Daybreak. Quarter past five and the winter sun was not feeling up to task. A shame, because Magnus could have used a little encouragement. The birds were cowering in their holes and the ugliest sunrise known to man was gracing his skies. Thunderclouds grumbled and flashed in the disance, above the mountain peaks, and a flat, smoggy gray cloaked all else. Magnus's driver proceeded slowly, high beams on.

The church was set with a reverent hush. Tiamat was waiting in her office. It looked to Magnus like an old college library. Red velvets drapes and carpeting, and dark wood shelves lined with gold-edged encyclopedias that were probably never touched. She was drinking her usual tea and daintily prodding a cake with white and orange icing, tasting only the tiniest drops at a time.

To her left was the giant Magnus had seen at the Ring of Light. He was hunched over on a bench by the window, eating a similar cake from a plate that was dwarfed by his monstrous hands. To Tiamat's right was a woman with shoulders like boulders, cross legged on a stiff Chesterfield couch, prodding into a similar square of cake. They leered at Magus like gargoyles.

“Last chance to call this off,” Magnus said in a voice that felt a little too high.

“Why would I want to do that?” Tiamat asked sweetly. “Besides, outside of work, I have no more control over my people than you have over yours.”

“You don't know this guy of mine,” Magnus said. “You don't know lack of control until you've seen him.”

“I'm looking forward to it, then.”

“What if something happens to your guy? What's his name, Patches? ”

“Oh, feeling sorry for your foes? No wonder you're in charge. Very diplomatic.” The gargoyles liked the sound of this and nodded in unison. “Our Patch is a little like you, in a way. Always trying to see all sides. He's had his... limitations. But he's always been diligent, up until now. Your guy must have pulled a massive stunt, to piss him off.”

“Yeah, killed one of his assignments and then lured him over to see the body. For no fucking reason, as far as I can tell.”

The woman on the sofa bit into something hard.

Tiamat was thoughtful. “And your man did this independently?”

“You think I had something to do with that? No, after Verd was freed from the pit, something happened. He bolted without telling anyone. Val got him again, somehow, for some reason, and did him in. As crazy as he's always been, Val's never done something so clearly against orders before. I tell you all this because you know what has changed in recent times – he's been hanging out with that priest.”

“Patch, some sort of puppetmaster? You've got to be kidding. He's not that much like you.”

Magnus groaned. “Not going to lie. If I could, I'd throw them all into a cell.”

“So even a murderer doesn't make you consider execution?”

“Don't start this now.”

“I'm just joking. We're not in a business meeting, here.” Tiamat sipped some tea. “It's odd though. And exciting. Do you know, I've never seen Patches meet anyone of his own volition since I've been here? Nobody else has, either. I heard his grandfather earned him his placement here. His grandfather left the church, but he had been the initial innovator of the Ring, the idea of it, anyway. He'd actually been an enemy of our benefactors, until his death. They say he died in a horrible state, in his own waste, in an empty room facing monitors of the street. He'd always been nosy, but he'd been in a coma for weeks before his death. The only one who could have put him there was his grandson. Something happened to the kid as well.” She tapped her forehead, above the eye. “There was a violent accident, the day they went to pick up the old man. The kid had apparently called the hospital about his grandfather, but when they arrived the old man was dead and Patch had been attacked by someone. They knocked a hole, a couple of holes in his head, punched through his brain in two places. But he kept saying he felt great. There were neighbors around, a couple taking care of him and a doctor who knew him – they all said it was more like he'd been cured when he should have died. He must have felt really great, because I've never heard a complaint out of him. Not at work, not after coming in all beaten by this Val I've been hearing about.”

“Why do I need to know all this?”

Tiamat picked an encyclopedia from the shelf. “Just so you know it's not only your man who's changed, and so you knowhat you're up against. The walking dead, mortal pain is nothing. I should put that on the future itineraries, what do you think?”

“I imagine there's a reason we're not in advertising. Well, my guy's got one over Patch in the history department. Or maybe he hasn't got anything at all.” Magnus smiled meanly. “Val's got no parents on record. As far as I can tell, he's never even been into a hospital. In terms of records there's only one man called Val who was admitted to the city. He lives where Val claims to have lived, and from the photos, looks somewhat like him, though it's not exact. You might expect change over the course of years. What's strange is that 'Val' is officially dead. Also a violent attack. And the years don't add up - he died an old man, around the time me and you, and this person calling himself Val today, would have been ten, twelve at most. He was killed in his home, strangled and throat cut – which was his own MO, before he was relocated. They never found who did it to him. All I know is today's Val turned up one day with the identity of a corpse. And don't give me that look – I was in seventh grade when the murder happened.”

"So was Patches. Myself, I was merely..." Tiamat giggled. "Well, let's skip the questions of little old me. But god, if he knew the kid who became the new Val and asked after him, he'd hear he was dead, right? Enough to make a kid with two fresh holes in the head think he'd gone nuts."

Magnus frowned.

“So Val is little more than a stranger surrounded by shoddy record-keeping. And you made the hire.”

“He did me some favors without me asking, and a couple with me asking, and it's turned into a real mess. It's more like I'm hired by him, sometimes. Like today.”

Tiamat gasped and put her hands over her icing-crusted mouth. “Corruption in the big city? Well, I never.”

“Give me a break. Can I have some tea? I'm falling asleep here.”

Tiamat waved the scraggled giant out to fetch some cups. Magnus attempted to move to the second phase of conversation. "So maybe Patches changed something in Val, or Val triggered something in a man who hasn't stepped out of line in years. What matters now is that, if we allow this to happen, we handle our men independently of each other."

"Oh, some sort of agreement? Lawsuits, health bills and the like? There's no need for that. These sorts of challenges are my business. It's all very scary now but come the end, they're just two people."

Magnus grated his teeth in a malformed smile.

"I see where you're going with this. But don't worry - we care for our own, there will be no complaints, least of all to you. But if you truly want to discuss money matters..." She tapped a nail on her plate. “If you had to put odds on your guy, what would they be?”

“Odds? You're thinking of betting at a time like this? Didn't you just cry 'corruption'?”

“Someone's afraid,” Tiamat sang to her waiting gargoyle, who glowered at Magnus to encourage more fear. “Got a huge wallet that he won't spare on his peons and our silly games. Even a game of death isn't enough to move him.”

“Are you a child, or trying really hard to look it? I don't have to bother with this. You couldn't even match the kind of wagers I'd make.”

“You have a lot of faith in a guy who is supposedly dead and impossible to control.”

“He's not dead, it was just a quirk on his records,” Magnus snapped. “But if you're going to go on about it, fine. A thousand on Val, then. I suppose the winner is last man standing?"

"It's up to them. Patch has seen enough of those individual battles to choose wisely for himself. But you! A thousand on a life? Please. There's a whole story there. This isn't about you and your wallet, it's about our people.”

The giant returned with some cups, and Tiamat delicately tipped the pot, the tea falling infuriatingly slow. Magnus watched the stream and said, “How about I throw in the deed for that missing Ring, then? Seems unfair that it only turned up once I came to own it.”

“That piece of paper? Don't need it. The fact that the Ring took so long to appear only proves that none of us ever really owned it to begin with.”

Tiamat opened the encyclopedia.The pages were glued together and the middles had been sliced out. The place of text were stacks of thousand dollar bills, and what looked like small golden bullets.

“We're a couple of lightweights when it comes to fists. We wouldn't even be able to take on the Ring of Light regulars. But let's not disrespect our guys out there. What do you really believe?”

---

Val loitered against a decaying wall of tarp, in an overgrown sandlot that had been intended for parking. The sky was gray and noisy, the trees shivered. The radio forecast had been subdued and consoling. It's not a day to be out, folks. Bundle up tight and stay in with some hot chocolate and family because we're in for a hell of a day. And now, a quick congratulations to our news anchor Lia on her wedding...

The wind blew light mist of rain up and down then fully horizontal. Patches's coat tossed frenetically around him. Eyes stung, skin shivered. It was the first time they had seen each other since Val's house, and the gas, the knife, and the body in the bathroom. It all seemed miles away under such conditions. Val anchored himself perilously to his hulking duffel bags as his wild hair and olive green coat billowed like sails. Under the coat was an orange shirt with orange fireworks embroidered on, each their own drained, sickly variation of the color.

He held his bags valiantly as the rest of his form seemed to be blasting apart. Patches was starstruck, even with his sleep addled eyes, even from a distance. He passed through a final row of trees and jogged up.

“You're here.” Patches said. A corners of his mouth twitched. The end of his scarf flipped on a jetstream, and slapped him on the cheek.

“And so are you.” Val lugged his bags to his shoulders and sank to the ground in a pile. “You can see why preparations take a while for people like me. Got here early anyway. But don't worry, I didn't go in yet.”

“I know.”

“Not saying it wasn't tempting. Terrible day.”

“Terrible day,” Patches agreed, happily. “I won't make you wait any more. But, ah... Do you need any help with your belongings?”

“What, this?” Val pulled a face. “Doesn't it throw the mood, asking your adversary if you can help with the luggage?”

“We're not doing anything until we get there. I need you to follow me closely until then, so I just thought it would be easier. The inside is...” Patches stopped. The truth was so unappealing. “The halls are small.”

“It can't be any worse than out here. And if you're really up for it-” Val held one of his bags with two arms and lobbed it over Patches's shoulder where it hung like a fallen tree. A plastic or metal case with some small loose bolts clattered inside. Val circled him, inspecting the quality of service, and apparently approved. He patted Patches on the oppsite shoulder and went to retrieve his second bag.

Patches balanced his cargo carefully and opened the door.

---

“Still not sure about the place, but it's good seeing you again,” Val said. The cover of darkness had eased him.

“Yes,” Patches said dumbly.

The halls were old, musty. But sealed like a fortress, not a drop of water or humidity. The air stubbornly sucked up even the dimmest echoes. The roof, though it could not be seen, felt low and enclosed. There was a faint light issuing from the outermost halls, the sun's limp efforts pressing through the tarp that surrounded the building, but as they wandered further into the maze, it faded, darkened. The halls were tight, especially for two packed duffel bags. Patches's elbows scuffed the walls to his left and then his right when he tried to move away. The wood setup was raw with naked metal supports and sagging foam insulation. At the best of sections, some plywood had been slapped over the beams. Those were warning signs.

It would have been pleasing to walk side by side. Or have Val in front, or somewhere he could be seen. But of course, Patches wouldn't force him to lead in such a situation.

But he did ask, as the halls grew dark, “Are you still there?”

“Of course. I'm right behind you.”

The response filled him with warmth. He walked straight into the wall at the end of the hallway with a thump.

“Careful,” Val said lightly. Patches patted the wall to regain his bearings, and Val sniffed. “That kind of talk gets to you, huh?”

“What does?” He was dizzy. But he couldn't lose track of where they were, not now.

“I'm right behind you." Val crooned. "I'll never leave you. Someone who will be there for you, right? Always be by your side or watching your back. All very nice sounding, isn't it? At that little toss up yesterday, I thought you were just raving, but after the fact – I realized that you wouldn't have even started all that if someone was just willing to stick with you. I know you've got more to you than violence.” Val laughed.

Patches felt something brush against his back. Not just a breath or a hopeful feeling. Val's fingertips lightly trickled up his spine. Hair on end, too sudden to resist it, Patches shivered. Val's hand ghosted upward, and then squeezed his shoulder a few times, fingers digging between the bone, slipping under the duffel bag's strap.

Val's voice was loose, amused. “There are things I wouldn't have expected you to ever go for, way back when. To think I could have avoided a couple lost teeth and black eyes with a massage and a couple choice words.”

Patches felt his shoulder loosening. He hitched the bag up with a free hand. "I was stupid back then," he muttered. "Probably would have screamed 'don't touch me' and took the place down.”

Val sniffed, flicked the ends of Patches's hair. “It's that kind of madness that got me interested.”

Patches smiled to himself. “I've never had a massage.” He rotated his shoulder experimentally.

Val's hand drew away. “Don't they do that in hospital? I suppose it depends on what you're in for. But you should, sometime, I bet you'd like it. A way to unwind for someone in your line of work, physical stuff.”

“Do you get them yourself? Or do them?”

“Neither. Oh you mean, did that little rubdown just then mean anything? I really had no idea what I was doing.”

“I see. You're probably right, though. About what I'd like. Sometimes you know what I like better than I do.”

“Well, I've known you for a long time. Been trying to think of little tricks - quick, easy ways out - for a while. At least in that department, there's been plenty of time to plan."

Patches wanted to turn, face him, even in the dark maybe he could feel someone there if he held out his hands. “You've thought of something then. Why did you-”

“You know me pretty well too, don't you? That's the problem.” Patches could hear those white knife teeth crack a hard, sharp grin. “Quick and easy only works on strangers.”

---

The final hall opened to a plane of open air. They had arrived unharmed.

After a bit of guesswork, they met at the center of the Ring, or the approximate center. Patches walked Val and his belongings several meters into the twilit emptiness. They were surrounded by a sea of sand, though when he squinted very hard Patches thought he saw the lifted wooden structures at the edge of the round arena, to his right and left. There was a rustle of wind on canvas far over their heads, pillars creaked with discomfort. But they stood, the tarpaulin roof was tied down tight. That and the surrounding maze had ensured the Ring had stayed protected. With neither storms nor visitors, the inside would only decay of its own accord.

“This place is huge,” Val said.

“It was never completed.”

“Looks complete enough. It looks a little like... actually, a lot like the church. They don't use it?”

“It's not theirs.” Patches checked the ground. The dust was soft and dry. "This was the first, but it was never completed. Money ran short. My grandfather said some rich city boys stole his idea.”

“The resemblence is clear. From what I can see, anyway. Where are the lights?”

“The lighting hasn't been paid for in years.”

“And this is what you wanted me to see, all this time?”

“It's more of a place I wanted to bring you. Sorry it's... not much to really see.”

Val sighed. “And on dark day. Well, it's one of the Rings. So it's a stage. The walls are just props. The contestants make the show.” The duffel bags fell with a thump, and a crackle and clink and clatter. Val sat on one of them and begun taking inventory of another. “In any case, here we are. Shall we talk business now? Conditions? Rules?”

“Do you have any preferences?”

“You're the pro. What's a popular pick?”

Patches had observed many individal challenges, but his memories were momentarily paralyzed, as if he were in one of his childhood examinations. “In our terms, popularity is determined by the audience. Even when the contestant hopes to win, it helps them to have the favor of the audience. They will go for small, good weapons and try to win on skill. Or bravery, if they don't have enough skill. But here, we... there's no need for that. No need to please the audience. No audience.”

“Makes sense. Nobody's watching. We could play completely dirty and nobody would ever catch either of us. Nobody would complain, or step in to save one or the other if something breaks, or someone goes down.”

“In that case, we have to set the end condition as death. Surrender only works if the winner is willing to let it.”

“Naturally.”

“Restrictions?”

“The fewer the better. I doubt a single set of restrictions would work for the both of us since we are so...” Val flicked his hands and stared to the roof for an answer. “... so different.”

“That's fine. No restrictions, then.”

“You're free to take on one of your challenges if you want! You know, give me a handicap. No broken bones, no blood? Please?” Val laughed. "I kid, it's really whatever you want. I remembered what you said. Just do what feels right for you, so you won't regret, or worse, feel the need to try again."

Patches didn't say anything. Val went quiet.

”And when do we start?”

Patches observed the dark once again. “Whenever you choose.”

Val gave agreeable grunt and continued to dig through his belongings. As long as he was busy, Patches had just a few preparations of his own. He reached into his coat, unwound a long strip.

“Wow, am I being treated to something special here? A man of the Rings, doing prep work, just to face someone like me?”

Patches was binding his arms and hands. Not too far up the fingers, not too far down the forearm. He may have been doing it wrong. Ferris had shown him all of three times but the complicated image, the route of loops and layers, never quite stuck. The general idea of it did, though. It was a bit of protection. It would buy some time and force. He tested his grip, folded fingers one by one. They were shaking. Holding one hand down over the other didn't help. It was the rushing blood, and the burning.

A cool, clean hand fell over his smouldering skin, smoothing the fabric of his shirt, the hair on his arms. Ice cold fingers rested on his.

“Are you nervous?” Val asked. To his credit, he sounded completely at ease.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? Well, I doubt you're lying,” Val laughed. “If you're interested, I'm fucking terrified. The fact that you aren't shaking worse, and you can say just maybe, well – that's a terror in itself.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't – don't even think about saying that again.” Val's smiled tautly, or bared his teeth. He strode close and smacked a hand on Patches's shoulder. “I'm like this all the damn time, any job, any faceoff, even if I'm on top, once it comes to the end... I just prefer not to say it, most of the time, because people who aren't you might see an opening or laugh, then we'll both feel bad. But you don't laugh, so it's alright. And the thing is, nobody has to apologize. Because nothing's even happened yet, and once it's passed, that will be the end. We'll never meet again so there won't be a need or a time to say sorry.”

Never meet again.

“You had time to leave.” Patches bit his lip and continued, “You can still go. Stop doing this and go.”

“After all the preparations? Into the alternative reality where you chase me down again? I do favor running but only when it works." Val pressed his hand flat, this time gentle, slid under Patches's collar, playing on the tendons of his throat. "I'd rather not make extra work for myself if I can help it, and with you... It will have to end here.”

“Ah. Yes, this will be the last time.”

Patches tried to place his hand over Val's, but away it slithered, up and around. It came over his shoulder, sliding cooly over his spine and moved into what must have been another novice massage. Small, tight circles. Patches sighed. His shoulderblades loosed, his neck sagged, the red welts cut into it flared. These were the only remains of their last confrontation. Patches had been unable to stop scratching at them, and the sweat under the scarf only served to aggravate, they were moist and pulsating with fresh blood. The brush of cold fingers calmed them again.

The chill moved up, over his jaw, over his ears, probing the contours. A thin pressure landed on the space above his cheek.

“And take this off,” Val said, pulling the eyepatch gauze off its tired tape. “Nobody's looking.”

"You were always looking."

"Yeah. Could have killed you in your sleep, anytime. Does that bother you?"

"It never did."

"Yeah. You even liked it, didn't you?" Val looked ahead, excessively grave. "You never had a problem. It was insane. I was trying to warn you."

"You could have just said something."

Val clicked his tongue. "Guess I kind of liked watching, too."

Patches stifled a chuckle, it seemed out of place, but he wanted to laugh more than he ever had before. “I'm going to miss you.”

Val's hands were like ice and his voice even worse now. “I'll miss you too.”

His arm slipped up Patches's neck, pressing down the scarf and fingers running through his hair and finally took hold. Patches turned, was pulled to his feet. The hand matted through his hair grasped the roots and pulled him close, dragged their bodies together, a familiar feeling. Val's mouth fell to his and looped him into a faintly assured, and faintly off-center kiss. The arm angled around him was tight as a noose. No avoiding it.

Patches supressed his breath and fell into it hungrily. Took the soft tongue into his mouth, followed the direction of the arm around his neck and pressed in. He opened wide. He fell right for it.

A minute passed of with not a word of talk, nothing more than dry static of fabric against fabric, breaths squirming, and the elements beating on the tarp above, a storm which may as well have been another planet.

The air was dry, the wood had been treated and no supplies had been moved in since the Ring's construction had been cancelled. There were no rats. No roaches, no reason to expect bees or flies or ants.

Something didn't make sense, then. Something small and sharp. Patches opened his eyes but Val had consumed his vision, a shadow of nothing but teeth and tongue. Patches couldn't turn away yet. But his neck itched. It stung, as if--

Patches smacked the spot of the itch. His palm fell to his neck with a clap.

At that very moment Val withdrew his hand, in a surgically straight line. In his hand Patches saw his reflection in a slim glass syringe, with a glinting, wet metal needle. It had narrowly avoided being smashed like a mosquito. And like any good mosquito, it was getting away. Patches followed it with his hand, still not quite sure how to respond. He stumbled, and Val drew away from him. The emptiness rolled up against his chest.

“Now here's a real reason,” Val said, slinking back.

“Don't," Patches mumbled, rubbing the small bulb swelling up on his neck.

“A reason to really apologize. That wasn't very fair. I'm sorry. So sorry.” Val saluted, grinning sweetly, sympathetic as a weasel. The syringe was thrown to the ground. Val then lifted his bags and bolted for the hall they had come from. The luggage that he had given him so much grief less than an hour before may as well have been full of air.

Patches staggered. His heel drove down hard and he pressed his hand on his knee for support. There was work to do. A dream to uphold. He gathered the pressure in him to his chest, snarled and spat bile and finally, was able to smile. Things were fine. And then he was off too.

---

On the left of the hall was the entrance to the maze that would eventually, somehow, twist back to the entrance. On the right was the stairwell to the upper deck.

Patches considered, and took the left. After such a stunt, the exit seemed Val's target. And if the reverse were true, Val, no, the contestant would now be blocked off. His grandfather had thought of everything. Contestants weren't brought there expecting to leave of their own free will.

The footsteps stalked down the thin hall. Plywood scraped. The light of the dull white scarf faded from view. When Patches was gone, Val slid out from under the staircase, kicked his bags into the corner and darted back into the arena.

---

Wooden walls, stuffy air, just enough space to breathe – much like the wooden booth in the church. A little like the treehouse. No, there wasn't enough sun. There would never be enough sun to match up to those days.

Patches reached the exit having encountered nobody. The door was closed but he could hear the wind was howling with a vengance, whistling through the cracks, searching for holes in the tarp. He had the vague suspicion of having been followed, so with a swift thrust he tore the knobs off the door, and off the lock. It wouldn't open naturally after that. If anyone came trying, it would give him a little noise in alert - if the walls didn't.

He felt his way back into the maze, in the opposite direction. One way led to the Ring, but that wasn't all there was to see.

He continued in deeper. The same rules. Walk only past incomplete walls.

He slid out of a hollow hall and against a single solid wall that felt safe. It was set with several doors.

They were all unlocked. Patches took his time walking through them and briefly shone his old flashlight around them, just to be sure. They were smaller than the cells to the Ring of Justice. Unfurnished. Hollow sounding, plaster walls. No drainage for a toilet. It would have been a horrible place to keep someone.

They could have just been storage closets.

Only one of the rooms wasn't empty. Patches saw the familiar glint of glass as soon as the door swung open. He very nearly ran up to it and knew exactly what to look for, or at least, where to look for it.

As he knelt to reach behind the desk, he spotted a flicker of light cross reflect across the glass and shot up, straight as a signpost and turned. Out the door, there was a long, thin hall of the naked beams, puffy foam and thin plywood as the others. He could tell all this without touching it because there was a beam of light shining all the way down from the other side, through an iron grate that covered the exit.

Like the tunnel, but this time, he was at the dark end.

The beam flicked away as the holder realized his mistake and ran.

Patches considered his options. Then he swept the equipment from the desk and left the room.

---

Val paced around the Ring, shining his flashlight at the walls. There were a few tunnels out, but they were not like the church's expansive tunnels – these were dusty, claustrophobic affairs, angular walls in packed-together paths with low ceilings. Except for the entrance, all the tunnels he had passed were covered with iron bars. False hope to those caught in the maze, and if they ran towards the light they'd hit a wall... if the other traps didn't hit first.

He had suspected something was fishy about the walls to begin with. Some were completely uncovered, pipes and insulation bare, while others were suspiciously complete.

Down the barred tunnel where he had seen Patches ducked into some dark corner, there had been several lengths of completed wall. And now from the same hall came a bloodcurdling screech and pop, all over a metallic rattle. The wall shook as if there was an earthquake.

The metal bars were rammed out of their wooden frame by a flying steel desk that gleamed angrily to the flashlight's beam. It had been severely battered and, at the edges, pierced by some dense bolts; it had been used as a shield. Following the tumbling frame came the one who'd thrown it, emerging from the tunnel like a wild boar. Patches wheezed maniacally and fixed his one eyed stare on Val.

Val smiled at him and loped lightly, sideways, keeping their eyes linked. "Glad I didn't meet your grandpa." Patches's shoulders rose and fell. Val continued to smile and follow him. Mid-breath he broke into a run.

Patches came barrelling after him. Val was sure a finger or two was brushing the edges of his coat. He became sure when he was jerked back as if on a string, like the old days an inch of grip was all that was needed. Patches's body hit him like a wall. Winded, he bounced off and with a messy kick, tore the fringe Patches had in his grasp.

He saw Patches stumble, look about in confusion, then shove the dirty scrap of fabric in his pocket. Val slipped into the nearest tunnel. Back at the stairwell.

“Val? Val? You knew what you were doing, didn't you?”

Patches's tone was ludicously light as he missed the doorway and send a chunk of the wall flying with a shoulder check. His hands lashed about like maces to clear his path, spewing a tornado of wood chips.

Val glanced at each of his options in turn. One hallway was a huge red flag. He could practically see the walls curving, tensed to spring, like a giant mousetrap. He backed one step too far in the other direction.

“I can see you.”

Val turned his flashlight off. The maze was a lost cause, an deadly gamble at best. So it was up the staircase, three to four stairs at a time. He emerged on the upper deck, and with a quick check behind him, set off in a sprint. He took about three long strides before striking his shin on some unseen but expansive block lying on the floor, and went sprawling to the edge of the balcony, nearly plummeting to sand below.

The flashlight had to come on again.

It was a ridiculous setup. The upper deck that surrounded the ring was covered in low, rectancular benches. In the absence of the lower viewing area, this was where all the the spectators would sit, if they somehow made it in. Life wouldn't be easy for them either. The old architect had been totally senile in the end, or else really hated everyone, even his audience. The benches were arranged or rather scattered, haphazardly, in a maze of their own. Some were perpendicular to the railing, a few facing backward. Countless others lying at their own unique diagonal angles. Spectators were to be punished too.

Patches descended on spot marked by flashlight and hammered downward. His fist nearly burst beneath the wad of padded bandage covering it, Val saw a bloom of red begin to stain the outer edge.

A shockwave rippled through the wooden frame, the canvas above them shook. Val took hold of a bench armrest and flipped himself upright. Patches following the flickering light, fell on Val again just as the shadowy form slid back. With flaming arms he flung a bench aside like a cardboard box and patted the ground, looking for the pulpy remains of his mark.

By then, Val had scampered off. But he hadn't escaped. The flicker of the flashlight was constantly giving him away.

Patches came thundering in behind him. A bench went sliding to the arena below; it landed with a bony crack.

The noise was horrendous. It was so tempting to look. Jaw stiff, Val kept his hand running along the dusty wall, after a few moments of smooth sprinting, he turned off the light and immediately stumbled on the awful setup. The light came on again. With nothing else to even marginally deflect his attention, Patches was on him like a tiger.

Smash. And down he went again. Smash. Rolling between two benches. Smash. The bench went flying and he crouched and dove. Where was he headed? Val collided into a board that made a hollow thud.

The beam of light scythed through the air. Looming above was a small wooden booth.

Val hurdled in and slammed the door. He fixed his grip on the handle and braced his wrist for some punishment.

The battering began almost immediately. At least, though it was a pretty limp comfort, he could keep the flashlight on now, hooked in his free hand.

“You aren't hidden in there,” Patches said. His voice, muffled by the wall and thumping, still eerily cheerful. He must have been having too much fun, or was losing his mind, because he had not ripped the door off in the first five seconds.

Val chose not to try his hand at mindreading. Where was he? An office. No, the room was only as wide as a toilet stall. But there was nothing on the ground. The flashlight swooped left and right and all over. What was the point of it all?

Patches was menacing the very structure of the booth, his beastlike grip had taken to the sides of and with a brittle creak, a line appeared in the ceiling and travelled across and down to the ground; the walls began to bend inward. The flashlight fluttered spastically. Something in the movement finally punched a shadow on the edge of a raised panel in the wall. A slab of wood, the exact same color as the walls.

Val transferred the flashlight to his teeth and by straining his arms in their sockets, flipped the panel open and patted, pulled, poked at anything he could reach.

The walls were caving, but the noise was masked as the entire building began to whir and hum. Outside, Patches went quiet. He had found something else to look at. A lot of things, no doubt. Val was able to let go of the doorknob for just a moment, and with two hands, yanked down the four heaviest switches.

The ceiling sounded off with an all-consuming whiplike snap. The power was on. Magnus had found the right route.

Light streamed in around the edges of the flimsy door and through the newly formed holes. Val breathed. He was sure Patches needed a moment too. He must have been seeing his beloved grandfather's Ring clearly for the first time. Possibly the only thing he truly owned. He needed time.

Val turned off the flashlight and put it away. Then he drew out one of the knives he'd been carrying, a small one, and launched himself out the door.

---

Patches stared and stared and couldn't break the stare. He wrenched his fingers from the wooden panels before him and turned.

It dawned on him that he'd never seen the Ring of Love in full light. The ceiling was not like the church at all, the beams extended upward in a weblike formation that was much more remniscient of the upper chapel than the underground, tall and delicate as a ladder to heaven. The entire structure was enourmous. His childhood memory had been accurate, even modest in its estimation. He was winded purely on the sight of it.

The tiny but secure block in which he'd set his mind for so many years could not quite accommodate the expanse of what he saw, there seemed so much air and so much disturbance to his person. He was lost in the network of beams, the yellowed canvas tent above, stand-in for a roof that would never be completed, like skin rippled and creased in so many lines and shadows that his eyes watered and unwanted maggots of pain began crawling through his brain.

Behind him, he almost missed the creak. The walls of the electrical booth began to collapse, splintering cheaply. And from them a shadow burst free.

Val's arm fell across his face. Patches fumbled, as if he had already been wounded, but did not really feel the shallows stabs that were being driving into his chest and arms. Val forced him back, and he saw those beautiful monstrous fangs and flaring mismatched eyes.

“What did you do?” Patches asked. It came out a friendly question. How have you been?

"Down," Val commanded.

Patches locked his knees upright and pressed Val's efforts back with a forearm. "How did you do this?" He wouldn't fall, but was unable to move as Val closed in on him.

"Later."

"I need-"

“I can't talk to you,” Val hissed. “You don't know what you mean, anyway.”

The knife flashed. Finally, something pulled his eyes from the nightmare of the wrinkled roof.

Patches held a hand up to grab it; he missed, but Val's assault was deflected as though he'd hit a steel beam. The knife hilt cracked against his outermost knuckle, fragment tearing the bandage and blade flung to the right, stripped a long red line of flesh from Patches's face, from his chin to cheek. A visible slab of reddened skin dropped onto his chest. Val's eyes widened and Patches froze, then made a noise that was half a laugh, and half a gag. Blood spilled down his face and onto his sleeves. Val tried to yank away. There was nowhere to move. They struggled over the benches in a tangle until they hit the collapsed booth again. Val, crushed between Patches and the pile of wood, found his footing and shoved forward.

They pressed together, for a moment. Val's body was cool and lean and his knife buried itself into Patches's upper arm. Patches dropped back. He staggered, tripped over yet another bench.

There was only an inch of footing left. The thin, blocky edge of the rail hit the small of his back and he slipped. With Val's additional weight the rail cracked, and down they went.

Thump.

The sand pit was no cushion. Patches landed flat on his back and every bone felt the impact, decade-old dust stung his wound. Val landed feet first, on Patches's stomach, flattening him. Attentive as a cat. But heavier. Patches coiled inward, his gut churned, and he groaned. Satisfied, Val kicked off him and headed for the hall again. No pinpoint of light, no single point the dark to track. Patches didn't follow him yet, there was to much to take inventory of.

For some reason, Val's ability to turn on the lights did not surprise him. Now that he was in the Ring proper, Patches was not so impressed. The ceiling was high, but the wood was a light, cheap variant and unpainted, the color of pallid skin. The pillars were thin and the walls looked stable as cardboard. It lacked the rich bronze glaze of the Ring of Light, the golden fences, the straw padding. And the people. Of course.

To finally see his Ring under the lamps confirmed a certain suspicion he'd had. Hitting the boards had been a little too satisfying. The columns shattered with a single blow. One impact rattled the entire scaffold. The Ring was weak. It was a miracle that those pillars had remained standing, those ropes stayed tied and walls pressed up against each other at edges, all waiting for the slapdash remains of his memory to bring him back to witness the full extent of disappointment. It was incredibly clear that his grandfather had been outdone, outpriced and outmatched by the church. All the Ring of Love over Light and Justice was, essentially, the maze - cruel but not practical. And the disarray of benches - punishing but not permanent.

Who could possibly use the place? His grandfather had not anticipated a large workforce. Thinking back, Patches had never seen any sign of a workforce at all, no priests, no chefs, no organizers. The rigged maze was to handle the work of Ferris, Castor, Lazlo and more. That made sense – his grandfather had revelled in his supsicion. He never would have even trusted builders, even if they were bound to him by contract. He would not have been inviting priests to work. He would only rely on his hatred. The maze. Patches. And...

Sand fastened onto his clammy skin.

There was only one person's handiwork that he could recognize. Carved into the walls, by the hundreds of thousands, wreathed in their spiked wings. The angels were perched all across the walls that surrounded the Ring, but they were made out of same cheap panelling as the rest. Cut viciously from uneven slabs and trunks - not even their base materials had any consistency - placed edge to edge more desperately clustered than on his ceiling in the dormitory.

Their quality was viciously matched by their numbers. Some of the eyeballs were flat against the wall, some were raised relief, several pieces smaller and smaller stacked on each other into a sort of lopsided dome. And something he would not have caught without the light: each and every center was drilled through to a deep, black pupil with the faintest watchful glimmer.

Patches sat up. He dusted his coat off; a futile effort but it was something to do. His fingertips were damp, his face seemed to be sliding apart like wet paper. For some reason, he thought of the man with the caved head, the surface of the head floating about in pieces stuck loosely to a wet globe, like drifting continents. He licked his lips, which seemed to be split into four parts, and listened. Focus. But the lights hummed and the angels stared holes in him.

Perhaps they could help.

He turned to the tunnel he had torn the gate from; the demolished metal desk lying in front of it. A direct line to the room he'd seen earlier.

---

The tiny concrete square filled with humming. A large whirring block sat in the corner, trailing a mass of cables that rose up and behind the rack of monitors covering the wall. Nine of them. Everything in their correct place, now doing the correct thing. The scene was imperfect with all the equipment on the floor, rather than in their proper places on the desk, but it was still something he could understand, and something he could work.

The screens pulled their images a high pitched whine and flush of static. They were clearer than he remembered. A grid showing the feedback of twenty eyes, twenty angels.

He just had to pick one to go for.

Patches stood before them all, as he imagined his grandfather had, and his eye fell on Val immediately. A sunburst of orange and black, circling the upper deck. He had a larger knife than before in one hand, the other hand held one of his duffel bags.

And in the bottom left monitor...

Something wrong.

They should have been alone. It should have been easy. But then, in the shivering view of the trees outside, he and saw two, then three, then four people. Then five and six and cars containing who knew how many more. They moved with confidence, en masse, and parked directly in front of the entrance. Someone had known.

Patches touched his hand to his chest. His heart was racing, though he'd made little progress. His body was going to fail him. He dug his hand, his nails into his chest, trying to squeeze himself together. He was sweating and rotting under the bandages.

Strangers. No big deal. They weren't contestants, and they weren't about to be spectators. But what could be done about them? How could they be repelled? He wished he'd left the desk, or that he could bring it back in. He needed to put his head down. Turn off the lights and empty his thoughts. There was no space for any new, useful ideas to take hold. He regarded Val's tiny image on the topmost screen. At least he had that. No, that was the whole reason he was here. How had they managed to spend so much time alone in the past? There were people, undeserving, crawling all over. How had they come to consider themselves such lonely people? That was what Val wanted, and that was what Patches wanted too and with the approaching cars and the nonstop hum of rain he was beginning to understand the irritation Val had. For people, and for eyes and noise and thought.

A strange redness began to float into view. He wiped his face with his scarf; there was one use for it. Some blood had pooled around his eye, his spine had taken a shock when he had fallen. But he could still move.

In the light, he had realized how weak the walls were.

---

Val sat on a bench that actually- sort of- faced the arena. Though the general direction was correct, the bench itself was tipped onto its back so it faced the ceiling. Patches hadn't emerged in while. Hypocritical for all his prior enthusiasm for a fight, but not unreasonable. He must have been feeling tired. It was amazing the injected sedative had not taken hold sooner. And after that fall from the balcony, he shouldn't have been standing. But then, everyone handled chemicals differently. His relentless hammering and charges were certainly pointing to a gradual loss of control.

Val had only begun to assure himself of this when the entire deck was rocked with an massive tremor. The columns rafters creaked and screeched, swayed all the way up to their brittle upper rafters. A sprinkling of dust and splinters rained from high above. A floorboard fell from below, leaving a long rectangular hole. Val was clinging to the bench when another quake hit. Another chorus of scraping canvas and wood snapping.

Val set his feet down and threw a complaint over the rail, "You're ruining your Ring!”

Another, distinct thud. This time from right under his seat. The boards split.

“Patch, don't do something you'll regret.”

Another thud and crack and the entire panel below him tilted; the bench began to slide. Val leapt up and the bench, and its neighbors and all the seats down the row began sliding down as the balcony began to slope, snapping off the wall like a broken shelf. A few loosened platforms were caught on the walls of the maze below and were held teetering. The heavier, uncatchable weight crashed to the sandy surface below and the arena filled with dust. A twelve meter section of the deck had caved. Val heard the popping of triggered traps in the maze below it, desperately letting out their last efforts before they were crushed.

Then, down came one of the pillars that had been attached to the ceiling. Freed from its base, it bent, snapped, and fell nearly horizontally. The canvas roof screamed as the beams shattered and slashed at it. A mass of dusty wood crashed down over the deck, onto the arena, flattening all under it and finally exploding in a mass of sand and wooden shards on the hard ground.

Val narrowly avoided the blast and dashed along the upper level as the wood cartoonishly disintegrated behind him. He caught sight of Patches, embracing another pillar with both arms, defiant as a child. And nobody was about to punish this child, as he braced himself against the wood, blood rolling down his contorted face, and with one collossal rotation, ripped the pillar right from its base.

The floor fell from under Val's feet. This time, he couldn't regain his footing.

“I'm coming down,” Val said.

Patches dusted his hand on his coat, doubled over to catch his breath, but hardly displeased. “You would have anyway.”

He looped his arms around the next pillar and with this monumental CRACK, the entire Ring creaked and finally, it seemed, gave in. Thin rafters fell from what the space above and the remaining pillars, held only by the pull of the tarp, tore through their bindings and snapped free. They teetered one way, and the pitiful bargain lights came crashing down in a spray of sparks, and tottered the other way, half of the roof was shredded open. Finally it all collapsed with a long crash, that petered out like an angry sigh. A hurricane of dust settled around the remains of the the roof, the columns, the deck and the maze. Only the outermost walls, the thickest of the beams and panels, stayed standing, but any doors and windows there might have been now backed against rubble.

The wind took over from there. Rain poured through the hole in the roof.

Val jerkily hopped a fallen pillar and approached Patches, who stood among the raining chaos and nodded at his own work approvingly, loosening his scarf, revealing his bloodied neck. The old wounds were a gelatinous black, his skin was red and swollen. The bandages around his hands seemed the only thing keeping his battered, splinter-infested skin together. His eye was cloudy as the sky. He was radiant in a way he absolutely should not have been. Val balked. He should have been dead.

Patches was so enamoured with what he'd made that he didn't see the rope.

---

“It's okay,” Patches was saying, eyelids flickering, “It's okay. They won't come in now.”

“That's why you fucked up the place? That's it?” Val murmured.

“They couldn't. Nobody can come in now. There were- was- we--” Patches couldn't say much more. His face was sore and nearly blind. The exposed sky spat raindrops in his eyes.

And there was the rope.

The thick twisted black rope, wrapped around his neck so tight he couldn't get his fingers between the fibers and his skin. His nails cracked, splinters dug into his veins. He couldn't breathe. He was bewildered. In the past, being choked hadn't been an issue. But it was unlike human fingers, it could not be broken, not as he was now, it pressed flush to his neck.

No wonder rope was banned in the Ring of Light.

Val was behind him, grinding a foot into his tailbone and pulling as if he were holding the reins of a horse. He yanked back so hard, Patches couldn't even collapse forward, he couldn't fall. Val set his foot down harder and as his sore spine bent back Patches's lungs struggled to push out a dry, airless cry.

Val yelled behind him, “Nobody? Nobody should be here? I didn't agree to that. Even if it came up, I wouldn't have you be the one dragging my corpse out. There are people out there? I know that! I asked them to come. I had trackers in those bags, just to make sure. A ton of them. This place is way off the map, but I wanted everyone to be sure.”

There was the smell of exhaust outside.

Patches's hands flicked and fumbled at the ends of Val's coat.

“Do you see how it is? I hate being watched, but I let myself be tracked, for once in my life, if it would help me get away from you.” Val's teeth grew close. “What were you thinking? You're broken. I know that. It's not a reason to die. But if you keep going like this, you'll die for real. They'll come in and they'll shoot you. Throw you in a cage. You think muscle and an ugly eye will save you? You can't even throw off a little rope. Can you even read? Can you talk? Can you face crowds of hundreds? They'll destroy you.”

His voice was soothing. Patches closed his eyes, hunched. Val's elbow dug into his shoulder blade. His voice was like curdled milk.

“But Magnus isn't unreasonable. You can call it off now. Just go to sleep. You can sleep, you must be tired. You always-”

Patches touched the knife tucked in Val's pocket. It was heavy. How ridiculous, there was no way to be careful with a tool that shape and size. He yanked it free, heard the metal swish, and Val begin to protest, but it was fine. It was all fine.

He told himself this as he slashed the blade against his neck in a wide arc, ripping into the edge of his jaw along the way. The rope fell apart uselessly and Val, splattered by the knife's careless swing too, lost his grip, teetered back, blinking rapidly. Patches wheeled around to face him, splattering a red half-moon around him. Blood was now running down the black coat like a fountain, the scarf hanging heavy and crimson on his shoulders, unable to absorb more. He was falling apart, hardly thinking anymore. Val had one hand up in feeble defense.

Patches swiped at him with the knife and laughed in short, wavering breaths. It made no sense that these tools could do anything. Val must have known. He laughed again, it sounded like nothing.

“Are you really happy?” Val asked.

Patches tossed the knife aside. “No. No, no... not yet. I've been wasting time. You haven't even shown me what you can do yet.” He swung a hard punch. Val whipped out yet another another blade. A very small, slender folding knife. Unfolded of course. It embedded itself into Patches's hand just above the knuckle of his palm.

Patches did not allow the sensation to pass to his brain. No time. He slammed down again. This time, a razor blade stuck itself into the side of his palm. The other hand caught a blade without a handle. Then another razor. The bandages fell apart, his skin began to unfold, swinging in slabs when he raised his arms again.

Val stepped back. “You don't let up at all. Even when you take a hit.”

“I...” Patches panted and tugged out a razor. He saw his reflection, haggard but still ready for work. “I haven't been hit yet.”

"Uh."

"Not really." The wind flowed through the holes in his arms.

“If that was all you wanted, you could have just asked,” Val said. “Not that that's the only thing. Did you really mean it, when you said... what was it, 'I don't care if I die'? Don't care if I lose. Don't care, don't care. What am I supposed to think, is that a real challenge?”

Patches swept the inside of his elbow over his face, sweeping off rainwater. He also pulled the gash over his face open further. The smell, his own smell, was overwhelming in a way he didn't think possible.

Val stood firm. One more knife came from and inner pocket. The carving knife, black and silver handle, slightly browned blade. “You've gotten better in some ways, compared to old days. But I'm not compelled to work for someone who doesn't care. Take your life a little more seriously.”

As long as he planned to stay, why waste it? Patches slammed a fist into Val's cheek. The razor embedded in the crook of his thumb threw a gash over Val's lip. Patches hurled another blow, to Val's open side. Val spat blood and his weight fell to one knee. The knife lowered. Patches was struck with worry. It might end, without any feeling, without Val trying. What would it all mean then?

But lo and behold, as he threw his body into the next blow, Val flared up like a hawk, and took one long horizontal swipe. His eyes did not so much as flicker as the punch caught him on the crown. He let the force carry him and his knife, which was now embedded in Patches's abdomen, flew with him and there was audible rip of cotton the wet gulp of fat and muscle tearing. A thick stripe of blood sprayed onto the sand. It quickly smoothed and expanded to a puddle at Patches's feet.

Val slipped back, footprints red, head lolling. Patches felt a true cold chill for the first time that day. He felt all the contents of his sack of person slide down inside him, ready to abandon ship. A gurgling, a bubbling against his ribs. WIth a hazy realization he ripped out the blades embedded in his skin and hurried to clutch a hand to the huge open gash that threatened to spill the inside of his stomach.

Hold it in. Was it working? He took an experimental step forward.

“You might want to sit down,” Val warned.

It was no joke. Patches felt his stomach churn, really felt it, beneath his fingers. It was disgusting, a rancid texture and movement that promised yellow bile and brown stew no amount of detergent would ever wipe out. He'd never eat again. He'd walk out of there, but never eat again. Val would be so upset. With him, for him. To Val, food was...

Val frowned as another hard footstep hit the sand, which by now was beginning to congeal into mud with all the blood and rain that had sunk into it. He shook his head and turned. Patches was desperate.

"Stop," Val said.

“I need to finish,” Patches gurgled. “I have to finish so I can know.”

“What could possibly be so important for you to keep going? I've seen what I came to see.”

“But I, I still need you.”

“Quit being so melodramatic. Especially when you know so well what the problem is. I can't live with that you want. We talked about how this would go.” Val picked up the duffel bag that had fallen from the upper deck. “A winner and a loser. Winner gets their way. Either way, we never-”

“Nobody has won yet. So you need to stay.”

Blood filled his mouth and he let it simply trickle. The singlar effort of spitting might have caused the hole in his stomach to erupt.

Val took one final look at his adversary and unzipped the bag. “If that's all the time you're requesting of me, then alright.” He drew out an odd, neon and metal instrument. It had a clear handle and blade, but it was not a knife. The blade was a large circular saw. He paused, ran his finger across the serrated edge. “Why did I even bring this thing? It's not for the living." He sighed and turned to Patches. "It's a precaution, you understand. You're sleepy, right? I won't have to use this. Not really, just-"

A damp stop. Val stepped back, in spite of himself.

"This doesn't have to happen, you know.”

“It doesn't...” Patches swallowed an hot, iron mouthful. “It doesn't have to end any other way.”

Val clicked a few switches and the blade started to spin. It turned so fast the edges looked smooth, the startup noise faded to a dull hum over the flapping of the tarp and the constant background static of rain.

“Out of interest, Patch, how do you know this will make you happy?”

“Stop wasting time.”

Val held his hands up, the spinning saw running loosely in his right hand. “Can't I get a little motivation?”

Patches blinked, hard. The rain seemed to be obscuring his vision.“It worked before.”

“Before? Last time? At my place?”

“No. No, the one before that. When you, you-” He tapped his cheek. His eye. The hole.

Val snapped his tongue. “That was years ago. Why do you even want to remember? There's no way it felt good. And if you forgot, it was paired with you slaving over the piss and shit of a comatose man. You were mad every day, so mad you used to catch and kill animals. I was trying to take those burdens away, but you have nothing like that now. I don't want anything from you. Because you are nothing.”

“It was the only time. The only time that I was happy! Do you know what that's like?" Patches shook his head. Rain was weighing his hair heavily down over his face. "I had never been happy before. I hadn't even imagined it, because I couldn't. It wasn't until after the old man died, after you did what you did, that I had something to remember as 'happiness.' There was never another time. There were no other memories. I'm so close. I have to try something. Just this once- it's one time-- then--” Rivers of rainwater streamed over his eyes angrily. Encouraging tears as though he were twelve again, after being told, or realizing he had done wrong but had not been able to stop it - knowing well he would do it again when he shouldn't. He would have given those tears again, if he could find them.

Val frowed above all this. “You weren't happy when we were together?”

Patches's empty eye throbbed, trailing deep into his brain.

"You didn't want to be together."

"Forget what I want for a second. Or imagine I did want it. Did you like running around town, holding hands? Talking? Sleeping on the bed and bench? It's not quite getting stabbed through the head-"

The word burned. “It's not the same.”

“Was it good enough, though? Is this shitty alternative worth it? Look at you.”

Patches didn't have to look. He closed his eyes.

“But I'm so close. It's working.”

“You're really feeling good?”

The saw whined and Patches felt his head grow heavy and cold. His hand, sunk deep against his stomach, throbbed, and his arm hung like lead. He blinked again, several times. “I'm fine.”

The sound of thunder rolled through the forest. Val's eyes had lit up again, but there was no smile to match.

“Do you trust me, Patch?”

“Yes.”

“Then listen: you're not fine. And it's not even a matter of being fine. I'm not your boss, you don't have to make things sound good for my sake. I know I haven't been the best... friend to you, but if there's something you've reminded me here, if that I don't really want to see you die. Like this. You've already made a mistake but you can't see it, and now you're dying. So just... take a moment. You can't get close to me anymore, you'll hit the saw-" Val swung the machine with a quiet buzz, "-and this thing will cut right through skin and bone. Without trying. It was a last resort against a guy who can snap my neck without a second thought, but that's not what you are anymore. You lose it for one second and your guts will fall out. So think about it. It's hardly a matter of choice now. You might want to do this, but you can't.”

“Don't--” Patches gurgled. Red seemed to be flooding his vision. He wiped and shook his head and hair but nothing cleared; his eye rattled. Blood from his face threw new spots onto the ground. His body seemed to be seeping through his fingers. Intestines first, they were ready to make a break. If the path was clear the lungs and throat and brain would come tumbling out after. “Don't... you...”

“I hate cleanup as much as the next guy. So let's just... keep it clean."

Patches shifted a foot, took a step, couldn't raise his head. Wrong direction. Follow the buzzing. You want to be near it.

And Val went on, "I'll stop, just say the word. But say it soon. You want to, I know, I know you just want someone who won't leave and this is-”

Patches staggered. The red exploded into dust; the cloud consumed him and he child's voice screamed from the mouth of an outsized body, “DON'T TELL ME WHAT I WANT.”

He threw himself forward, and, almost as if he'd been expected, Val extended the saw. The whirring blade latched on, the sound went from a screech to a splash, cut straight through Patches's sleeve. It was a small cut, but when he shifted again, a tear blasted through his forearm before he could even blink. The edge skimmed his chest as he threw Val back. Blood flew in a fork across his chin, crossing the air to Val's cheek. Patches tensed the hand over his stomach. An inch of fat or muscle or meat seeped through a gap; he tucked it back in place with his index finger. And the wheel kept turning.

Patches stepped back in, the stomp of his foot sent pins up his spine. There was a definite red cloud falling over his eye now, and it was real, more than it had ever been. He wasn't about to let it go.

The noise. The noise was unbearable. Machines and their ilk, they weren't welcome. They could get out. It was his house, his Ring, and if they wouldn't listen, he had to throw them out. With his own enlarged hands, hand, whatever he could use. Cut them up. Tear them apart. Kill them and eat them. Yes, they had to be there. The memory wouldn't be complete without them.

A sweeping blow, a warning, but Val was so jumpy he began to form a riposte, and Patches had already closed on him. Teeth gritted, Patches didn't throw a swing but drove his arm straight forward like a lance – and when Val moved back – as was stupid and natural – Patches grabbed the spinning blade.

There was a noise like a freighter slamming the brakes. The smell of burning.

The machine caught on something hard, and the hitch jerked Val's entire body, his head lobbed downward so he didn't see what happened. There was a splatter and screech of bone and an instantenous crack that echoed even with the roof torn open, and send a jolt through both of their bodies. The bandages around Patches free hand took their last stand and were flung to the air, rolled into the sawblade's mechanism, slapped to the ground soaking wet black and red. As the final shreds came to rest, so did the remains of the blade.

Patches stared hotly at his handiwork. As advertised, the machine had cut bone and skin with ease. His hand was finished. One finger hung limp on a strand of tendon, a flat line sliced straight through the upper bone. And three more fingers, shorn clean through, dropped to the ground. But on his thumb, there the wheel now hung, ripped from its axle. It was finishing its final, dying rotations. A crack webbed through one half, then the other, and the wheel shattered and landed with a splat in the mud.

The mechanical whir at stopped. It was nothing but wind and rain now. Val's eyes looked ready to pop from his head. It was perfect.

One hand over his stomach, the other no more than one scarred finger and bloodied stumps, Patches didn't have much to choose from, but there was one very obvious, easy target left.

He still had knuckles. Those caught Val square in the face with a conclusive crunch. Val gave a yelp and floundered back, the imprint of four red tacks tattooed over his eyes, nose, lip. Then came another blow. Val's body convulsed down to its core with the impact, he folded nearly in two. Patches felt that entire, human weight toss on his hand. It was astounding that such a weight had ever been able to evade a beating. There was a huge difference between when he was prepared and when he was not, Patches thought. He'd been honest about that. Without preparations, he was defenseless.

One handed - if you could call it a hand now - Patches battered, every hit landing dead center, just over the ribs, guts smashed so thin the unpadded spine might snap any second. Val fell, and without a second arm for balance Patches pitched forward too. They collapsed to the dirt, Val's back landed with a flat hard smack he could not recover from, but it didn't stop there. Patches had finally gotten his chance, and he was seeing it through. Knees set wide in the mud around Val's waist he hammered, drilled, thundered down. Further and further and further. Beat by beat. Val's body seemed to cave in now, his elbows coming together, chest pulling inward, ribs shuddering between explosive blows.

At first had made some fumbled attempted to catch his assailant, push or jab back. But nothing was being returned anymore. Patches slowed his barrage and waited. He felt only a limp hand brushing his knee, it couldn't bring itself any higher. It was almost over. He was at his destination. The peak, the old pinnacle, the threshold that he'd crossed to become what he was now. The best moment of his life, this time he was winning.

And, perhaps predictably, no great love or joy arose. The haze of anger around him dropped. He was tired, horrendously heavy, more than ever before. Val never looked tired, but he was no longer moving. Was it over already? Val's face was coated in red. His lips had been pounded to a doughy pulp, his forehead and one eye were swollen into red balloons, the other eye was simply closed. His jaw sagged, the familiar smiling fangs obscured by a sea of red paste. It was no good. Vision blurring, reality caught up at last, and Patches felt his lungs tighten. It had been a waste. And Val had known it.

“Val?”

Nothing.

"Val?" Patches's ribs were quaking. He wondered if he were catching a cold. His guts had begun to feel frozen. He dropped his bloodied half-fist beside Val's head. There was a tiny flinch beneath him at the impact.

“Feel any better?” Val's throat had started some involuntary gurgling, but the words still made it out.

Patches looked straight at him. It would have been disrespectful, otherwise. “No... No, I'm sorry.”

“Well. I think I'll take that apology.”

“I mean it. I won't do this again. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

“I won't try again either. Three times is all I can take. It's beyond requiring a tiebreaker. You can-“

Patches blinked hard. The feeling was not falling away. Something was still missing. It couldn't end, unless...

That's right.

“It's over. You win."

Val responded with a bloodied sneeze. Patches felt the movement below him rock his entire body.

His knees were sore. He swayed, his fist half-raised, his eyes fluttering. The rain seemed to be encouraging him to fall, the heaviness that had started in his arms and head had seeped through every vein in his body. Val's chest, shirt covered in those pulsating orange starbursts, though now discolored with blood and mud, looked so gorgeously inviting. Patches let his fist sink. The hand over his stomach sagged, as it did his body gargled crimson bubbles and dripped and poured. The starbusts were stained further. He wanted to brush the red jelly off but realized neither hand could manage.

It made sense, in the end. There was no way his stupid, frayed, twice-damaged brain could have led him down the right path. So much had been hurt, everything about himself, his words, every movement and speck of energy had been misplaced, as it always had. Though things had improved he had not gotten better, all the worse for everyone around him. The contestant - no, an inspector, and important inspector - and the church that had housed him so long. The booth, his shelter at the worst of times, had been broken, like the treehouse, and now the Ring was gone. He had lost the old man. He'd died as empty eyed as Patches would be when his body finally gave out on him too, realizing his failure only in the end, regrets trapped by worthlessly heavy limbs, a mouth that no longer functioned, and a sad cake of a brain that closed on itself. Once there's nobody else left to kill, then you'll...

It was coming. He was at a loss.

A total loss. But here they were, regardless.

“Val, you're right. You're always right. I'm an idiot. I'm sorry. I know you hate - I think - I'm sorry. I never knew the right thing to do, or say, or the right way to live. I couldn't even die when I should have."

He had always felt too quiet but here he was, and he wished he could just shut up but there was too much to hold down.

"I should... This was never a fight. What we are is... something else, something with no winners and losers. Something... better." A harsh noise escaped his throat. It was a laugh. "If you're still here, next time I'll just ask...”

“Ask what?”

It was such a gentle, curious question. Though quiet it shone like a bastion through the howling winds and the monstrous, insectoid crackling of the trees. Patches savored the sound but didn't answer.

There was a sliver of yellow eye peeking through the blood now. As draining, and as lovely was ever. He felt his spirit being pulled into that void. It would not have worked on the angry child, who fell on every life like an enemy, but on the pathetic, heaving monster, it was a charm. No better way to say goodnight. Patches bisected lips formed a mangled smile and finally fell. He was already unconcious, abandoning his full weight and letting his insides fall where they wanted, when Val caught him.

---

Bone cold.

Val stroked Patches's hair, what little of it he could reach from where he was pinned. He could only move one hand. Breathing was hard, especially with the extra weight pressing down; a weight that was steadily soaking up water in that ridiculous overcoat. Patches's own breath was whistling wetly in his throat, uneven. As if he'd grown too heavy to live. The rain soaked through him, he should have been shivering. It was colder than snow, and uglier, raindrops quarter-frozen into sticky gobs.

The storm was pouring down hard. It couldn't have been too long past noon, but the clouds were dark and timeless.

Val was calm. He was feeling no pain. He'd made some wise decisions before the match. Namely, a few injections for himself. He wasn't even sure of half the things he'd said in the fray. He hoped they weren't too embarassing. Good thing Patches wasn't too petty. Rather, he just wasn't a good listener.

His numbness let him muse over the ordeal with some lightness. Still, that meant there was no overwhelming pain to knock him out of the annoyances. All he could do was take the rain's assault on his face and stroke Patches's hair, brush the stream of blood out from those closed eyes. And try to ignore the hot, wet gurgling stew he felt around his waist. This part of him was warm, at least. Was that his own gut or Patches's entrails ejected onto him?

He touched Patches's limp thigh, there seemed to be something damp and ropy there. Hopefully just a wet tangle of his shirt. Below that was a small raised square against his leg, so Patches had his wallet in his pocket, too. Absurd, but even oddities like Patches were bound by city life. What kind of things would he even carry? Val stretched his fingers, and reached-

“What do we have here?” A woman's voice chirped.

Several black coated figures slid into the edges of his vision. They were quiet and grim, angels in their own right. They moved with inhuman slickness and menace. It was one of them who spotted the fallen contestants first. They moved in for the cleanup.

But along came Magnus's familiar business-casual grousing, “What is this mess?” alongside the wet slop of boots. He pushed past the priests and hovered indignantly overhead.

Val shifted his jaw gingerly.

"Don't talk. Looks like you may have broken something," Magnus said a bit too eagerly.

“Is there someone from the clinic?” Val rasped. “Don't move him yet. Fingers. Pick up the fingers, get them some ice. Or put them in a freezer. You know.”

“Fingers? God.” Magnus turned to see Ritz at his heels, in raincoat that resembled a trash bag. Collecting Patches's fallen fingers as requested in a plastic pocket, as if they were some sort of snack. Val felt the rumbling around his waistband again.

“And be careful when you move him. He has...” Val moved his stiff arm to Patches's head so they would have to wait. “His stomach's cut. It's a bad one. It's being held shut right now, so you have to... put your hand down here...”

It took three people to accomplish the task. Patches was limp, his coat was opened but his entire shirt was dyed red and black, it was hard to see where the source of it all was. His hand and stomach poured like faucets until the priests all had a hold of him. The gash over his face turned skyward, oozing gelatinous blood and rimmed in a massive purple bruise, his scarf matted and hung like raw intestine from his neck. Val felt he'd seen enough. The priests did not seem taken aback, though they did shoot Val some meaningful looks. Except for their leader, the chirpy woman, they did not speak.

Once Patches had been packaged away, Val pulled himself up as smoothly as he could. There was a soft crackle of bone; every joint seemed on the verge of splitting. Perhaps one or two did. By providence, a long stretch of thunder rolled overhead. Nobody could have heard his creaks and grunts.

“So somehow, you turned out fine,” Magnus said.

“Of course.”

“Hardly any blood.”

Val looked down at himself, and ran the back of his wrist over his face. The rain had washed his eye and mouth, the cold had pulled the swelling down just slightly. Save for his shirt (and that blood wasn't his) he outwardly appeared uninjured in comparison to the opposition. It was enough to convince Magnus, anyway.

"Where are all trackers?" Magnus asked.

Val pointed at an arbitrary pile of rubble.

"For fuck's sake. Just to make things difficult, huh? You must have brought the roof down on purpose," Magnus said, half laughing and half cursing.

"I doubt it was him," came the woman's voice again.

She approched them, tilted her head to inspect Val, for the first time. She had the most meaningful glare of all the priests.

“I hope you had a good match,” the woman said. A hand extended, she smiled like painted doll. “You don't look how I expected, but if you're still standing I suppose Patch wasn't just talking you up. By the way, it's good to finally meet you in person.”

Val shook her hand. Her palm came away bloody.

She calmly pulled her hands behind her back and continued, “Will you be joining us at the tower?”

“Nah, I don't need to see the doctors.”

“More power to you. We can just have cake and tea. And maybe he-” She nodded towards the procession carrying Patches out. “-he would like you there. When he gets up. I hear you're friends?”

“No."

"Hm?"

"I can't stay," Val corrected, "I have to go. As for friends, well, I told Patches that I would be gone if this happened. Would be a shame to back out after all that's happened.”

“I see,” the woman said. "Those were your conditions?"

Val shrugged. The woman's eyes narrowed, and her smile, though it lingered, narrowed as well.

"I wouldn't want you to break your rules then. The very name of this place screams commitment."

Val felt Patches's distaste for such saccharine wordplay spring to his throat. He didn't have the energy to protest it. So what he said was, "If you'll allow. I'll be off."

"I'm no judge," she said. "People like me have no say in your matters, and this isn't my turf anyhow. But drop by the Ring sometime, won't you? The manned ones. We'd love to have you."

She waved goodbye, her hand undulating like a paper fan.

Val scuttled towards the fallen scaffolding, turning back to her warily and smiling blindly in return. It was most definitely time to leave. "Hey, Magnus. Magnus, I'm going to head out."

Magnus just flapped an arm at him. He knew. And he had this whole new property, now well and truly his, to attend to.

Everything was as it should be. Val chose the nearest, least obliterated tunnel, hopped over some sodden rubble and disappeared. There was a snap of wood and a wet crash in his wake. A mass of fallen balcony descended and a wave of mud splattered over the crew.

“I should have stopped this,” Magnus muttered.

Tiamat folded her arms. “Why? I think it went well.”

“I suppose it could have gone worse, but in what universe did this really go well?”

Tiamat regarded the sky. “I try to do good by my staff. It's in their best interest for the future if they can work out their stupid pride and god forbid, relationships, on their own. As long as nobody dies, they learn. And that's good. Some people's heads need especially potent lessons.”

“These idiots were trying to relive something from over ten years ago. To put it mildly, some people just don't learn.” Magnus ran his hands over the collapsed wall. Intead of benches, this Ring had a high fence set with some crude circular designs. Were those fireballs? “I don't know about your job but it's my job to handle people's problems and mistakes. To not let them ruin their lives. I have to assume they don't learn.”

“Sounds like a very rewarding time.”

“It's the worst.”

The door of the larger car slammed shut. Tiamat excused the group of priests and huffed loudly at the stormy skies. “Well, job or no job - they're both alive, arent they?”

“How's that make anything-”

“I guess the bet doesn't work out then.”

“You're still thinking about that?” But now he was too. Magnus crossed his arms. “My guy clearly won, though. So isn't in your favor to let the idea drop?”

“I'm not a cheater,” she said and smiled sweetly. “I would never hide or cheat in game with you, our fine leader. But are you so sure you've won this one? I think we need to get a good look at your Val to make sure.”

“Whatever. I have this whole mess to take care of. What kind of facilities can even be built out here?” He threw his hands up. “I don't have time for bets. Let's just call it a draw and move on.”

“A draw? Where nothing changes?”

“It's still an ending.”

---

The hillside filled with white noise. Leaves shaking, rain flowing a large sheets, sluicing through each other and the howling air that whistled in between. The Long corporation vehicles had left at a slow, safe crawl.

Not an hour later, not a step outside the compound, Ritz hopped over a fallen beam and lowered himself under an incidental tent made by a fragmented pillar and a large, uneven triangle of fallen tarp.

Under the flapping canopy, Val was lying nearly facedown in a puddle of mud.

“I knew it!” Ritz yelped. “I know fights. I know when someone's a real winner and when they're just running away. I knew it!”

Val blew a bubble in the viscous mixture and said, “It is pretty funny, huh?” One of his eyes had fully swollen shut.

Ritz composed himself. “You don't have to lie there. There are people still here for you.”

“Then I absolutely can't go out. Leave me alone, I'm sleeping.”

“No, you're not.”

“Look, Ritz. I can't go out there. I have to disappear. I said I would. I don't love it but it's better than being out there.”

“Being dead is better than... that...” Ritz snapped his fingers. “Better than having a meeting with Magnus? Maybe that's true. Ha ha.”

His energy was exhausting to behold. There was a guy who'd gotten a full night's sleep and wanted everyone to know. Val tried to sink himself down further. If only he could slide out of sight.

“Come on, Ritz. Give me some time. I'll get up later.”

“No you won't. You can't walk anymore, not like this. You were on painkillers or something, but they're gone now, so you're not getting back up.”

Val raised himself in an effort that threatened to snap his spine. He came up looking like some sort of golem, more sludge than human. Ritz shuffled back and Val rasped, “See? Standing. I'd rather not have to prove every little thing to you.”

There was a silence. Ritz looked and then he didn't. He was uncomfortable. Encouraged, Val shuffled forward, leering. "What's up?"

"You look a bit, ah..."

"Fucked up?"

"Scarier. Than usual."

"I see." Val crossed his arms. "Thank Patches for me, then." His legs refused to let him go any further. He began to tip forward.

Ritz fastened a hand to Val's arm, but jerked it back when a knife came out. Val landed on his shoulder and turned, hauled himself upright with all the delicacy of undersea cargo. He slumped against a pile of wood. Sparks flew from a fallen light fixture, the wood creaked and slid and he flailed his arms for balance, the knife waving uselessly.

He and the pile of debris slopped to the ground.

“Alright,” he panted, “I think you've seen enough. Time to go.”

“Okay.” Ritz moved forward again.

“I meant you go, on your own.”

“What will you do, then?”

“Rest a bit. Maybe get something to eat.”

“No, you won't.”

Val closed his eyes and smiled. His teeth seemed as though they were trying to escape his mouth, tear right from those red sore gums. “You know, it kind of hurts that you have such little faith. After all I've done for you. It's the same as always. I'll just disappear.”

“People don't just disappear.”

“Maybe I don't want to be a person.”

“You... can't change that.”

“Oh, really? All those times when nobody could find me, was that normal? That I found you in your time of need, that I can do things Magnus can't ask anyone else for, do you think everyone's just like that? How long can you stay awake?”

Ritz shuffled his feet, digging holes that refilled themselves. The sky rumbled.

“Do you know where I'm from? Do you know where I was born? Who I knew? What I did? There's nobody who can tell you that. Nobody knew except Patch and even he only knows a little. It was a mistake he knew anything, but that's not even a problem now. Not even an option because now he's.... he...” A much more important thought stopped him in his tracks. “Oh, Ritz. did you give the fingers to Magnus?”

At this an enourmous hand descended on Val's shoulders, another encased the the knife and his own tiny doll's hand in a massive blanketing grip. Two more grabbed him by his armpits and dredged him from the dirt. A deep voice rumbled, “Okay, ladies, that's enough.”

A black coat appeared before Val's eyes, and he could no longer raise his head but he could tell this wasn't one of Magnus's men. The billowing tails of another black coat swung into view. Then another. He was raised, set on air. His eyes began to roll backward into his head. An ocean of darkness.