels were eyes, single, front-facing eyeballs that stared down, with their grotesquely brown, veiny pupils, at whatever was offered before them. Each eyeball was enclosed in a ring of jagged wings - jagged with fire or metal or just crudely formed feathers, Patches couldn’t tell. The majority sported five wings, because that’s all that could be fit into the space, or that’s all the carver had patience for. Perhaps patience wasn’t the issue, though, because there were at least two dozen eyes, and they were packed, wing against wing, against each other, no more than a hair’s space between them, as though they had been forcibly stuffed in a box. There was not a speck of breathing room, there would be no flapping or stretching.

So they all held their breaths, eternally strained, and stared.

The cluster seemed to move throughout the day and night, as the light shifted, so did their shadows. In warm daylight, the grooves and edges were softened, they seemed to sink into the wood texture, and there was the illusion that nothing had been carved at all. But on moonlit nights, or gray-blue mornings, the dents became so hard he could feel them dig into his chest and arms as he turned his face away.

Patches was a fairly mild person. He didn’t dislike many things strongly, but he preferred not to be looked at. The Ring’s audience could be deterred. Wear a bandage, do your job swiftly and completely. Let the contestant be the star. With Ritz’s advice, he learned people outside the ring had their own antidote, though he needed further practice with it. White shirt. Look down. Know where you’re going.

But you could do all these and the angels would keep on staring and staring. He could stare back, but he could never outdo them.

It was disquieting. Just trying to count the eyes, meeting their gaze for a moment that was supposedly under his control, gave him an inexplicable notion of helplessness. No wonder his grandfather had hated them.

Patches didn’t dislike anything strongly. He somewhat disliked being stared at. But conditions he couldn’t control, he lacked the drive to hate them. Without hate, and continually facing the things before him, there was no reason not to love. That’s how he would put it, though the words were a touch strong. As such, he had never mentioned the angels to anyone, and had never even thought of requesting another room. But he did think about beating himself open on the walls once in a while.

---

A knock on the door brought Patches to his feet. Val stumbled in, dripping rainwater from head to toe, jacket, hair and boot laces clumped like seaweed, but he was beaming deliriously. He had a supermarket shopping bag crushed in his hand.

“I’m late. Sorry, sorry. I had to go pretty far.”

The clock had its back turned again. Patches hadn’t known what time to expect him to begin with, but no matter the time, he was relieved.

“All the buses are packed when it rains like this. But I just wanted to-” He tilted his head to the side and water seemed to stream out of his ear. “Did I wake you up?”

“I’ve been awake.”

“You look all rough.”

Patches took a seat at the end of the bench. “It’s been a strange morning.”

“Sure has.”

“Ritz and Magnus were here.”

Val was chewing something, but listening.

“There’s an investigation going on around the church, police, cars, and Magnus came to check on them. The contestant, the important person you removed from the Rings - he’s still missing. They were looking for him yesterday, and this morning.”

“That explains the mud, the police must have ripped up the park. Look at this.” Still chomping away, Val pointed down at his shoes. He had dragged a long smear of soggy dirt into the room. They both tracked with their eyes the line from the bench to the door. Val mumbled, “I’ll wipe it up later.”

“It’s fine.”

“So you were out there with them,” Val said, propping an arm up on the windowsill. “Did they come up with anything?”

“Some blood. Outside the park.”

“That can’t mean much.” Val leaned forward to inspect Patches, who was visibly sagging. “Should I come back later?”

“No. I need to ask you, do you know anything about this disappearance?”

Val stopped chewing. “Magnus probably asked you to say that.”

Patches stared at the floor, the thin rug under the table. He heard Val inch closer, and smelled a strange but familiar odor coming from whatever substance he was chewing on.

“He said a lot of things. They were not kind, but they were true.” Patches glanced over. Val was still a good distance away. About an arm’s reach. “You’ve asked me why I am this way, but I think you know already. You were there when it happened. But I have to ask you, why are you the way you are?”

“Me?” Val clicked whatever he was chewing on. “I’m not that unusual. Have I done anything weird since the night we met? Even then, it was you who did the grabbing and slamming and beating.”

“Magnus compared you to a demon.”

“Hah, he would! He’s hired all kinds of people and creatures and who knows what else. So he would know.”

Just as suspected. Val lapped it up. He swallowed what he was eating enthusiastically. “So do you think he’s right? You a fan of demons? I mean, you must see them a lot.”

“Where would I have seen them?”

“When sleeping.”

“I-”

“Those things up there,” and with that Val pointed at the ceiling.

Patches looked up, astonished. “You noticed those?”

“Hard to miss.”

“They’re angels.”

“Seriously?” Val scrutinized the ceiling.

“For certain.”

“They look a little - those wings aren’t -- wait, that’s right. Your grandpa. Eyes in the sky. It sort of makes sense.”

There was relief in not having to explain it. Val would know without being told.

“Imagine if he were here. Your grandpa, I mean. The investigation would probably go a whole lot smoother. Magnus can probably do everything he did, has all the equipment, but he doesn’t have the drive.”

“Not many do.”

“Mh. Could you do the work, if given the equipment? You know how.”

“I wouldn’t want to.”

“You prefer being looked at?” Val again, eyed the box of angels.

“No. Definitely not. I do prefer looking but only at certain sights. Not carvings. Not television, usually. Not at people. Not at a large number, anyhow.”

“So certain people?”

“Certain things, but for the most part, nothing. Nothing more calm than nothing at all.”

"You say some smart things. Sometimes."

Patches remained silent while Val continued his snack, whatever it was. He finished off a stick of something, slim and black, pieces torn by the gnashing teeth. That burst of sharp, somewhat spicy odor. Patches sank into the hard angles of the bench. The plastic bag rustled and for the first time he could remember, his stomach growled.

Val stopped dead. He turned to Patches and said, “You’re actually hungry?”

“I don’t know. It’s been a strange morning.” There was another irrepressible gurgle. Val moved close as if he were witnessing some miracle. The scent grew stronger. Definitely familiar.

“It’s not unusual, to be hungry,” Val declared. He snapped up the plastic bag. "C'mon. We can get something you like, today."

“I went to eat in the kitchen earlier. Didn't finish, but I can-"

"No problem. Actually-" Val shook his plastic bag. "Now’s the perfect time.”

“You bought something.”

“Black licorice,” Val said, drawing out a colorful package from the white plastic bag. Water caught in the bag spilled to the floor and Val moved his leg in front of the puddle sheepishly. “I’ll clean that later. What I wanted to tell you when I got it was, after you mentioned it the other night, I had to get out and find some. I’ve been chasing this taste for years, but totally forgot what it looked like, what it was called- all the important things.”

“You were out all morning searching for candy?”

“It looks like some kind of rotten stick. I wouldn’t have thought these would be my choice as a kid, but I don’t remember much of what I did back then. What was I even like? I’ll bet you know.”

The plastic crinkled, Val dug around. The spice and sweetness wavered in the air around them. Patches tried to steel his stomach from further begging.

“This is strange.”

“Strange morning for everyone, I heard you,” Val hummed.

“I didn’t look at you much, back then.”

“Back then?” Val absently twisted the plastic bag. “Yeah, way back then, you were pretty preoccupied with watching grandpa.”

“I should have. I didn’t know then, but you...”

“What you see now and what you would have seen back then are different things.”

Patches studied the veins on the back of his hand. "A lot of things changed after I moved. Some of the things were good, but one of the changes was, I couldn’t look at certain things. Textures and shapes. Moving or even still. That-” he motioned towards the ceiling, “- the sight of it, or the thoughts that came with it, would cause a blackout. Or just pain, without the fall. I had no real method of picking out the causes back then, but now I know, it has to do with the complexity. At least, I thought it did.”

“I see. So you disengage. Stare into nothing. Learned to fix it.”

“Yes. There was never anything I wanted to see. Until-”

“Oh man,” Val said.

Patches dropped his stream of thought, throat tight, skin on fire. Val looked from him to the licorice bag he was holding with a jittery grin. “Don’t get mad, but I hope you’re really, truly into emptiness, because I’ve accidentally eaten the whole thing already. What a screwup. Sorry about that.”

There was a great and overwhelming wave of nostalgia, that swelled in Patches’s head and finally burst free as a choking laugh.

“Some things don’t change. But there’s always next time, now that I know.” Val muttered, now smiling somewhat more comfortably. He was still an arm’s length away. Not afraid at all.

“You didn’t hear a thing I said.”

Val’s lighter eye cocked, and locked on. “I heard you.”

“I didn’t even finish.”

“Then I can make a guess.”

Patches sat still as a statue and Val turned, swung to his feet, and from somewhere in the clouds said, "Though I can't imagine what you find so interesting."

It was Val’s arm that stretched out first, it fell right over the spot where the stitches lay, brushing their cotton bandage and then sinking in. A movement that could penetrate skin and muscle. It was a slow movement, a slow impact, but unbearably strong.

Patches was eased back, the hard cushions of the bench rose around him. He reached out his arms to steady himself, rolled the fingers up Val's arms and after a moment of searching for alternative grips, finally fastened his hands on the nape of his neck. Val let out a small puff as Patches let his weight take hold, and pulled that golden eyed stare closer and closer, down until there was no avoiding it.

Their lips pressed together abruptly; there was the stinging click of teeth and crack of bones on wood. Patches's elbows twitched as they hit the bench. His fingers slipped and before he could regain his grip, a wet shape thrust between his teeth and a new taste filled his mouth. At the force of it he pressed back a strangled gasp. With his first spasm Val descended hard and sealed off any sound that may have spilled out, clawed fingers drew around the flimsy shirt and dug in. He grasped as if he intended to rip out a rib or two. He drew even lower and closer with the effort, body hauled down. His hands first, then chest, hips, legs, all fell like weights to the corresponding parts under them; and as he was flattened Patches became perilously aware of every inch of his being.

A human body he had forgotten about, and how bizzarely human he was. There were as many parts to be injured, same as he saw on any contestant, or more. He was a tiny as any of the sad and screaming prisoners he'd looked down on and towered over for years. Parts so frail and here they all were in him too, a single layer of fabric away from obliteration. He could be completely destroyed, bones broken, neck cut, dug out with holes, strips of meat taken from his heaving chest and sides, legs crushed and the littles bone simply snapped like twigs. He strained as Val's fingernails punched holes through the cotton. Imagine what he'd do with knives.

As the seams gave out and Val bore down further, Patches’s lungs were compressed. Lips still pressed closed, he couldn't breathe. He writhed without any force of his own, air gradually being pulled out of him, suffocating until his mouth was released. At the shock of freedom he opened, wide, his chest swelled and his hands gripped blindly at Val's sides. Air eagerly rushed up his throat and rolled back out with a high pitched whine that sounded like another person altogether.

Val caught his breath in the same brief pause, his ribcage pressed back gently. Then slipped back in, voracious as ever. But this time, his breath was cloyed with the acid black sugar and molten, syrupy licorice. Somewhere in Val's milling depths, darkness or spirit or bile rose into the sealed space they shared and when Val breathed, it flowed down like volcanic ash.

It was a taste unlike anything Patches had ever experienced.

He was so taken by their second round that it took a moment for the sensation to register. There was a tingling he mistook for nerves, the shock of having his breath pulled in and out against his will. Upon this realization he inhaled quickly, accepting what was being funneled into him, and that was when the burning began. What felt like solid spice was poured into his lungs, bursting into his blood, so rich even his bones were saturated. Throat tattered, Patches set his palm to Val's neck and pushed him off. He intended to be gentle but his insides folded, he jerked his hand and Val's temple cracked against the windowsill. Patches turned his head, coughing and gagging.

Each cough only tore his throat further.

As he hacked up fumes, Val slowed, shaking off the knock to his head. At first he looked like he might collapse, but he took his hand and set it down, licking his lip for a moment before lowering at his own pace. Teething around an ear and running down the jaw at first, then tracking a line of intendations down Patches's twitching neck. Rushing to cool his lungs, Patches tried to hold him up, keep him a safe distance away, but he seemed to slip between fingers and drape himself down around hands and arms. His shape was smoky, so thin and pliant it was hardly touchable, yet somehow his weight was inhumanly oppressive. His shoulders and wild hair radiated into an all-consuming shape blocked out even the wingtips of the angels on the roof. When he regained control of his arms, Patches loosely looped his hands around Val again, and stretched, exposing his throat and the dip to his chest, giving the teeth a welcome path, extending their way to below the collar. He faintly wanted to wrap that frayed, creeping shape to him more tightly, but he would be undoubtably crushed, lungs flattened and bones powdered, Val would sink into through his skin and into him and he'd die, without a sound.

Had it been so quiet the first time?

The teeth came to the end of their path, that intruding tongue gave a final probing tap again the sorest contour of muscle below the collarbone, and Val raised his head, mismatched eyes demanding. In that look there was something like, don't get up. Or with more feeling, stay down.

There was nothing to do then, but look and see and remember. Patches's throat felt rife with holes, his arms were dead where they were, all he heard was blood pumping in his ears. The longer he looked, stronger became the endless void into which all light and efforts concentrated and were devoured, leaving only the core of a singular memory. Years back, Val on top of him, immovable, brimming with a painful energy that wiped out even the sun. It must have happened right before the big accident. It was followed by the greatest nothingness he had ever witnessed. He may have been getting close again. Without use of the Ring, either...

It wasn’t until he sensed a creeping from his blind spot that his Ringside reflexes awoke with a start, and a much more familiar instinct sprang forth. Reflexively, he grabbed the spot he couldn't see, swinging with the force of a bear trap.

Val flinched, almost had his ear torn off. Patches felt his smallest finger skim flesh as he snapped at the air, but caught nothing more.

Reeling, Val fell back, squat on the bench. He blinked in surprised, then winced, turned, and withdrew to the other side of the bench, stroking his face.

When he'd gathered his thoughts, he scooped up his wrappers and started fooling with his trash bags as if nothing had happened.

The heat dissipated, air became breathable again.

Patches sat up dizzily and watched Val tie up the empty licorice packet in the plastic bag. Val was engrossed in his task. His eyes were hard with consideration, and from his eyes Patches traced a path down to his mouth. His lips were still wet; skin flakes and dents smoothed down and reddish gray, the corners sharp and slightly upturned. He was devastatingly unaffected.

This bout of staring did not go unnoticed. Val wiped his sleeve over his face and mouth vigorously. "That went well." Once satisfied, he regarded Patches and dangled the knotted plastic in sporting fashion. “So, first time opinions on my old favorite snack? It's only thanks to you that I remembered.”

Patches brushed a hand over his own mouth and said hoarsely, "It was fine."

"Really?"

Patches coughed.

Val was grave. "Be honest. You like it, I'll fill the room with this stuff."

Patches pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. The taste was crawling up the back of his throat.

"I'll admit, not something I'd eat every day."

Val broke into a snicker, and the air in the room rippled. It was hard not to join him.

The rain was still pattering down on the lawn outside, the windows had fogged up. The heating pipes rattled, shedding a few paint chips. Red welts and yet another shirt ruined. Slight imperfections assuring that what had happened had occurred in reality, and could happen again.

In between real world matters, naturally.

Val hopped to his feet. “How about lunch?”