Things are a little less hectic over at the Ring of Justice, as you can see, there’s only one item on the schedule today, and most of the time there won’t be anything at all. But don’t let that make you think it’s any less important than the Ring of Light. If anything, its existence is even more crucial, each event leaving far less leeway, less space for mistakes even if there’s just one for the whole year.

It’s good to kick back, relax, exercise get your frustration out, lash your arms without reason - whatever reason people have for participating in the Ring of Light. Like I’ve said, again and again now, the Ring of Light’s for everyone. You’re part of a greater body, and your share in the audience is only - only permitted - to be the same as any other. But it would be surprising if all humans were able to meld so perfectly to the greater body. Naturally, many of them do - that’s what makes the majority what it is. But with a majority there’s a minority, and small they might be, we don’t want to leave them out. So we open the Ring of Justice to them.

The matches here are almost exclusively one-on-one. Ordinarily, the participants issue the challenges after a mutual agreement. Sometimes it’s unfinished business in the Ring of Light, maybe a deal or relationship gone sour in some venue unrelated to us. What happens before doesn’t matter - to an extent. There are always special cases, the Ring of Justice practically relies on special cases for its livelihood. But in the normal cases, it’s just a couple of angry guys who can’t knock each other around above ground, and have agreed to work it out down here.

The contestants can put their own rules in place, so the same rules don’t always apply, only the consequence of breaking them. The priests are always watching, and if you both agreed to - as a convenient example - stop upon breaking your weapons, you will be stopped without question. Speaking is not exclusively prohibited, but if you signed off that you were not going to do so, then you’d do well to hold your tongue down hard.

Betting is not permitted in this arena, since exposure of identity is inevitable. The price to pay for breaking that regulation is a big one - haha, of course since it’s a big one that means it’s not a monetary price, but it makes a funny play on--

---

“It’s all very funny,” Magnus said, “Fines aren’t effective enough against big offenses?”

Tiamat tapped her lip. “”Hm. It’s not that people enjoy them much, it’s more a matter of them not being able to pay after a certain point.”

“Having them indebted to you, even for the rest of their life, isn’t enough?”

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “How nasty! I suppose that does sound like something you’d do for control. But we have other methods.”

“Such as?”

She turned thoughtful again. “But, ah, you’ve seen the bodies that are often left near our fields?”

Magnus gave her a hollow smile. Of course he had, they both knew everyone had heard of the mauled corpses, the ridiculous newscasters couldn’t shut up about it. Magnus himself, in his position, had been stuck with the disgusting misfortune of having to view a few of them, making sure they weren’t people of importance. The death, especially in such a fashion, of an important person could cost him. Not just him, if the wrong person ended up in the morgue it would cost the entire city.

That solitary name on the Ring schedule. He wondered how Tiamat would take it if he told her.

He eyed that puffy childish mug, smile still plastered in place. She was blinking quickly and beginning to ramble again, inspecting the shoddy gray stone tunnel that lay at the end of the Ring of Justice. It looked more appropriate for trains than for humans.

In the tunnel, there was a string of heavy looking, somewhat volatile orange oil lamps. They were useless, he couldn’t see anything down there, especially from where he was standing. Nothing distinct, anyhow. What he did see was a movement that told him all he needed to know, probably because he’d seen it so often. Yes, there was that lopsided shadow shape, probably in some awful shirt with some truly awful ideas so to how they were going to get out with what they needed.

The awful shape shuffled in and out of the shadow of the tunnel.

For fuck’s sake, Val.

He slowly turned back at Tiamat, she smiled broadly and spilled more bloody nonsense. He thought he might end up in the morgue as well.

"Most personal challenges..."

---

Most personal challenges in the Ring of Justice end peacefully. Rough your buddy up a little bit until you decide to stop, and walk off alive and well. Your shame or your glory is known to everyone, and you know, that takes bravery. Even if you are too cowardly to accept it in your mind, you have to against the majority. I have a lot of respect for those that propose challenges in this arena. Those that end more conclusively - well, I value those even more. In those cases even the winner may have to face the pain for both contestants.

The audience loves it, of course.

But - but! I feel a little silly selling you this since you may never come back and see one for yourself. Even if you come back, the chance of there being a one-on-one on any one day is real low. The Ring wouldn’t be worth its upkeep if that was all we had to put in it.

We also run punishments. We all know - say it with me now - not all crimes are punished equally. That’s because not all crimes are the same. The little ones are easy, money or threats - it’s all good. But the big ones -- you’re fine with pulling them into a debt for life, so I can tell you'll be a fan of the Ring of Justice. You’re not part of the mob, the mass, the majority that we pull together down here. You’re satisfied with a judgment that serves you. Or maybe you aren’t satisfied. Either way, your… commitment to subtlety is commendable.

So the big stuff, what have we got for the offenders? Penalties are executed right here, courtesy of our fine priests. The ones who serve this arena are a little different from those who specialize in the Ring of Light. In a lot of ways, they reflect the contestants. Crowd control versus perfect execution on an individual. There's one staffer in particular who's no good out in the Ring of Light, can't tell one guy from the other, but nobody holds down a struggler, and snap - snap - snap - with precision like he does. It takes all kinds to keep this place going. Rest assured we aren’t uncontrollably beating people to death. We aren’t especially excited about taking lives - you'll see our guy at work today, you'll see his face. It's a job.

But if death is on the schedule, then rest assured it will be done in a controlled manner.

You’ll see soon.

---

Magnus stifled a groan.

"You okay?"

"A little naseous, I gotta say."

“The bathroom is on the lower level only,” Tiamat informed him. “If you feel unwell you should make the trip now, the line is always long. We’re ahead of schedule here, actually. Would you like tea?”

“Yes, I'd like that.”

They sat. Magnus chose a seat facing the tunnel. Tiamat, incidentally, had her back to it.

Troubles were piling up and from what she had just spouted at him, worse was yet to come. He took another long look around the empty arena as a sprinkling of cheers spilled in from the Ring of Light. In the tunnel, the shadow still clung to the entrance, lounging in a moldy corner.

Ahead of schedule, my ass. Get a move on. Find him. You’d better not be snacking down there or - god dammit, he’s definitely eating something. Dammit, dammit--

“What are you looking at?”

She was curling up on the of the chairs again like a innocent schoolgirl, as if she didn’t know better and he were the one who were coming up with all the insane and surely illegal ideas. He took one more exaggerated sweep of the ring and sat down too. Deep breath. Insane ideas.

“I’m surprised how much space there is. Couldn’t tell at the Ring of Light, but when nobody’s here it’s a fairly impressive construct. There being two of them is doubly impressive, when I think about it. Who’s idea was it to set it all up?”

She laughed. “That was some time before I got here, before I even joined. I was surprised too, really.”

"Didn't know it was here?"

"And surprised something like this could resist collapse for more than a few months."

Magnus smiled a little at this. “Ah. So I guess I can’t speak with the architect.”

“I can’t arrange that for you, no.”

“I do still wonder about the reasoning. Don’t worry about it, though, I know initial reasons aren't the point.“

“Might be worth considering, though. Whoever came up with this place to begin with was clearly not an everyman. Relatively faceless though. It’s an interesting combination. To create without being seen, or the somehow push eyes off you. Maybe that was the point back then. This place isn’t so easy to track, is it? He could have been looking to make a place he could hide.”

“Hide? It's a lot to hide.”

“Hey, it worked on you! You've lived here for years, and this is the first time you've visited us.”

“Yeah, but I’m kicking myself for not noticing any of it sooner.”

The tea came. Tiamat poured it out, and as he sipped Magnus gratefully took the opportunity to frantically dredge up more to say. And he got lucky.

“It does look a bit dated, sure, it’s still standing, but some wood could use replacing... If you did need any sort of, say, renovation work done, you know where to look.”

"I don't know if I can get that sort of clearance."

"There's a lot of potential in places like these, if given a chance..."

She laughed and then her eyes grew still. “I know. There’s a third Ring.”

“These chairs must have been from the first generation too. Not too safe, but the mood… I could construct some nice replacements, and here’s an idea, I buy the old ones off you, make them into a wall-sized pallets, can hang them in the lobby-”

“How about you just buy the whole place?”

Magnus blinked. “I can buy both of them?”

“I’m talking about the third Ring.” His disinterest seemed to aggravate her.

“I’m sorry, there’s a third? I don’t-”

“It’s in another location.”

“I don’t know about buying something I haven’t seen yet. Pitch this one to me too.” There was his time-killer.

Tiamat stared him down. “The Ring of Love,” she said seriously, “Is the oldest of the Rings. It’s not currently in use, but that means you can do what you want with it. It's unlikely that anyone will stop you.”

“Ah, heritage protesters, old owners and the like? I don't know if I want to be dodging around them.”

“It's not like that. And surely you’d find some use for it.” She scratched her cheek. “What?”

“You were on fire talking me through the other Rings, I’m curious why this one’s so different. I’m actually very curious. The name itself is a little… on the nose.”

“Another whim of the architect.”

“But Love? What do you do, hold weddings where the happy couple punch each other out? Ring of Light - we got lighthearted fistfights. Justice - the definitive matches and you’re also carrying out those executions. But-”

On cue, the gate at the center of the figure 8 opened as the Ring of Light’s latest event drew to a close. The crowd began to pull into the Ring of Justice for the arena’s single match. What would happen? Who was the favorite to win this round?

No, from what Tiamat had told him, there wouldn't be betting. And there was only one name on the roster so Magnus knew it wasn’t a mutual agreement between two violent lunatics. Lunatics they might all be, but it definitely hadn’t been an agreement. This was a one-man punishment.

Tiamat seemed torn on whether to redouble dramatic efforts for her pitch, or insist on stopping to watch. In occurred to Magnus that they were a lot alike. They had once both been marketers of a kind. Pretty convincing, or at least, convincing enough to each other. And maybe, despite her pitch, she wasn’t exactly keen on watching someone get executed by one of those scar-laden, lumbering monsters.

And he wasn’t too thrilled with the prospect of her turning around to see his shadow agent crawling into the tunnel at last.

For what it was worth, the audience seemed excited. They were mumbling. Magnus found himself disgusted yet impressed by this faceless mass of savages. They put him in the mind of an audience about to see a movie, and not some sort of morose drama, but a superhero action flick. Hope they don’t mess up the action scene. I’m here to see a good beatdown. I hear someone dies in this one.

And speaking of savages, what of those priests? Looking around, he saw the giant with the broom enter from the Ring of Light on the floor below, followed by three cronies. In the Ring of Justice, an overseer who might have been a woman with huge shoulder pads (he hoped they were shoulder pads) had materialized, and was checking a clipboard. She continued to inspect the clipboard as the mopey bandaged man from the Ring of Light wandered by. She motioned to him, and they disappeared into the tunnel. Magnus held his breath, but it appeared the priests had gotten to where they needed to be without fuss. That, or they were attacked further in.

He drew a breath and eased himself. Nobody seemed to spot anything amiss.

There were at least three priests on the upper deck now, including Tiamat’s two guards, though all were watching the Ring. The tunnel had everyone's attention but had not elicited any concerns yet. If he had his way, nobody would be looking in that direction at all. But he couldn't stop everyone.

“Tiamat.”

“Hm?”

“I’m interested in that Ring of Love of yours.”

What a fucking name.

“Looks like we have some time, maybe you could sign the thing over to me before it’s done? I’m not...” He turned to his feet. “Aw, you know I’m not really into this kind of thing. Let’s not lie here. I don’t take to violence, it’s just lifelong debts and labor contracts for me. So if I have to leave early, I’d like to get this purchase out of the way.”

“I didn’t even tell you the price.”

There was a bustling from the stands nearest to the tunnel. They waited a few fragile seconds that came to nothing.

“Price isn’t an issue.” He hoped his hasty shuffling looked more like desperation to close this deal rather than desperation to get her away from the Ring when it happened. A few guards looked in their direction. Good. Even if one of them had a face like raw sausages.

Tiamat looked at the rising dust of the arena and sighed.

“We'll sign this off real quick.”

“Of course.”

---

“Are you alright?” Castor asked as Patches passed by. “Looking a bit out of it.”

So his lack of rest was obvious to her. That didn’t necessarily mean much, Castor was one of the more observant of the priests. That was useful during the most extreme of the personal challenges. Though two people were much easier to keep track of than 30, Patches could not guess when someone was going to go too far within their next step, as they often did without the usual Ring of Light regulations.

Apparently, Castor could spot such intent. If someone was going to for an illicit stab or neck blow or kick to the crotch, she would move a second before the culprit did. But miracles only went so far, Patches knew how difficult it was to halt a crime with precision, especially when they were moving so fast most didn’t see it at all. So she often just went for a flying tackle. It had been a combination of flying tackle and Ferris’s oversize grip that had restrained today’s offender. Unfortunately, not before he had claimed several lives.

And so he had to be punished.

Castor was also one of the only among them who staffed both the arena on days like these, and the chapel when days were better. She could have legitimately sat in the confessional, though Patches had never seen her there.

“I didn’t rest much today,” he admitted.

She just nodded. Patches turned towards the black, windy void that loomed above and beyond them.

“I saw someone I knew upstairs," he said.

Where did that come from? He had just felt the need to say it. And it wasn’t even true.

“Your brother?”

And where had that come from?

“I don’t have a brother.”

Castor looked up from the menu of the day. “Lazlo came by saying he saw your brother, or someone who looked a whole lot like he could be. Cousin, maybe.”

“I don’t have any cousins, either.”

“Alright. Just a weird coincidence then. Guy spends too much time looking at the audience.”

“He does his job well, though.”

“Hm.” Evidently not willing to waste energy debating Lazlo's career moves, Castor put the clipboard under her arm and headed for the tunnel. “Come on. Time to bring out our contestant of the day. It’s a short but complicated routine for this one, be careful with the hands. But I trust you’ll handle it as you always do. Here you go.” She handed him the clipboard.

He looked down at the sheet and a coolness shot through his nerves. There was nothing unexpected on the sheet, but it had been a long time.

It had been a long time since Patches had been given any specific duties, but then, high-level punishments had gotten rare. He imagined the long wait between executions were what was making him so tense in this particular occasion. As soon as he entered the darkness of the tunnel, he thought he could feel and hear that nearby, pricking breath, pushing against his face, re-warming his blood. Another familiar thing that had returned.

---

Mr. U. Verd was having a terrible week. He was sitting in a stone-walled room that both smelled and looked like it was coated in mildew, with a frail white lamp that left every grimy edge looking as miserably dirty as possible. At this point, he almost could feel the black mold encroaching on the edges of his vision, setting down a permanent black stain. He was seated on a chair that seemed constantly on the verge of collapse. He was not longer being restrained. Still, he knew better than to make any sudden moves.

He had little idea of what was going on, but knew he was in major trouble.

It had only been a few days since his arrival. He had come in on that rickety train only to be confronted by a biker gang, who bundled him into their leader’s motorcycle and delivered him to a towering cement-block building at the opposite end of the city. There he had dined with Magnus Long, and been given the clear to start the citywide assessment which he was now absolutely certain deserved a large rubber stamp reading FAILURE.

He’d relish the opportunity to do so, if he managed to get out of here.

As a professional, he had to acknowledge the possibility that there was more to see outside this underground pit. But as a self-respecting human being, at the basest level, he couldn’t see past it. They weren’t really letting him see anything else.

It felt very much like a trap; the central Church had been impossible to ignore (yet somehow, Magnus had managed not to mention it at all during his introduction -- he mentioned all four of his own outlandish towers though.) Upon arriving, there was clearly something wrong with the whole setup - not a light on in the house, but a massive rumbling from down below.

He traveled down the steps and a large, unlit tunnel lined with the same round stones as the walls facing him now, and there he was, among a raucous crowd and the Ring, as they called it (and when he arrived, it was empty.)

A hysterical woman who was dressed for a funeral, but certainly not in the mood for it, approached him and fed him a waterfall of zealous chatter. It sounded much like a demented advertising pitch. When she grabbed his arm he made a point to pull away as fast as possible. Into the larger crowd gathered behind a wooden gate.

These people readily made space for him, but had nothing to say. They were agitated, bouncing on their heels or cracking their knuckles. None of them responded to his questions. Then the enormous smirking giant swept up overhead and smashed a bell against the nearest fence, and off they went like livestock towards the inevitable.

The dust storm was overwhelming, as were the sounds and the vicious tiny eyes of the audience. There was only a brief moment to breathe as the group, for some inexplicable reason, spread themselves out as if readying for a football game. This was when he reached his hand into his jacket, and the mannish looking woman standing cross-armed by the gate took notice.

He thought for a moment that she might have recognized him (but how could she?) or what he was doing here (really?) and began to approach her - but didn’t make it. What came next was the explosive rush of bodies at each other, and someone caught his jaw with a fist - he wasn’t sure if the first hit had been on purpose - and out came the firearm.

In his defense, he had waited a good few seconds to see if someone heard his frantic yelps for an explanation. But then two and then three of the combatants had gone at him, and blinded by the flying dust, he twitched and fired. He didn’t hit any of the five attackers, but someone in the audience. And nobody noticed, at first, as far as he could see - but he couldn’t see far. In the sandpit, they continued with their beatdown. He would have fallen, but in the next few seconds he hit two of the men in front of him.

Finally, a bit of visibility. But all he could see was a man in black heading his way.

So, off went another bullet.

At this, everyone took notice. The attackers in front of him turned to look, turned back, and then drew away slowly. His hand, which had been shaking and swinging in desperation moments before, lowered and steadied his aim. He probably should have just dropped it.

This was when the woman by the gate launched, smashed into him like a torpedo, and he pulled a shot that hit the dirt. Before he could raise his hand again (or perhaps, maybe he could have just dropped the infernal thing) a almost inhumanly large hand wrapped around his (and his wrist and part of his forearm) and yanked every bit more or less out of place. The gun fell to the sand and so did Verd, cradling his hand.

Unconcerned for him, the man and woman in black, grim faced, turned towards the panicked crowd, and another dark coated figure, whose face he didn’t see, began dragging him towards the gate he had come from, through the parting crowds, and through another bed of dust to another tunnel. He was tossed into this room where he had remained for at least two days, according to his phone, which was running out of juice fast.

The room had been made to house humans, but not in a particularly hospitable fashion. He had a mattress and a table, and of course his chair. He was free to turn the lights on and off. There were no windows, and twice a day, one of the priests came in to offer him food. He had not been revisited by the two who had knocked him down.

Today, there seemed to be a lot of noise. Or more likely, the noise had moved closer to his cell. That was not the only thing that stood out. He had been visited twice already, in a timespan that felt like less than a day. The second visit had not been food-related. A few of the overseers in black coats had entered at once, and he noted two of them had white tabs in their collars, like priests. A un-collared man with a scarred face had asked, “Is there anything you need?”

He attempted again to state his identity and the consequences of their actions.

They gave a collective shrug and left. As he closed the door, the man with the scarred face murmured, “If you think of anything, just call. Someone will be here. You have… hm. Six hours.”

Of all the unusual happenings, the words were what worried him most.

Verd checked his phone again. It was government issue, so there was little entertainment to be gained. He wished he had the photos of his personal handset, picture of the puppy, kids, home. The permanent blank background of his work phone made his eyes sting.

He rubbed his face. Either the lamp or his phone flickered. He rubbed his eyes again. When he opened them again, both the lamp and phone had gone dead.

A stunning stroke of bad luck, was what he thought. Then there was that wet, mouthy chewing noise. He stood up so quick the chair fell. The slap of tongue and gums, stomach-turning even in the most hospitable of locations, drew the morning's breakfast old bread up from his stomach. The noise approached his right ear, then stopped.

In the total darkness, he heard a mouthful of something rasp, husky and damp, “You’re a lucky guy.”

---

The door was open. The contestant was missing.

Castor leapt to the entranceway before Patches even noticed anything was out of place, but it was far too late even for her reflexes.

Castor and Patches had never been the most talkative of the priests, but they were truly speechless. Without a word, They entered the room, Castor walking in mechanical rows until reaching the back wall, Patches combing the area around the door, first on the inside of the room, then the outside. He look down at the ever present darkness of the tunnel.

The misty shadows looked back, pulsing with that same, dark breath he had felt before. Something alive...

More than one thing. There was a thud. A definite impact had occurred somewhere down the darkened path. Patches knew he had heard it, because Castor materialized instantly at the doorway. Then a grunt and a feeble cry, “I knew it! Why did you wait around? Let’s go, let’s go--”

Simultaneously, Patches and Castor hurtled towards the sound.

The voice kept on screaming and whining pathetically. “Why did we stay? Why did we stay?” Even by past prisoner standards, that didn’t make much sense to Patches. They often became anxious, but he’d never heard them say that. But then, none had managed to escape either.

Somewhere down the line, Patches slowed a bit and tripped over Lazlo, who was crouched on the ground. He smelled blood. More than your usual scratch or cut. He saw the edge of something thin and metallic, about foot long - that was something that rarely happened anymore. Lazlo had been stabbed. Patches slowly rose to his feet.

“Got my leg with something,” Lazlo grunted. “He’s armed, careful. I’ll join you in a second.”

Patches tried to formulate something to say but now he heard Castor’s voice echoing down the cavern. He ran ahead and nearly tripped on another body. It felt like the tunnel had gotten darker, because he couldn’t see a single hair on this person. So he did what felt practiced, he took a swipe around the collar area of a fallen man and picked something up, swung it like a ragdoll.

“Aaah!” The figure he’d lifted up was shaking furiously and he felt the confused fists taking terrified, impotent swings in his general direction. Harmless, though.

He slammed his victim against the wall and those flailing arms went to protect the throat. Patches cleared his throat.“Lazlo said he's armed, Cas-”

“Not that one!”

An unusual outburst from her, but Patches soon understood why. A sharp burning sensation dug into the forearm he was using to hold up his struggling hostage. Someone was behind him. His elbow stung, rapidly growing numb. A strange warmth spread over his arm. He wondered if it would fall off. Experimentally, he tightened his grip and dug his fist further into the wall. He was still whole. So it wasn't good enough. And he said something that he had never thought to tell anyone before.

“Try again.”

There was a weight on his shoulder that spread to his back, the shadow was right on top of him now. It was real. Breathing on his neck, and with every breath the weight on him grew and retracted just slightly, pressing against his ear. Of course. It wasn’t a shadow, it was a person. He wasn’t seeing much now, but there was the sound of metal that immediately brought the mind the blade of a large knife.

He closed his eyes, since they weren’t being much use anyway.

“WHY DIDN’T WE RUN FROM THE START!” screamed his captive.

Perched on his shoulder, there were really no surprising moves for this attacker to make. He felt the overindulgent lift and windup, and immediately, as the next blade came for him, he let the gasping throat go (to do more screaming) and with his other, loosely coiled hand, drove straight through his attacker's knife-carrying hand, blowing the arm back. He continued his swing and caught with his palm the vulnerable temple right beside his attacker's ear.

There was a soft groan, and the body dropped just slightly, but didn’t fall. Patches now became acutely aware of the clammy hand at his neck, clawing and grasping to his throat for support - an attempt to pull them both to the ground. But it wasn't good enough. Another hard hit would take this thing down.

His neck felt hot. He wondered if there might have been a third attacker, as he could almost still feel that breath on his face...

He should have realized, imagination never did him any good. He pondered for no more than a second but that was enough for the knife to come back and bury itself in his shoulder. This time it pierced his focus, if only because of the combined pressure on his neck and back. He staggered, and the weight lifted. Then, for good measure, another burst of pain started spreading from his back. The sensation lasted far longer than he would have thought. By the third shock a cloud of white began lighting his vision, and he realized this person wasn’t gone yet.

But as usual, he wasn't particuarly upset. It was almost impressive.

His decision was made for him when the runaway contestant began yelling again, “She’s here, and he’s up! I’m going!” And Castor came barrelling in. The attacker backed away. Lazlo took him from the other side and sent the knife flying to the opposite wall. The invaders slithered off.

What followed was a bit of a hazy mess to Patches, but he recalled following Castor and Lazlo down the hall, all three limping, to the end. By then the attacker and the contestant - well, ex-contestant - had long cleared the stairs and thrown open the back door and escaped.

Outside, the sun had set. He was confused. Castor was yelling, uncharacteristically, again. Lazlo, in comparison, was unexpectedly quiet but was muttering, equally agitated. Among the strange cacophony, he heard the roar of engines and saw several large motorbikes scatter in all directions across the green. The quickly dissolved into the city, only their rear light trails remained in his vision, speeding red stars that disappeared around the corners of surrounding buildings.

Patches sat down on the pearly white steps between Lazlo and Castor. The knife in his shoulder sagged and itched. He couldn’t remember if it was right to pull it out, and by some strange whim he thought it was welcome to stay. It would be so sad to pick out a perfectly good knife and throw it somewhere to rust. He lightly touched his fingertips to the handle of the one in his shoulder. Still warm as the hand that held it. Though, his whole being felt hot so who knew what the truth was.

The sky had cleared a little, the clouds falling back as the cool autumn night rolled in. The morass of painted colors, tears and edges of clouds, the expanse of incoming twilight - it too much to too consider. He closed his eyes and gazed at the dirt. And there was that notion again, Somehow this reminds me of when I was young…

---

Land contract in front of him, Magnus ran his glazed eyes over the same line a few dozen more times. He had actually finished reading what must have been record time for a one-page document, but he was going to take all the extra time he was allowed. He sneaked quick looks around the office, but there was nothing in particular to see. Now that he considered it, the entire construct of the Rings was very minimalist - and not just budget-wise. The most interesting thing about it was how slapdash it was, and the thrill that anything might fall apart at any second. The management office was similarly thrown together but everything was in cardboard boxes with years on them, and besides that there was only an annoyingly modern plastic desk and swivel chair.

Tiamat’s mind was also wandering. She was patiently giving him time, so that was good sign. He was giving her time too.

They were listening.

Fittingly enough, there seemed to be absolutely nothing of significance going on outside. That was, potentially, also a good sign. Knowing the crowd, if there was a thrilling beatdown about to begin, he’d hear something. And knowing the executioners, he might be hearing the thumping and screams of the beatdown itself. But there was nothing, just the same low hum of anticipation that had been present before he came in to entertain this ridiculous deal.

“Strange that they haven’t started yet,” she said.

“How do you know when they’ve started?”

She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “The noise?”

“Oh - yeah, it is pretty quiet. I didn’t notice.” He rustled the sheets in front of him. “When I’m really running through one of these, I try to block everything out.”

“Strange choice for someone like you.”

“I can’t help it. I don’t usually have to rush.”

“Oh, no worries.”

He thought to reach into his jacket, but instead slowly patted the outside of his pockets down. A pair of beady insect eyes in a scarred meaty face peered into the office through gap in the curtain. “Sorry for taking up your time. Probably a good thing that the uh, match is taking it’s time to start.”

She smiled but the babyfaced mask had cracked a little. She looked more suited to stand among the other priests with a face like that.

Still scanning his pockets, Magnus felt the envelope and photograph he had planned to show her. It could have been that easy, in a normal world, but here he was playing money games and falsely groping himself for a pen because he thought a bunch of animals masquerading as priests were going to break his neck.

Magnus was feeling peak idiotic regret when the noise outside started to intensify. Tiamat’s eyes snapped to the window, which was still covered from their first meeting. He would bet that she was feeling regrets of her own.

“Oh man,” Magnus said.

Her eyes could have seared flesh. “Would you like to resume this later?”

The mob of voices swelled from beyond the door. Tiamat stood up. Magnus remained where he was, which was distinctly in the way. The room as not particularly well laid-out. “I was just about to close this, but-” he held out his hands.

Looking for a pen in that room could easily take another few minutes. He beamed at her.

“Magnus, that’s sweet, but I think you should take some time to decide.”

“No, this sounds fine to me.”

“You don’t have any more questions?”

“Oh, if you want to be thorough-”

“Why don’t you note them down and we can discuss this in depth later.”

“Okay, it’s nothing major. I’ll just sign this off now, if only I had a pen…”

Her arms were crossed, she wasn’t about to go looking. And that was when he noticed her own hands were headed for her own unseen pockets. He looked back at the sheet on the table. The near-illegible proclamations and tiny handwritten numbers. They were, most definitely, tiny. The Church must not have wanted this place much. But they also didn’t expect anyone else to.

Magnus put his hand in his pocket. At the same time, the door cracked open and the noise began to rush in like water. Tiamat began to draw something out, but Magnus was faster. She was reacting to a rare emergency, but here was something he did every day.

His wallet hit the light and flopped open. Sausage-face and Tiamat both froze as if he had whipped out a rifle.

---

They left after a few minutes, and by then, any going-ons had de-escalated. Or maybe they had gone so far that the plans had all just been voided, leaving no known options to proceed with but what they had been doing all along. Tiamat stopped and frowned as she opened the door for Magnus and peered out. He didn’t need her to say anything. It was definitely too quiet.

“Did we miss it?”

She walked slowly to the rail and leaned over.

“Be careful.”

“Oh, we missed something.”

Her voice was back to that lilting childish tempo. She didn’t sound upset, which was the most unnatural part of it all. Magnus leaned against the window of the office. “How long does it take to prepare these things, usually?”

She swiveled as if on a pin. “There seems to be a scheduling mishap. You can go.”

“But I didn’t get to see the Ring in action.”

“Don’t worry about that. Maybe next time we’ll all be more prepared.” She smiled and tilted her head again, rolling her large round eyes towards the door they had come from. “You’ll have reason to come back again, anyway. Don’t forget your papers.”

“Ah, right.”

She remained staring down the untouched sand in the Ring of Justice as he collected what he could and stowed them away. “You sure I shouldn’t just hang around a little longer?”

She no longer bothered to turn around but simply waved him off. It was almost an invitation to keep up the song and dance, but then, there were the ever present black coats, who did not look capable of such frivolity. So he smiled at the back of her head and gave his best diplomatic nod to anyone watching, and headed for the tunnel back at the Ring of Light, which had mostly cleared out in favor of the (cancelled) Ring of Justice lineup.

Opposite to the tunnel he had left, the injured priests finally returned from their botched mission. Their blood trickled to the floor, no doubt burning with the hundreds of eyes tearing into them. Even with Magnus gone, Tiamat did not look duly concerned. She felt somewhat relaxed, it was like looking into a fireplace. All parts moving, not quite alive but not dead. Didn’t that really describe all of the staff, though?

She sometimes felt sorry for them. “We’re not especially interested death,” well that was true. And then “we’re here for the fun,” that was true too, for those people for whom Magnus couldn’t hide his disgust. But then, didn’t that make this a good opportunity?

The fire went out, the noise surged skyward to replace it. She sighed and requested some of her favorite tea.