In reality, not a single tangible image passed through Patches’s head as he lay on the carpet. He was sleeping, and he almost never dreamed. To call up a full memory at the right time was even less likely. But when his eye flickered open, he was immediately hit by a feeling, a dim, indistinct shape. Another dream? He tilted his head up, almost eager.

What he saw was Val’s leg on his stomach. Elbow crooked, a shadow against the sun. The knife handle at his neck. He felt - smelled - freshly broken skin. A thin searing pressure. Slow. The entire world seemed sluggish, Patches felt the apprehensive tendons in his neck twitch. He shifted experimentally. Arms and legs working. Yes, he could defend himself until the situation made itself clearer.

He launched his hands at the shape above. Something flimsy, cheap plastic bindings, snapped in an instant, carpet fibers burned his elbows as they swung free. The knife was so close, an easy target. He locked one hand around the handle, the other siezed Val's wrist. The room froze.

After a few cramped breaths, the knife rose slowly from the flesh of Patches’s neck. There was no back and forth, no resistance. Stunned into silence, Val let Patches move the blade out of him to where they could both see it. A stripe of red slipped free from the wound and trickled to the floor.

When the knife was out, Val decided it was time to move and yanked his hand, turning his whole body. He failed spectacularly and slipped onto his side, slapped onto the carpet like a hooked fish, hands fastened to the knife handle by Patches's vicegrip. The knife itself had barely moved from that point in space as if frozen. Val yanked but hands and knife remained tightly bound as if in its own dimension - but of course, it was simply because Patches's grip outweighed his tallest efforts. Val's arms slackened. To make matters worse, Patches was ignoring him, and was just dreamily regarding the blade that was fixed a short distance from his face

“You’re up already,” Val said. His eyes and mouth strained independently of each other, like his skin was filled with insects. "How do you do that?"

Patches couldn’t move his mouth, though admittedly he wasn’t trying very hard. He turned the knife, and Val’s hand in a small arc, then began to pull the blade back down. Calm as the ocean.

“Fuck, you might get your revenge after all.” Val said and laughed in loud breathy coughs.

Patches's brow lowered, and he started to mutter, “I don't want-”

Val hurtled forward and with his free hand plunged his thumb into Patches’s raw shoulder wound. His weight pressed down; his hand twisted, and he yanked, driving his knee between Patches's legs as an anchor. The skin split like fruit rind. A thin line of blood spurting from his chest, Patches choked on his protest, gasped. his knees jerked and his fingers slacked momentarily. A moment was enough. Val pulled free, thumb dripping, and darted straight for the bedroom. The door slammed.

Patches hauled himself onto his elbow, panting, and let the knife slide to the carpet. He gingerly ran a hand over his body. His fingers came away soaking red. Whatever time had passed, Val had been busy. But to what end? Running along his thigh and side, to just below the ribs, Patches felt a gash wide as his index finger. One pant leg was in shreds. His partially opened shirt had one gaping hole that buried down to his chest, the fabric soaked obsidian black. And he couldn't see it but in his neck there must be a thumbnail incision, wet and faintly pulsating. He traced his finger across his throat, there were three similar gashes. But he was largely intact. Val had taken his time picking a spot - perhaps too long as he hadn't finished what he had set out to do.

Patches had no idea how much time had passed. He stood up quietly. The fragments of cloth that covered him, slick with red jelly, started to slide off.

The black coat and vest he'd prepared for the wedding rehearsal were lying, insanely neat after all the commotion, on the couch. They were untouched: by some fortune Val had seen to remove them before he started work. Patches pulled the vest out into a strip and tied it around him, a makeshift belt just to stop his half-destroyed shirt and pant leg from dropping off. He gathered his coat around him. He had never been so grateful for the thick, dusty fabric before.

He knocked on the bedroom door. There was an electrical whirring from inside, but no voice. He stepped back, didn’t need to be told. Time to leave.

Before he did, he nudged open the bathroom door and used the toilet and washed his hands in the tiny brown sink. Then he turned to the dying creature in the corner, the one he’d been assigned from the start, who was to die anyway, and apologized.

Then he grasped the man’s head in his fingertips, without a feeling in the world, and snapped the brittle neck instantly, as he’d originally been tasked that day in the Ring.

So ended his day: One compliant victim. Radio. Sitting on a strange couch for some unknown number of hours. A long, unintentional nap. No heart-to-heart talk, no gentle words or settling of matters. Val was out of reach. Patches had essentially wasted time, but every fiber in him was exhausted.

---

Night fell, and Tiamat was unwinding in the plush armchair of her cathedral office with a kettle of tea and some leftover cake from the rehearsal. Unlike the dull paper closet of the Ringside office, the caramel brown and cherry red blinds of the upper levels put her in the mood for something sweet. It was stunning and frankly, offensive how many people who sought out the best cakes would turn their heads with the excuse, “it’s too sweet.” They could suck on cement blocks and raw fish, she’d take their cake and have it as it was intended.

Racking up insults over food was a fun pastime, but she had some more serious discipline to hand out too, and wasn’t looking forward to that.

Patches dragged himself in when the sun had nearly set. No mongrel in the world would look more bedraggled, or more guilty than he did. He tried to sneak by. One leg dragged, his clothing seemed bunched up like a smuggler, and he was holding the collar of his coat up to his neck as if he were freezing. That gory hollow where his eye should have been was left uncovered, which was uncharacteristic of him. Tiamat gathered her wits and stomach and glared straight into that empty, sullen face.

“Patches, where were you during the rehearsal?”

“I’m sorry." He halted. "Was there anything I needed to-”

“We managed, of course. But what happened to you? You were… headed to visit somebody, was that what you told us?”

“I was. I’m sorry I missed the wedding. I walked back.”

"Well. At least you're in good enough shape for a trek. Sit down."

"I... No thank you." He shuffled like a dim toddler. "I need to go wash up. It's alright."

Tiamat frowned. “Where you attacked?"

Patches didn’t even blink. “It wasn’t a problem.”

Like hell it wasn’t. When his hand moved, his coat split scandalously and there she saw someone had sawed a canyon of blood into his leg. Thick, matted globs fell to the carpet and he took a step back as though he had wet himself.

He looked so utterly pathetic, and Tiamat wasn’t the sort to kick dying animals, but something had to be done. The wedding rehearsal had been highly public, and his disappearance would be on record. She needed to think of something small but effective. Toilet duty wasn’t deterrent enough for this one, and there was little to take away since he owned no luxuries. She was quite sure he just sat half-comatose in his room all day. Until recently.

“At least you’re alright. But this has been happening a lot, recently, hasn’t it?”

“Not often. Once. I'm sorry.”

“I count more than one. You had a run-in with security in one of Long’s towers, then some incident in his clinic, I heard? Anyway, let's not dwell on numbers. In any case Patches, I hate to say this, but it would be best if you strictly remained in the church. No guests. Maybe one or two weeks, so you can recover fully and get back to work. We’ll see after a doctor gives you a look-over. I’ll call the hospital now.”

“Okay, but I don’t need-”

“Zip it. Doctor’s orders. Or they will be, soon enough. Go wait in the lobby, stand on the tiles if you can't sit. You’re bleeding into the carpet.”

Patches lumbered back with all the grace of the dazed and elderly. The floor creaked. Tiamat took a much needed bite of cake and sighed loudly. “I’ve been trying not to pry, but your friend - what’s he like? Cain’s got a lot to say, but I take it he doesn’t know the guy. Does he live in a bad part of town? I'm not judging you, but I don't like being out of the loop if this is what happens.”

“No. It’s not a bad place. It’s just… quiet. My friend is…”

“Quiet? I gathered, nobody's heard a word from him it seems, though rumors of the man himself have come around. But what kind of person is he?”

“He’s fine. He's... difficult. It's not a bad thing, I think being odd is why we were friends at all. But I won’t see him for a while, I think, we had an... incident. I can go back to work. I can go back sooner, if you need it.”

"If I need it?"

He continued to scuff his shoes and drip onto the carpet miserably.

Tiamat steepled her fingers and glared. He made no attempt to meet her eyes. She sighed. “Patches, we both know I’m your boss, not your friend. We don’t know each other perfectly, but if there’s one thing I care about from you, and the whole group, it’s that you’re able to do your job. If anything is getting in your way, or bothering you, or forcing you into situations where you’re getting messed up, then you let me know, and if you need extended time off or, perhaps a little backup, I’m here. I know you’re strong - nobody’s less suited for a punch-out than me, so I know - but I’m not about to kick you out or laugh or god knows, fire you, if something’s up. I’ve got reports file, sure, but between you and me, I'd like to see us all doing well. You've always been focused, and I know you haven't had a ton of time off, but doing well in the Ring means doing well outside it too. I won't get mad if you need help to move things along smoothly. Or someone to talk to. We all get into scrapes sometimes, like a couple years back, I had to...”

Patches had completely vacated his body. He had become wall-eyed and near drooling at fringe of the carpet. She grit her teeth and tapped the plate with her fork to get his attention.

"Yes?"

“Go rest on the bench outside,” Tiamat said curtly.

“Yes. Thank you.” Patches, still partially zombified, tottered around and rested his hand on the door. “It's strange. Or my understanding is the strange part. You really don’t get mad. Even though you can.”

“Oh, I sure can. But you don’t know the things I’ve seen outside these walls. This job’s downright relaxing most of the time, even on days like today.”

"You know people outside, though."

"Of course I do."

"Do you know anybody who..."

"Who...?" Tiamat folded her hands patiently. "Who can..."

"Who is different. People you can't treat the way we do contestants, and priests and... The way we are in the church."

"I don't treat anyone the way I do here." Tiamat frowned. "You need to be... gentle, out there. Is that what's been bugging you? Is someone hurt? I understand your concern, but as a member of our team, you need to keep your head on as long as you're in here."

"I'm sorry. It was just a thought. I didn't mean to... it's just something new, it won't interfere with work."

"You won't be driven out for just thinking."

Patches was still antsy, but had no productive questsions. Tiamat had had enough. She drew the office phone out of its drawer.

“That’s good.” Patches pulled his coat around him again. “After you the call the doctors, can you please call the police? The man Magnus is looking for, the contestant who got taken. The inspector, the guest they talk about on radio. I know where he is.”

---

And just like that, Patches was set back on course. He was washed, stitched up, and confined to the cloisters for two weeks. Every day, one of the priests was to make sure he was still in the compound. He ate in the communal kitchen, showered at exactly seven in the evening. He followed his orders without question. He'd spent hours sitting still so easily, even when Val had been visiting, it should have been easy. But it was difficult to rest properly. He lay on the bed, stared at the ceiling, thought of nothing, but a tiny parasite of anticipation had taken root in him. The emptiness of the window bench seemed so hopeful.

And with the introduction of anticipation, he was also provided a constant flow of disappointment.

He had no concrete plans, no bucket list of tasks he could jump straight into after being released from his punishment. Going after Val again, in the same fashion, didn't seem like it would be fruitful. Val had only appeared in the chapel that night because he had wanted to. Waiting at his house, catching him in his own territory was an appealing prospect, but Val would know he was there, he'd hide or leave without a trace as he always did. Worse, there could be more traps, gas, pills, and more bodies. Of course, their reunion had started with that contestant who was destined for death. That should have been taken as a sign. The man had really died in the end too.

Patches did not hear from Tiamat after reporting the body, and the radio seemed to have dropped the subject. The contestant, the inspector, the body, whoever he was, could shut down the whole city. The specifics had not been clearer. Would that still happen? Could one person really cause such a disaster? The contents shifted but the city itself seemed immutable to him. It was quite admirable. It didn't seem like something one person could really take down.

Patches was unable to worry about such a massive concept. Shortsighted and sick, there was only one thing his tiny mind made space for. He wanted Val to be where he could see him.

---

The days shortened and the air took on a hard chill. The hills howled with icy wind and breathed with the decay of the forest. There were a few scattered thunderstorms due before winter so the winds whipped harder and sharper than they should have, umbrellas were flipped and windows were shut. Morning, noon and night were bathed in near-identical shades of gray. The church walls dulled, the grass dried into spikes, it was hard to wake to such a droll view.

Patches was grateful to return to the Ring. The view from his window had grown dull even to his eye. His limbs were ready to move again. The standstorms and dusty thrashing would pull his attention away from a few of his stupid and hopeless wishes.

He had not taken a break from his duties for nearly ten years, and did not anticipate how hard it was to settle in again.

“Might want to cover that up,” Tiamat said when they met at the stairwell. She gestured towards her own head and neck and Patches absently scraped at the scabs on his throat. He retrieved his old white scarf to cover them. When he looked in the mirror, he realized he had also forgotten to bandage his missing eye.

Once he'd dressed himself properly, Tiamat judged him appropriate and let him pass.

“The lights are just a little strong, aren't they?” Ferris said. He and Patches shielded their eyes as they emerged from the tunnel. “Tiamat changed them all, she's handing over to the winter team in a week and we know how they are. Budgeting. Schedules. Brains to change a light bulb and all that. Hah!”

The lights were blinding, but warm.

“Never holding another wedding again. Never doing a favor for that guy again,” Lazlo was saying. But he was also saying, “You should have been there. It was nuts. She did great. Looked amazing. Wouldn't have changed a thing. Well, except the music choices. And the shoe throwing game. You had to have been there.”

Ferris bellowed into the loudspeakers and a pleasant wooly numbness fell over Patches like a blanket.

The bell rang, there was a stampede and work had begun. Rules were standard, first few rounds passed uneventfully.

Unable to stop himself, Patches scanned the crowd. They were not looking at him, which made it easier. He picked out each face, let them pass, observed their colors; wheat and earth and shapes of their teeth and hands as they stood up to cheer. Nothing resembling seaweed in the lot.

“What's that?” Castor's voice called from behind him. “See some funny business in the stands?”

She had her arms outstretched, walling off two uncouth contestants who had begin biting each others' hands and feet. Patches moved to peel one off. The frantic contestant snapped at his fingers and Patches automatically slammed a hand over his face, over his eyes, to hold him back until he cooled. Human teeth, very different from those that had come onto him when Val was around. His own body felt inexplicably human. Too weak, too short, imminently breakable. How had he managed to live? He strengthened his grip around the man's face, just to be safe.

“Patches. You can put him down now.”

Patches let his captive go, setting him on the ground like a dog. Castor tossed hers to the fence and there was some retching. When the contestants had recovered, Castor cast a wary eye upon Patches.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes,” he said automatically. And it was true, he'd had a lot of time. His body was back to normal but it was his mind that had wandered. He was inanely searching for something that wasn't in the Ring.

“Try to stay focused. It may take a while to get used to this again, so shadow me if you don't feel up to running on your own.” She turned back towards the action, hands at the ready, attention honed as a razor. “You've mentioned having trouble with large crowds in the past.”

“Just when it comes to watching them. Catching one offender in a group.”

“Too many moving parts?”

“That's it.”

“It's something to work on then. If you don't mind a little homework, it may help you familiarize yourself with your duties again.” She searched the Ring of Light, looking for the perfect chaotic dust cloud. “Over there. Blue shirts, one white. The long haired one. Watch them.”

A group of three were teaming up against a group of two. The two were larger, but the three were quick and sly. An even match, but a bloody one, the crowd's favorite kind.

“If I predict wrong, we'll move on. But I predict one of the group will do it," Castor said.

“How do you know?”

Castor looked around the Ring again. A desperate yapping occurred somewhere beyond the group they were watching, against the fence, but Ferris's enormous head passed over and things were peaceful yet again.

“Focus. Out of interest, how would you look for a problem in any given crowd?” Castor asked.

“I don't know.” Castor continued to wait so Patches had to follow up. “Consider them equally. I have to see them all so I don't miss anything.”

“That's why it's hard for you to pick out a problem. Because in truth, no group is ever equal. Not even in a band of two. You have to disregard some things for others, and that will narrow your view, let you look harder at what's important. Who's the strongest here? Who's the maddest, who's the fastest? Who's most likely to cause harm, in other words. Sometimes you can't judge based on strength, either. In that case, you look for the likeliest victim.”

Patches looked into the blue and white shirts. Nobody was backing down, in fact some had arbitrarily changed sides.

“In a way, you are making up a story. Putting your words into someone else's mouth or head. A slight disrespect in order to possibly save their life. Seeing anything?”

He tried. His eyes shifted up to the crowd, then back down.

“It works to some extent outside the Ring too,” Castor said.

“Does it?”

“It's worked for me. Mostly.” She mulled over some time Patches couldn't imagine. ”Home-made theories aren't flawless. I'm not a mind reader. Even when I see things coming, sometimes I miss. But down here at least, if I trip or something, I know I can leave that to you and the others.” She tensed. “White shirt is about to go down. He stands out too much. Keep watch – over on that group now.” And she was off just as the contestant was yanked straight into his own teammate's fist.

---

A remarkable problem, of the "strong and fast" variety, plowed his way into the Ring less than a week after Castor had spoken to Patches. It was wooden stick day and that always brought its share of showoffs. Injuries would flood the tunnels. The priests would have their arms lined with angry red welts by the end of the day. Everyone was very excited.

Contestants beat their sticks on walls, jostled each other. Same as always, nothing seemed amiss.

But when the first round started, one contestant leapt ahead of the group, sped to the center of the ring and skidded to a stop, sending sand flying. The event had scarcely started and Patches was still woozy from sitting mournfully on the bed all day. He'd exercised and showered directly before doing so and had been ready to fall asleep. It was becoming increasingly hard to clear his mind during his free time. He thought he was imagining things in his desperation.

“Is that your brother?” Lazlo said, without a hint of a joke.

Ritz, donning an excessively puffed down jacket and muffler, peered around from where he stood, alone, looked up at the crowds and around at his referees with the eyes of a lost, feral animal. He rotated in a small circle, tensed low and forward like a wolf. The stick make a short half-circle twirl then tapped the ground. His eyes seemed to be having trouble adjusting to the new lighting.

The crowd arrived and surged around him. It reminded Patches a bit of the morning commuters streaming into Dragon Tower, curling around any obstacle like the flow of a river. But unlike the office crowd, a few contestants went to take down the obstacle.

Ritz's eyes were elsewhere. A wooden stick rose over him, and Patches sensed Castor and even Lazlo bristle in anticipation.

But as the stick came down, Ritz ducked and swept to the side. His feet barely moved, it was as if he had been on a conveyer belt that simply transported him to the left. He brushed through the barrage of blows, taking only quick looks behind and around him, like he was traversing a maze.

“Did this guy just come to watch?” Lazlo muttered. “Not a bright one.”

“He's waiting for the right time to act, but he’s not familiar with it.” Castor said softly. “This could go either way.”

Ritz swerved and shuffled his way through the crowd, surveying the edges. He was looking out, but not for an escape. He was looking for someone. A stick dropped over his shoulder, an accident, someone had just tripped up behind him. A normal occurrence. The priests readied for the impact. But again, without turning his head, hands like a whip Ritz smacked his stick against his assailant’s weapon. The sound was almost metallic. In mild irritation, he swatted at a few of his surroundings, sending a few contestants back in surprise. A group that had managed to form an early bond took notice. As Castor would say, Ritz had stood out a bit too much. Ritz continued to search. When the first contestant approached him, he took his stick in both hands, and almost absently took a swing like a champion batter. Another crack. Ritz contemplated this, following through, it was clear he considered it. But a tide of moving bodies reminded him of his mission and he nervously hopped away from the fallen attacker.

“Jesus,” Lazlo cursed. “At least he knows the rules."

Castor was not convinced, but had to attend to a wrestling match that was headed for the stands. “Keep an eye on him,” she said. Lazlo went to circle around to the back of the ring and get Ferris’s hot take on their strange visitor.

Patches stood alone. He watched, as he had been told. Ritz seemed to be having a decent, ordinary time until that moment. His mark standing alone was Ritz’s cue to take off at a sprint.

He hurdled over the shoulders of his fellow contestants, ducking under the arms of those too tall and diving around anyone in between. He moved like a snake, slipping through sight and just beyond touch. In his dark coat and absurd confidence, perhaps he was being mistaken as one of the priests.

Ritz charged past the edge of the dust storm, slipping slightly on the dry sand and rolling into a somersault that ended at Patches’s feet.

“Is there a problem?” Patches asked.

Ritz opened his mouth, "Someone wants to see you."

"That's not a good idea."

"You want to see him too, right?"

A storm of footsteps.

Ritz wrung his hands around the stick. "The body wasn't there then Magnus went with all his people. It's okay, I think he believes you. Val's never home anyway."

"He isn't here either."

"I know, I would have seen him. I wasn't here to look for him anyway. And you're right, I think this was a bad idea after all. I think I forgot half of the rules."

"You aren't supposed to talk."

"Oh."

And on the subject of bad ideas, his hand moved into pocket. There was no way the other priests missed that. Castor was going to hit Ritz like a torpedo if he didn't move. Patches stared him down flatly, and then nodded. Ritz's eyes lit for moment with relief. Patches reached out one loose hand. And grabbed Ritz's muffler, turned and smacked him into the fence. The nails rattled. Castor stopped. She'd let him settle the matter himself.

"What's wrong with you?" Ritz muttered, going limp and attempting to slither his way out. "I didn't know this was what Val liked."

"Liked? Val thought I was going to kill him."

"No way, he wouldn't say that. But were you? Could you?" Was that a twinge of encouragement? Ritz sagged, his face mashed against the wood grain. "Maybe he did say that. I just saw you guys from far away. I thought you looked a little unhappy. That's what I told Uriel. There's no way you were going to fit the happy normal Uriel loves to talk about. But also, Val killed someone for you, and you don't seem like the kind of person to ask for it. Usually you have to ask, and even after-"

"He didn't kill that man."

"What?"

"Why are you here, Ritz?"

There was another whipcrack arm movement, and Ritz held up a folded piece of paper between his fingers, small and sharp as a razor. Patches was startled. All it took was that centimeter of air, expanding to an inch of slack, and Ritz slid free.

"Something to give to you. It was waiting in my house. Val wasn't around. I guess I already said it, he never is."

Patches took the paper.

"Is it good?"

Patches didn’t say anything.

Ritz tried to brush dust off his black vest with one hand. Yellow dirt spread defiantly. The stuff had to be scraped out. "You don't have to do what you don't want to. I'm not going to force you, Magnus won't either. Uriel can't so don't even worry about him. Actually, I don't even know what Val wants. But if none of us have seen him, maybe he's going somewhere."

"No. He can't."

Ritz shrugged. "He’s another person I can’t force into anything, so I can't say I know."

Unfolded, the paper had a message scratched into it, 'same place'. No scuffed pen tips this time. Patches folded it back into a tiny square. Crushed it into his palm. His neck felt hot. He scraped away a film of sweat. The exposed skin itched.

“Not good news then.” Ritz dropped his voice. "It’s okay. Maybe if you ignore him he’ll go away. Or you can say goodbye. I don’t think anyone’s ever been the one to tell him that. Or you can think of something together. Now, I just have to break the stick and then I can go, right?”

“You don't have to,” Patches began, but Ritz was off.

Patches was treated to the painful show of Ritz carefully attempting to bash a busy workman over the head and be excused. Now fixated on breaking his own stick, Ritz hesitated as he aimed, testing out a few new angles before swinging. During his pondering, he was successfully tackled to the ground by a couple of youths in similar wintery attire.

Patches rubbed his raw neck wounds and checked his hand again for that small hope he had just been handed. The cheap paper was ground to a pulp.

---

The chapel was empty for the day. With only lights off and the sky overcast, the windows were nearly pure white. No sun, moon or even clouds. Time seemed undetectable. All the better for a long wait. Patches nearly went straight to the confessional, it had been so long. The booth had been repaired by some force and funds he hadn't seen. Even the broken carving on the front door had been put back together – or even replicated, a whole new coil of vines and leaves. There was a time he had gone straight in every day without thinking, didn't think inside and barely thought a thing as he left. Had that really been his life?

He sat on one of the outer benches.

The snow-white plane beyond the window dulled and darkened. He took a match from the reception desk and lit a candle. In the evening there were footsteps of people in the lobby, walking to the upper floors, but nobody entered the chapel. Nobody at all.

The window became black.

Patches glanced at the confessional. It was sunk into its own corner of shadow. It was more obvious what he had to do, now. He lit another candle and then entered the booth.

If time had slackened on the outside, in the booth it was truly abandoned. He felt the wood grain of the bench and the walls and the back of the door, and was sure it had all been changed out, even the parts that hadn't been broken. The color of the wood may have been revealing, but he never got a good look.

He scratched the wood and then his neck. The scarf was rather itchy, but the chapel was cold, so he was grateful he'd been forced to cover up. As grateful as he could be.

A short span of time passed before the opposite door cracked open. He looked through the screen separating the booths but it was dark enough now that he couldn't even make out the silhouette. But who else could it be?

“You didn't want to be seen,” Patches said.

There was hard flump onto the next-door bench, the entire booth rattled slightly. Was it Val? It had to be. Was he unsure? Ashamed? No, he wouldn't. Angry?

“Have you been alright?” Patches asked.

“Can't complain.” Val's voice was as sharp as Patches remembered. It was a relief. “You sound like you're doing well. Already. After everything.”

“I was in confinement two weeks, to recover. Real recovery” Patches smiled at that. “The organizer's orders.”

“Ah. Weren't you on leave before that? Though I guess that may have been... disrupted.”

“Yes. But even so, I missed having you here,” Patches said.

Val didn't respond.

“Do you want to have dinner?”

“No, I'm not really hungry. And I just came by to talk, I don't want to stay too long.”

“What did you come to talk about?”

“Just to see how you were. Maybe say goodbye.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Where would I go?”

They were silent.

“No,” Val continued, “I was just thinking of not returning here, return things how they were before. Not back to the accident, of course, just... the time between meetings.”

“When I didn't know you existed.”

“You know now. I doesn't bother me. I can't just take that away from you. I really should have left your head alone the first time. But you got better, so much better, and I forgot how things were supposed to be. For a while, it didn't matter. Until it got too far. Or too close. You see, I'm sure that this...” Val chewed his tongue for a moment. “... this relationship isn't something I'm suited for. You saw for yourself how it ended. Or how I failed to end it. Twice. You're really something, you know that? But not something I can deal with, because you don't need me anymore. As far as I know, there's nothing wrong with you. You grew up and found people who will have you. And now that you know, you can find someone you really like and don't just... remember. If you like men, even better, there's a lot to choose from. Ladies are a harder lot. But what the hell do I know? All I can say is, at least I'm sure you can find someone who won't be compelled to stab you in the neck.”

“I... I didn't mind. I still don't. It was a misunderstanding.”

Val's disgust radiated through the grate. “I take it back. You aren't suited for a relationship either. What the hell was unclear about the gas or the knife? I understood you, I knew what I was doing.”

“It didn't work.”

“You don't have to remind me.”

He was snippy, but didn't seem especially upset. Patches put his face close to the grate. He didn't see anything, didn't smell anything, but he could hear it. The breathing. “Val, why did you come to me in the first place?”

“This again? Checking up, seeing if you were alive. Sometimes I just feel compelled to dig up answers, even if there isn't much to do with the information. And I told you, I wasn't planning on being caught and thrown to the ground.”

“I meant the first time. The very first time.”

“The very first...? You mean, when you lived with your gramps? But that was a long time ago, it doesn't mean anything now.”

“Humor me. If this is the last time we'll speak, I'd like to know.”

Val sighed. “Being so long ago makes it hard to remember. I did a lot of things for no reason – or for reasons that I would never touch now. I suppose it was because you were hated. And you hated everything else. You seemed like a safe place for me to start putting down roots. Not safe to touch or anything, but safe like covered in barbed wire. And I thought it would be a good experiment if I could get you seeing things differently. Not easy or smart, but I had already-- already-- it doesn't matter. I'm different now, and so are you. I don't work off feeling and hopes. And you aren't angry now.”

“I'm only better because you tried to kill me.”

“You don't quit, do you? If you think it's cute or something, you're more broken than I thought. I wasn't trying to cure you or play with you, you were going to kill yourself and I thought I had to do something, but all I could think of was how I would like it more if I got to do the killing. I could be the one to kill the monster. Typical gradeschool shit. Of course I couldn't do it, so I turned you into this."

Patches could feel Val gesturing at him.

"You're not a monster, and you're not hated or feared anymore. But you aren't loved, either. You feel nothing and you do nothin. You're nothing now. Don't be offended – actually, I know you won't be, because you don't care. I don't mean people look down on you, or that you're failing some great ambition because I'm sure you aren't. I mean there's nothing. It's a hollow. A void. I've heard you. And seen you.”

“I feel better than I did when I lived in that house.”

“That's great. But you don't need me around.”

“You're right. But I want you here. Does that matter?”

“I don't know, does it? What could you do about it?”

“If you leave, I could try to find you again.”

“Not again. You know the problem I have with that. Being dragged out into the open. I'd have to kill you.” Val reconsidered this. “Or at least take out the other eye. But I'd rather not do that. Because you know, there has never been anybody less satisfying to cut up.”

Patches felt his face redden at this. "Is that all that matters?"

“We'll both be safer this way. When I go, you'll be back down at your fight club, and you'll forget again.”

“I never forgot.”

Silence again.

"Are you still upset that I didn't come back to see you? To wait for you in the same place?"

Val snorted.

Patches grated his fingers into the bench. “I never forgot any part of our last day. The day all those people I thought I hated, they came to me, came into my house, and my grandfather died and you disappeared. It was the greatest and the worst time I'd ever had. I had never felt more. People cared for me. I saw that I was wrong, for years of my life. I wanted nothing more than to tell someone, but for some reason, bringing it all out was painful - impossible. At the time I had no idea how to work my own head again. I thought I was saving it all to tell you. You were the only person who seemed to know me."

Val was silence.

"I wasn't trying to abandon you or forget. I wasn't looking for revenge. I was more grateful than any time I could remember, but I was grateful for being emptied, it was stupid but such a relief. You were the first person I wanted to tell - maybe the only person I could make words for. So I asked for you, but do you know what they said?" Patches choked, "They said you were dead. In a time where I was revelling in NOT feeling, for once, that still almost killed me, I couldn't even ask more. Even when I'd pulled together a little, nothing made sense. I didn't know what I was, or what you might have been. I might have been crazy, or a murderer, it shocked me that I didn't care. I couldn't yell - it was out of place. And hitting like I used to - the walls didn't belong to me, and what would the point? I wanted to do something for you, but it couldn't be expressed. I couldn't think of a way."

Even now, his voice felt flat, even to himself.

"It's been strange. Without the feeling, there's still the memory, a picture or sound doesn't go away. I take it in, but can't form something to give out. Maybe you wanted it to be that way. Everything I am now I owe to you. The good and the bad. I'm not angry anymore, but there are still these holes in my head, that I have to wash and cover when anyone gets near. I hear talk of dreams and souls and outrage, and all I can say is 'I don't know,' and when anything stronger appears, it hurts. These are all reminders."

He finished. Not good at all, but it was enough. Val was silent for a moment, but then said simply:

"Maybe you shouldn't go digging around, then."

Patches gripped the chain link screen until it screeched.

"How can you say that, to a person you nearly killed? Do you think I am so broken that I would forget having my head punched through, twice? There is no forgiving and forgetting there. You believe you could revisit that and then walk away at any time? Even those doomed to die in the Ring of Justice have more respect."

"I've apologized," Val's voice snipped at him, “And it's not just because I'm fooling around. Listen to yourself. This is the reason I tried to run from the start.”

“Maybe you should have," Patches said. He was able to keep his tone level but he seemed louder. "And you could have, you must have known - if you stayed. But you stayed - and I changed my mind, early, so I could keep seing you. But it seems that's not what you wanted in the end, either. If you want me to believe that this was all your plan, it was all a trick, then fine. You were always the brighter one. You didn't need school or books for that. But you were either going to be seen, or go down. The last time I saw you as a kid was the greatest day of my life but it was the last day where I felt anything worth feeling. Maybe I could grow to live as I am now, but there was just one thing that distracted me every time, it was the joy I got, and every time I remember you there, it comes back and I realize - I can't just go on. The only way to get anywhere near that - or any feeling again is with you. Since that day, whether you were dead or not, the only dream I had was to face you again and hit or be hit, to fight until I felt something again. When you first appeared in the church, my dream returned. I got sidetracked, but then you showed me your gift, gave me the contestant back, tried to kill me, I became sure again. I should never have changed my plans. I knew what I wanted all along."

The echoes rattled the chain link screen between them.

"And what you wanted was to to kill me to," Val said.

"I wanted a match."

"It's you, so same difference." Val was very quiet, then mumbled impatiently, “Can't you just take out that aggression in the Ring?”

“You don't understand. I'm not a participant there. And this isn't anger, it's a search. I don't need to win, I don't even know if either of us will be hurt. I don't care if I die, either. I'm just trying to find a moment that means anything, the way it did then. And those aren't Ring regulations.”

"And when one of us is beat, then it's all settled?"

Patches was silent, but not affirmative.

“You're right. I don't understand." Val's feet tapped the wood. “You live through so much. And you, yourself, say things are better. By chance, you got better when you were supposed to die. I was willing to rough you up a little more, on the bench in the room maybe, if that was your liking, and you sure liked the taste of that knife. But I'm hearing that you need a public brawl to the death? And why me?"

"To keep things as close as-"

"We are nothing like we were." Val snorted. "You were interesting, back then. And there are plenty of other interesting things in the world, besides you. Especially now."

"It has to be you. You were the only one who could do it the first time. You're the only one I want, or remember wanting. I haven't been able to form anything new - if I want to have any feeling at all, it has to be as close as I can get to the same--"

"So if I go away now, what will you do?”

“I'd look for you again.”

“You won't find me. If you do, I'll kill you and it won't be a fair fight. Somehow, eventually. Or worse. You don't have to die to suffer. And in my range, there won't be a conversation or an audience. I'll do whatever I need to. I might even die first. I can't live with something like you on my back.”

“Can you really do that?”

Val didn't respond.

“If that's the truth,” Patches said, “and you plan to leave forever, then I'll stop you now.”

“I'll bet you will. But first, think: I didn't come to fight, I'm unarmed, and unlike me, you're afraid of messing up whatever it is we have. I trust you as far as that goes, but what I've been trying to tell you all this time is it won't give you that feeling you're after. If you break through now you'll probably snap my neck without even noticing. Or you could throw me into one of those cells Mr. Verd seemed to love so much. And what then? We fight in front of those hundred eyes? Is that what you really want?”

Patches fell silent. His neck was hot under the scarf, his whole body burned under the coat, his throat was foaming. There was a line of spittle going down his chin. He scraped it away. He wanted to punch through the screen again, tear through the wall again. And likely snap Val's neck by accident, as predicted. He thought again. It sounded so harsh, and this fear of his own two hands was what protected Val so completely.

"And now you see." Val said. His breathing was quiet. Was he afraid? It seemed unlikely.

But what else could be done?

Patches stared into the empty blackness for a long time.

“When did you change your mind?” Val asked.

“What?”

“You were aiming for a faceoff for, what, ten years? And I turned up in this little booth and you had your chance. But you said you changed your mind, and early. Was it immediate? I'm curious. The first time I stayed over? When we ate? That day in the rain-”

“No. It was something else.” He thought. Something that had happened early, what had they even done? Autumn hadn't even passed yet, Patches had just been taken out of the Ring, but he'd returned for a single day of cleanup. Val had been with him and he had been compelled to...

Across the screen, the sound of Val's breathing and every movement had amplified. His shoes were slightly squeaky.

“You wanted to show me somewhere,” Val said. “Was that before or after you changed your mind?”

Patches recalled the forest. Getting lost. Off track. Uriel driving down the mountain path.

Val sniffed. “A lot of things have been cleared up, but that's been bothering me. And you know, it pains me to be able to say this, but I... I'm not in a rush to leave, as long as you're not jumping at me. Since I can go anytime. While I'm here, I'd like an explaination for that misadventure.”

"I was taking you somewhere I had been saving."

"Is that so. Something that means a lot to you?"

"My grandfather's."

"Now there's something. I never got to meet him while he was alive. What would I have to do, to see this thing again?"

“You'll need to...” Patches licked his lips. “You'll need time to prepare. I didn't give you warning the first time. I should have known better. Tiamat's always talking about schedules for a reason.”

“I see.”

“And then I'll need to lead you there.”

“I'm quite sure I remember the way.”

“You would remember the forest path. But we didn't go in. There's another trail to follow once you go in.”

“I see,” Val said again.

"You can't enter on your own."

"That's fine. You'll be there."

Patches gripped his hands together. He was so close to the truth, but saying it could spook this bizarre animal in the next room that he so dearly needed to remain there. “Only if you want to. I can't... I can't force you to go there. Nobody can.”

“So this is a change of tune, for you.” Val's tone had relaxed. “Now I feel like I have to check it out."

"Yes. This can be the last time."

Was it a mistake to blurt the truth? Patches readied himself to catch Val rushing off, but Val remained seated, with a curious hum.

"Alright then. How would this work?”

“If you really remember how to get through the forest, we'll meet at the doorway tomorrow, early... ah, 7 if it works. It will have to be tomorrow, I have to be in the Ring the rest of the week.”

“I can do that. I could do any time that day.”

“You may bring anything you wish with you. We will settle the conditions once we're inside.”

“Sounds good to me. Like I said, just need some time.”

“So you confirm?”

“It's confirmed. Not a fight, just a... visit. Alright, make it a date."

"A date."

"A date! That just slipped out."

Val's tone had lifted, he laughed. Patches felt a massive weight rise from his shoulders.

But in his hightened voice Val chattered on, "Hah, strange that it never came up before, and here it is at the least likely of times. A date. I hate the word, it feels like it'll be one-off, something that ends flat as a day. But I suppose it works now. And now that I have notice, I'd better be off. Plans, plans...” He chuckled to himself and rolled to the floor, and out of the booth.

Patches waited for the church's front doors to thump closed, then exited into the hall. Things were silent one again.

Back in the cloisters, nearly all of the windows were dark, all the lamps off. It was late.

He took a short moment to dig up some dilapidated writing supplies and pen a letter for Tiamat. In his exhaustion, he felt it may have sounded a bit harsh but it was too late to write another. His hands would fail him; they had never been good at composition.

He fell asleep, warm and low, and tried not to look at the window bench. And now, it was easier.