The leader of the bikers, who all his professed employees called 'Uriel', had told Patches that many people resembled him. It was something he hadn't ever needed to consider, but now that he was out looking for a person of that description, it was an agonizing truth he couldn't believe he had missed.

In any case, there was no purpose in looking for the man who looked like his brother, so Patches was ready to close that line of investigation.

This still left two more leads, Magnus and Val. Val was the goal, but there were no crumbs to get him started on that trail, from Uriel he'd heard nothing but deterrents. With Magnus, there were the towers.

He was headed to Dragon Tower, located in the eastern quarter of the city, ringed by shiny corporate blocks and number of large gated estates with massive sprawling gardens and hedges cut to look like birds and skirts.

The streets were bustling in comparison to the ghost town where he had confronted Uriel. At some points it was as crowded as the Ring of Light on a busy day, but his movement was hardly hindered. The smartly dressed crowd gave him a wide berth - nearly the entire sidewalk's worth of space. He checked his bandage was still in place, and it was. He couldn’t imagine what the problem was.

Being left alone was absolutely fine, under normal circumstances. Quiet and empty walls were the closest thing he had to a preference. But Patches wasn’t sure how to get to the Dragon Tower. He saw it, naturally, and it was tall enough to always be visible no matter where he stood. It would be simple enough to just face it and walk straight. But the buildings in this district were so massive and clustered, the the gardens so far extended and gated, that behind every crossing there was something that diverted him several blocks off. And being avoided - almost magnetically repelling anyone he walked towards - made him wonder if it was a mistake to ask for directions.

The crowd seemed to be playing some unexpected game - they would look at him, but if he started to move in their direction or glance at them, they would change course, and quickly. Never a mad dash in the opposite direction, or any clear sign of terror or disgust, they would simply change their angle so they no longer looked at him, and speed off with great purpose.

Running at them or shouting from the street were not particularly enticing options. Patches turned another corner and came to a small pitstop in the gap of a 3-storey U-shaped building. There were cars parked on every inch of sidewalk. In the middle of the compound, there was a single skeletal tree and a bench.

Patches picked an empty gum wrapper off the bench and wondered if the church visitor had properly disposed of his own food wrappers after leaving. Did the chapel had trash cans? It mostly likely did. The courtyard of this apartment, however, did not have such luxuries. Patches put the wrapper in his pocket. Shortly after, he heard a crash.

A slick black shape had jumped from either a window or roof and dropped his full weight onto a parked car, without setting off any alarm. The shape was dressed in black with a schoolbook-size backpack, and had evidently landed on his feet, crouched like a cat.

“I’m here,” he said.

Patches surveyed the area slowly and saw nobody. He was the target. ”You’re talking to me?”

“Yes, you. Uriel said yesterday, you were looking for me.” He hopped off the car and onto the sidewalk with unexpected lightness, and a few trapped leaves escaped from his hair and the folds of fabric. “He said, guy that looks like you, and then he said what you looked like and I knew it.”

“I spoke to him yesterday. But he told me he wasn’t sure...”

“Well he just told me, and I knew. Then he said who else you were looking for, and I knew you would be here. Around here. And you were easy to find, because I know you. You have… that face. I know that face.”

“We’ve met?”

“Yeah, yeah, at the funeral, you remember-” Here the man in black made a violent motion that looked a lot like a baseball batter taking a swing. Baseball combined with funeral seemed like an event Patches would remember if he had been there, but he recalled nothing of the kind.

“I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten.”

“Oh. Okay. You must do a lot of funerals. How about this?”

The man repeated his batter’s swing, but followed it with a handless somersault. Patches took a tentative step back and Ritz looked disappointed as he landed lightly on his feet. A shower of leaves were loosed from his hair and clothing. He kicked them away.

“Do you watch TV? My family was, you know. Famous.”

“Oh. That was a good jump… so, TV? maybe. What kind of shows were you on?”

They both frowned.

The man in black shrugged. “I guess that means you don’t know. Okay. I understand, since you just see me, maybe you can't tell. I never got to be on the shows.”

Patches was baffled. The strange performer shook himself out and smoothed his hair back. ”I’m Ritz.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m-”

“You’re Patch, I know.”

“Patches.”

“I heard your friend say your name at the funeral. He also thought I was your brother. Or cousin. So when Uriel said it, that’s what I thought of, and I knew you were looking for me.”

As if it had just come out in friendly conversation. This was not the sort of person Patches immediately associated with the sweating, shifting Uriel, but here he was, by a stroke of luck. Ritz even seemed excited that someone had wanted to meet him. Patches smiled courteously.

“I’m glad to meet you, then.”

“Yeah. I mean, it is good. What did you want to tell me?” Ritz asked.

“I wanted to know if you were at the church earlier this week.”

“Yes. More than once. I went to watch the fights and then I went to help a friend do a task.”

Unlike his friend, Ritz was proud to claim he'd been there.

Patches touched the wrapper in his pocket. “Two days ago. Was that when you went to watch the fight?”

“Hm… Yes. Yes, you’re right. Yesterday was a good day, and that’s when I met my friend. And the day before that, I watched the fight. Okay. It was more like a lot of fights. It was my first time visiting, they had a lot of people in a bit sandy thing, and then-”

“I know. I work there. You only watched, then.”

“Yeah. I was going to join, but I couldn’t tell where to go and I couldn’t read the rules fast enough. I’ll try if I go again. I think I understand the rules, anyway. No talking? Listen to me now. I almost don’t know what I’m saying. So no talking, that’s a good thing.”

He had a touching enthusiasm that Patches had never really encountered in a contestant. But then, he had never had natural conversations with the contestants, nor had he ever tracked one down outside the Rings. “I’m sure they’ll be glad to have you.”

Ritz took a seat on the bench. There was a metallic clank from his backpack and Patches’s smile faded a little. He sat at the other end of the bench and asked Ritz, “Did you see the end of the event?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t read what was supposed to happen. All the watchers moved to the other Ring and then waited a long time. When something happened, they all ran up to the front and I couldn’t see anything, but it didn’t sound like a fight. Then my boss called and I went upstairs.”

He had been there when Patches, Castor and Lazlo exited the tunnel. Patches was faintly relieved on Ritz’s behalf. “Okay. That helps.”

“I don’t feel like I said enough. Are you joking?”

“No. It helps a lot. That was the end of the event. I just wanted to know if you were there.”

“So that’s all?” Ritz was clearly disappointed.

Patches looked up at the cloudless sky. There was just one structure visible over the edge of the U-shaped building they were standing next to. “Would you tell me how to get to that building?”

“Dragon Tower? Everyone knows how to get there.”

“Well. I don’t.”

“No, no, I mean... to say... you could ask anyone. Anyone from around here. People in the suits, you know, the black and white or the really skinny dresses - almost all of them work there, so they know.”

Ritz's eyes shone. He was genuinely confused. Patches grated a fallen leaf under his shoe to into strips. “It’s strange. I approached some of them but they avoided me. Walked to the other side of the street or onto the road. Is that normal?”

“No. But- oh, I know why. You’re a priest. People don’t want to get into trouble.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A lot of things come out of the church. Bodies, crime, blood - radio stuff. I know why now, it’s the Ring, so those guys know what will happen to them. But I didn’t before, and everyone told me to just avoid you guys, the black coats. And lots of people don’t even care why, they don’t watch the fights, and they are not people who want to watch fights. All they know is the priests are dangerous. You do look like you could hurt someone.”

There were echoes of what the stranger in the confessional had told him.

“I’m not going to hurt them.”

“You know that, but all of them don’t.”

“Should I tell them I’m not a priest?”

“No, because what then - you say you just dress like one? Oh, maybe you could just wear - ah - not the coat.”

They both considered Patches’s dust-laden coat.

“That’s what makes the priests stick out. A big dark spot, easy to see. You could just wear a white shirt, and nobody would know.”

“I see.” Patches wondered if his white shirts were still presentable. “That’s reasonable. But you weren’t avoiding me.”

“Yeah, because I was looking for you.” Ritz took one look at him and snorted. “And I see worse shit. I work for Magnus Long.”

Patches was not sure what Ritz was trying to imply about his work, but there was the (suspected) name of the church’s rich benefactor. “I want to meet Mr. Long, but I’ve been told it’s hard to get an appointment.”

“Oh, yeah. He’s busy. I know he has some time, but he also doesn’t like meeting people. And you know, I bet he’s afraid of the priests too.” Ritz flipped his hair again and yet more tiny green leaves flew out. “Why do you need to meet him?”

“He might know something about an accident at the church.”

“A bad accident? Is that how you got-” Ritz gestured at his own right shoulder and then threw a thumb over to his back. “A hurt back? And your arm? No - it's the upper part, right? I heard people talk about blood when I was at the last event. 'I see blood!' they said. But they said it every match, so-”

“No, no. Your guess is right. My shoulder - how did you know?”

“I told you. I know all kind of shit, I used to fight, and not in the Ring. Things like that used to happen to me too, if I was lucky I could make it happen to someone else. So now I can see where someone is weak, usually. Helps if you need to...” He mimed the batting stance again.

Patches was beginning to think Ritz might make a good priest, or an imminently bannable contestant.

Ritz finished his performance. “Okay, then. Magnus helped me with my challenges, I know he’ll help with yours if I tell him about it. I know he has time. He's just a lazy... lazy fuck.”

Patches couldn't imagine himself saying the same about his organizers. Ritz seemed unsure of what he'd said himself. They both stared at the tree for a few minutes.

"He'll listen," Ritz said.

“Thank you very much.”

Ritz nodded proudly. “I have to see him later, so we can’t just run over and knock his door down right now. Um, go tomorrow morning, if it worked, he will let you in. I don’t know if he’s there right now, anyway. I have work to do today. And I’m meeting a friend.”

“Sounds good. Don’t let me keep you waiting.”

“I’m not waiting. I still need to each lunch, and here’s a nice place.” Ritz pulled off his backpack and slouched back in his seat. From the bag he pulled out a few small spades and some long thin tools bundled together in a towel. Some long shears and a smaller pair of scissors. Gardening equipment. Then he dragged free an abused sandwich bag with a squashed squares of white bread in it. Unlike the visitor in the confessional, Ritz's sandwich appeared to only contain lettuce.

“Do you want one? It’s not a good sandwich.”

Unsure again of the implication, Patches refused. Ritz sped through his lunch with hardly a sound or crumb out of line. Patches had not previously felt to need to pay attention to how people ate. Not in a long time, that is.

“Do you know a man called Val?”

Ritz finished a bite. “Yes.”

There was no elaboration. Patches wasn’t exactly sure what to ask either. “Where can I find him?”

“You’re looking for some hard people to find. You have big plans? I know Val pretty well, but I don’t know where he is, ever.”

“Okay. I heard he was hard find from Uriel.” Somehow, he couldn’t let it drop. ”You've met him recently? What’s he like?”

“What’s Val like? Do you know him?” Ritz crumpled the bag up. “He’s kind of crazy. Not all the time, and I know he talks better than me, but I think I make more sense than him. Even Uriel talks more sense. And he’s always -what would you call it- disappearing, and always asks me do the stupidest things. Pretending he has a plan, but I think he’s just wasting time. He's helped me before, but he has wasted so much, so so much time. Oh! He was the one I met yesterday. At the church.”

Patches was stricken. One of the few days he had actually left the church, Val had been in. But - on the books - the place would have been empty all day.

“What was he doing there?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see him when I got there, but I was supposed to, uh…”

Ritz abruptly stood and scooped his tools into his bag. He prepared to leave, sandwich still in hand.

Patches got up at the same time and blocked his path. He tried to make it look an accidental, even friendly gesture, but evidently failed. Ritz’s eyes narrowed instantly and he fell into an odd stance, bent very subtly, knees loose but everything about him bristled. The hand around his shoulder strap just loose enough to move. He took one, almost unmissable glance at Patches’s injured shoulder. Dead accurate about the location. This was most definitely a dangerous contestant. One with a lot of connections that Patches needed, too.

Patches locked his teeth and stepped back. “Sorry. Reflex.”

"What?" Ritz slouched and waved him off. “Okay. Almost scared me. But I have to go.”

“What were you doing at the church?”

Ritz no longer had to answer, he had already darted halfway down the street. But he stopped. “Don’t get mad.”

A surprising thing to say after just warding off danger of his own accord.

“I had to tie something around the box at the corner of the main room. Just one door, to stop it from opening.”

He paused to form the next part carefully.

“I was real fast, real quiet and nobody saw me, but Val told me later the door broke because of the rope. It wasn’t like that when I finished so, uh, don't ask me about that. I don’t know why he even told me to do it. It’s the same as always. He’s wasting time. I think.”

Ritz pulled the bag up on his shoulder and walked, jogged, and finally broke into a sprint, down the street. Patches took one step after him, and wasn’t sure if Ritz saw him do so or not, but it didn’t matter. The speeding black streak, garden tools and all, pitched himself onto one of the cars, grasped onto an outcropping on the nearest building, and began hauling himself up. Windowsill by windowsill, moving to the column of air conditioning units, he scrambled like a monkey. Then he hurdled over the top of the building and disappeared.

Patches, slow as a snail with a mind to match, took his time to reach the same block and looked up in wonder, of what he had heard and then Ritz’s strange leap over the building. Then he found himself in a nearby bakery, bought a sandwich, and stared at the wall until the wonder subsided. Then there was nothing but himself to think of, eating a sandwich. He made a lot of noises and the noises he made seemed very dull.

---

Another dream. That seemed the most reasonable explanation. The fact that he remembered it so clearly was the most dubious part of the whole thing.

It barely qualified as a dream to begin with. He was in the confessional, which was hardly unusual. He knew the weather outside had started to take a turn for the worse, but since it had been so good for the past two days, this only meant that it was slightly cloudy, a bit muggy, and would still not be dropping any rain. In other words, un-interestingly mediocre.

The booth was dark, the walls were warm and still. He had the bandage off and was looking, eyelids drooping, into the bottom edge of the doorframe. Not tired, but not quite awake. The familiar state of nothing. His body was air.

After a few moments of silence, he picked up the sound of breathing in the booth beside him. And at this point, he had been fully expecting it.

So far, nothing outrageous.

“Not surprised today, huh.”

The voice was familiar, but slightly warped, like a reflection in water. Patches realized it was because the speaker had been muffled by food the last time they spoke. He took in the clearer, truer sound. It was not a deep voice, but there was something low about it, something that pulled.

Patches rubbed his eyes. “No. I thought someone would be here. And it’s you again.”

“So you remember me. Not that there’s much remember, I’ll bet.”

“Are you here to eat?”

“No.” A moment of silence. Then, “So why are you here? You’re here all the time.”

“From what you said yesterday, it sounded like you knew the reason,” Patches said.

“I said a lot of things yesterday.”

“It’s quiet, it’s dark, the walls are wood and there’s nothing else. It’s simple, kind of reminds me of where I grew up. There’s nothing big or loud or moving. It's just... nothing.”

“So you want nothing? That’s not as simple as you think. Everyone wants something.”

“Not everyone,” Patches said, proudly. Or painfully.

The returned visitor thought about this. “Are you sure? Isn’t there anything you don’t have, or no longer have? Something you like, and wouldn’t mind more of? Like your favorite animal. Or magazines, or a place or time of day. Or food.” The voice turned damp. “Do you hate anything, wish it were gone? Do you still have the impulse in you somewhere to put the world right, and to take from something that doesn’t deserve what it gets?”

The words were obviously meant to be getting harsher, but the more primitive the sound, the more easily they bounced off him. All contestants were ferocious. He washed them out easily. There was something soothing about this background static.

"Nobody should be like you," the voice said.

He finally answered, “There’s someone I’m looking for.”

“Oh.”

“Someone I knew a long time ago. I think I did.”

“Oh.”

“It’s hard to explain or remember. It’s been a long time. And I wasn’t well, at the time.”

"Sick? Guess that could make it hard to get around, get what you want."

"I wasn't exactly sick. It was just my head. That's... fixed, but it's too late."

“What will you do when you find him?”

"It won't happen."

"But so many things are happening, who's to say?"

“I don’t know.” His eye stung a little. Now that he was noticing, so did his shoulder. “I'll talk, like he used to ask me to. Let him eat, like he used to. There are other things, but I can't even think of them yet, because I haven't seen him in so long. And people change. There’s something I need to know, before I decide. And that’s something else that isn’t certain."

The air felt dry, his throat tightened.

"Even if things change, I think that once I find him, I won’t have to come back here.”

“Strange reasoning.”

“I imagine your reasons for being here are different.”

“Yep.” There was a crinkling of plastic wrap and paper.

Patches smiled a little, to himself, since nobody could see him. It was about as natural as he could manage. “So you came to eat after all.”

“Nope. Maybe later.” There was a scratch, and he thought he saw the glint of eyes. He turned instinctively to the source, believing that, as always, it would not be seen again. The visitor was about to run off again. Or just disappear.

Then there was another scratch, two in succession, and in the room behind the grate, a tiny flame ignited at the tip of a match.

The sudden orange glow made his head spin. He saw the rough outlines of the diamonds making up the grate between them, and the whorls in the wood of the opposite booth. And he saw the bottom of a face illuminated, the sinews of a neck and the outline of a jaw, those familiar hands and over it all, a monstrous mouth glowing the colors of fire.

"I just wanted to see you again,” the teeth clattered and, as if it had been pushing back the whole time, broke into a very sharp, wide, darkly dripping smile. Breathing dark clouds of ash that filled their cage.

Patches gazed into this jagged void and couldn’t help but smile back. He moved his hand up to the grate and hooked his fingers into the diamond shaped loops. The lashing breath curled around his fingertips and he said, “Can you-”

And that’s when he opened his eyes and sat up abruptly, banging his shoulder and crown against the corner of the booth. He quickly exited, and this time, swung the door of the opposite booth open before leaving. Nobody there. The magic was dissipating fast.

Like the last time, his sleep had been disrupted, and that must have been what caused the dream. This time, he dream he remembered - possibly a side effect of waking up too suddenly. The sun had barely risen, it was earlier than he'd woken in years. Even on days where he had Ring duties. But then, Dragon Tower opened earlier than the Ring of Light. So it was a schedule change, but it made sense. Nothing unusual. This was what he concluded after he’d cooled himself with a second, short shower and breakfast of light leftovers from the communal fridge.

The strangest thing that day was not a dream, but grisly reality. His image in the mirror that morning was an intruder, someone he'd never seen before. He had abandoned his long black coat for one of his grandfather’s old off-white shirts.