The world is a strange place. Morgan thought this through his hazy, half lidded mind as the wind whistled past him. He wasn’t flying, because flying implies control and aerodynamics. nor was he jumping, which would have put one in mind of acrobatics or adventure. Which, in the context of gravity, left only one option left. So he was falling. Morgan filed the thought away in the split second he had of true adrenaline consciousness. His body rushed his senses like soldiers, lining them up and standing them at attention. It was only a shame then that half were absent, and the other half were either drunk or recovering. Which wasn’t to say that Morgan wasn’t in a similar state.
Falling though, he thought, that’s not good. If I’m falling then I have to-
He thudded hard against something just soft enough to break his fall, but hard enough to hurt his back.
“Land.” He breathed, air having escaped his lungs on the impact.
“I said to aim for the street.” A woman said. Her voice had the effect of a paint peeler to the ear drums.
“I did.” Came the response. If hers had been the paint peeler, then his was to the ear the equivalent of a sledge hammer.
“Are you dead then Morgan?” She called. Morgan got the sense that there was a small amount of joy being taken in that question.
“Eurgh?” Morgan replied. He’d tried for something more put together, but the sound was all that escaped.
“Not dead then.” She tutted, “Shame. The payment from having a fourteenth dead would have been enough to cover your rent.”
“Perhaps we can change the fact?” The man asked. “No one said you have to be dead in the room.”
“If they do any digging they’d find the blood in the alley.” She countered “No chance of getting the money if they know he died in the alley. Lawyers will argue that it's an issue for the city. Then they’d get the money.”
The man spat, either at the idea of not having money, or at the concept of lawyers. In his head, either was the cause. That, and he liked spitting.
Morgan groaned again and tried to shift his body. It wouldn’t move, or it would move but just hurt like hell.
“Oh get up Morgan, what are you going to do? Lie around all day?”
“I had,” he breathed the words through empty lungs, “considered sleeping in today.”
“You’ve slept in every single day for the past month.”
“I went to bed rather late.” He replied. His body sent him the signal that he was allowed to move again with minimal pain. He did so, sliding slowly upright and peeling off a banana skin that had managed to land on his head.
“We heard.” She said, “Heard the entire thing.”
“All that singing.” The man said.
“We were just-” but he was cut off by a raised hand. Margret, the woman who had apparently ordered his forceful removal from bed by her husband Borris, had a certain way of shutting down the stumblings of conversation.
“I don’t want to hear it. I’d like for you to just pay us the three weeks due and we can leave it at that.”
“Weeks?”
“On top of the two months before that.” She added.
“But I’m on a month to month lease.” Morgan countered, “You can’t charge me week to week on a month by month lease!”
“We can when we know you can’t afford a lawyer and haven’t paid consistently in six months!” She snapped. “Now, either pay us the money you owe, or…” She trailed off, consideration making an ugly impression on her face, then said “No, I don’t think there is an alternative.”
“What about…” He grappled with his sleep addled mind for something, anything to stir the conversation to the point where he wasn't’ solely on the defensive. “The door!”
“What about the door?” She said.
“Well, it’s broken.” He stood up from the trash and brushed himself off. Morgan knew the scent of a nights garbage was welling up around him, and tried not to gag. Instead he focused his mind on the pile of bullshit spewing from his lips. “And it hasn’t been repaired yet.”
“So?” They both watched him speculatively, like watching a dying man give his last words. They hung on every breath. “We just broke it.”
“Aha! So you admit it’s broken currently!”
“Whats your point?”
“My point,” Morgan tossed another piece of refuse from his shoulder and steadied his mind. “Is that you can’t evict someone while outstanding issues are associated with the property.”
“But-”
“And further more, I- How long have you had your mail slot barred?”
“Six weeks,” Borris replied. “Did it myself.”
“Well, furthermore, I haven’t been able to pay you rent due to the fact that the receptacle responsible for its arrival has been blocked.”
“You pay by mail.” Margret offered, struggling to get a grasp on any of the lines of logic being strewn about. “What does the mail slot have to do with it, we pick it up at the end of the week.”
“Ah, well then theres your problem. I’ve been paying, but the Post Office has been taking my checks and spending them themselves.”
“Quite an allegation to throw around.” She crossed her arms. The stumblings from moments before replaced with the solid idea of where this was going, and that she didn’t need to be concerned anymore. She jerked her head to motion towards Morgan and Borris stepped forward, arms outstretched.
“But, but, but…!” He nearly said it all as one word.
“But what now?”
“You can’t touch me. If you file eviction and then remove me personally, you’ll be in violation of Article 14, Subsection IV, Paragraph three.
“Home Owners and Land Lords shall not, in any form, remove the tenant from their premises or residence without first giving due notice to proper authorities about said provisional infraction against the tenant. In situations regarding the lack of payment, due notice must be given three weeks before the eviction can take place.
Furthermore, undo strain can not be placed upon the tenant in regards to-”
“Oh for the love of the gods,” Margret threw up her hands “You can’t make this a simple process, can you?”
“I’m afraid that the loss of my home is something I consider a bit more important than a ‘simple process’, even in the best of times.”
“You haven’t paid in ten weeks, Morgan! That’s nearly three months! What am I supposed to do? House you while you live this life of… well, you can’t even have the decency to have a life of sin!”
“I-”Morgan started, but Margret shut him down again
“You don’t. You’re not a degenerate or a criminal. You’re just getting by on the pension from your days as a soldier, and that's just not the type of person we need sleeping under our roof.”
“You run an inn.”
“The key word there,” Margret said “Is run. It’s not a charity, and if you’ve not money to pay, then we’ll have to remove you from the premises.”
“I’ll go to the police!”
Margret and Borris exchanged a look, though Morgan couldn’t tell what it meant or where it went until they both started laughing.
“Oh sure,” Margret said “Oh sure, you could do that, true. But then, what good would that do? Washed up soldier living off a dwindling pension… you’d be laughed out of the station.”
“Times is hard,” Borris offered “But they could be worse.”
“Worse?”
“Well you could have both your legs broken.”
Morgan didn’t look back as he bundled his collection of a lifes accessories into a small bag he’d kept for just such an occasion, and trudged down the street. He gave a longing look to a beggar in a cardboard box, and remarked internally that, at the rate things were going, he’d be lucky to end up owning a box at the end of the month.
At least I’d own some property He joked. Of course, he’d heard that even the Cardboard boxes had HOA’s that needed to be kept to. You couldn’t have a cardboard box that simply withered away in the rain, and you needed the proper decor to show that you lived the life. And the grass needed to be a certain way.
Still, he’d be plenty pleased if, in two hours time, he had something as cushy to call his own as a cardboard box. The sidewalks in the city were known to eat citizens at night, or the things that called them home did. And now that he didn’t have a place to live, he was considered one of those citizens that life may not find comfort for. More than anything, he wanted to know why.
Why, of all days, did they decide that he needed to pay now? What had driven them to finally wake up and realize that Morgan had, without foul deed, stolen nearly six thousand dollars from them? Not that charging two thousand for a small studio wasn’t theft in itself. And Morgan was fairly certain that they had come to own the property after weaseling their way into a contract negotiation that had fallen through. All of it, except for the part where they received payment regardless of outcome. Margret had a shrewd side about her, and though Borris wasn’t quick, he made up for it in being… Well, by simply being. He was big, and broad, and had the strength of ten men.
Meanwhile, Morgan was average, and narrow, and had the reflexes of a Greecat. He looked average, he sounded average, and everyone he’d ever known had referred to him as the typical design of the common man*. He wasn’t overweight, yet he wasn’t skinny. His hair fell long to the ears, but was cut short to fight the heat. He wore clothes that looked grown in, and as if they were part of who he’d always been. Not that he’d been born in them, because that look is something no one should adopt, but like he’d found them while young and grown around them. In short, he looked like a grunt on leave.
But what could he do? He had been a soldier. And he was on leave. Permanent leave, sure, and with an almost dishonorable discharge for insubordination…
“Spare a coin?” A beggar asked. His choppy voice lent itself to the art of begging. He looked like someone who sounded like someone who’d just gotten through a grinding mill.
“Hey Jim.” Morgan said, slipping him a coin from a pocket absent mindedly and shifting weight on his feet. It was going to be a conversation then, beggars never asked you for anything without wanting to give something in return.
“Terrible what happened to you,” Jim of Second Street said, his voice had shifted and morphed through some natural magic that came to the truly talented at begging. It sounded almost normal now, a bit on the street cockney side, but that was to be expected when dealing with beggars. They liked the sound of it.
“Oh?”
“Being kicked out of Ol’ Misers Shack and all that. Heard they threw you from the rooftop, but that you bounced up and told them you’d sue.”
“I-”
“Then that they tried to fight you, but you were a coward and ran away. Still though, shame that things worked out that way. Yer a good lad, underneath it all.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t mean nothing by it, nothing by it at all. Just that, well, you’ve always seemed a bit lost. Like when we invited you to join the Beggars council, and you refused.”
“I’m not really a ‘council’ person. And it was a bad time.”
“Yeah, right. Bad time. Like with the Veterans Affairs Committee.”
“Not really a ‘Committee’ man either, strange as that is.”
“And with the Thieves Academy? And the Mercenaries Guild? And what about with the Merchants-”
*Whatever that meant.
“Alright, alright. I get the point.”
“Yeah, still it's a shame they kicked you out.”
“I didn’t run away.” Morgan said, connecting thoughts from earlier in the conversation. “I walked away.”
Jim of Second Street slipped back into his crouched, choppy voice as people approached and passed them by.
“Right, sir, as you have it.”
“Course there was the fact that they grabbed a sleeping man from his bed.”
“Cowardice, sir.” Jim said “It comes in all shades.”
“Right.” Morgan slipped a second coin to Jim, using a higher denomination this time around for the kind words, and slinked along the street further down towards the Market. He’d need to set up position in the square as a guide, or as a hired thug. It didn’t matter what at this point, he didn’t really care which it was, he just needed the money.
“It wasn’t me sir,” Said a thief who it clearly had been.
“Right, right.” Said the officer. He was a stout man, with a beer gut that protruded haughtily over the mans belt. His mustache was bushy, and shook when he wrinkled his face or reacted. He looked like a man whose name would be Bushwell or Boracus or some such big, bulbous, bouncy name that fit a creature of pure cop.
“You can’t, sir, I’ve a family.”
“Right, Right.”
“And, and… I’ve a daughter, sir!”
“Right, right.”
“Alright, I didn’t want to go here, but I’ve got the plague.”
There was a pause, then the man repeated his chosen phrase of the day.
“Right, Right.”
Morgan shuffled past the display as the pair progressed in roughly the same direction of conversation for some time. The cops of the city were very similar to the criminals of the city, actually they were largely the same. The only difference was the population that they represented. While the cops and guards of the city represented the “common man”, the criminals represented the “working class”.
It wasn’t unusual for two members to put on the pantomime, it gave both sides something of a feeling of justice. The criminal would make the life of the officer miserable, and vice versa, thus ensuring balance to a universe of phenomenal balancing acts. Or at least that was the lie that Morgan told himself, it helped him sleep at night and that was more important than keeping the truth in his mind.
Morgan slid into place around the center statue of the founding Heroes of the City. He knew their names, surely he did. Everyone was taught them at a young age. He fixed their names in his mind, but when he went to speak them they vanished from his lips. He couldn’t remember, and why did it matter if he couldn’t? They were dead, and he wasn’t. Not yet anyway.
Other members of the crowd, bandits and thugs like himself, gave him passing glances of pity or impolite glee at his misfortune. Jim of Second Street wasn’t the kind of beggar to go blathering, and even he’d heard about it before hand. So someone must have seen.
Well, that was just great. Now he’d be saddled with the responsibility of fixing an image he cared little about. Wonderful, another pointless task. He hadn’t even meant for it to go on as long as it had, it had just sort of… happened. Morgan was certain, beyond a doubt, that if he’d set out to rob them by failing to pay, he would still have a home and would likely still be asleep. They’d have respected his decisions, respected the half-truths and flat out lies he’d have told to dodge the questions of payment.
It was only that Morgan wasn’t like that kind of person, and that ruined the whole process. He was willing to pay for a roof over his head, and foolish enough to do so. But that didn’t matter anymore.
“Tour of the city, defender of your honor, one stop shop for protector and guide.” Morgan droned. He was loud enough to be heard over the droning of a crowded square, but quiet enough that anyone who really would be able to pay wouldn’t notice. He didn’t want the work, he wanted the feeling of having done something without actually doing the thing. He showed up, and started work. That was enough.
Tuesday, it must have been Tuesday. Morgan never could get a handle of Tuesdays, and they always seemed to make a mess of his days. There was something evil about a Tuesday. Oh Mondays, sure, everyone knew they weren’t evil, they just had a job that needed doing and were the poor sod tasked with carrying it out. Wednesdays, Thursdays, and even Fridays all seemed to get better with each passing day. It was only Tuesday that hung around as a sticking point. It knew what it was doing too. It almost felt like the day equivalent of a reminder to do something.
Morgan looked up and counted the days.
It was Wednesday.
He swore under his breath, though he needn’t have bothered. The noise of the Square would have swallowed the sound easily.
It all started to feel like too much to Morgan. His mind was racing, his breathing was quickened, his eyes darted from person to person. Darkness filtered into his eyes on the periphery, surrounding his vision and slowly encroaching on his sight. The noise was too much, the effort of breathing was too much, sight was too much… He was alone, he knew he was alone, and no one was going to care. He could drop dead and no one would notice more than the inconvenience of stepping over the body. Oh gods, was this going to be the rest of his life? He’d served the Empire, and for what? What good was there to the act of helping people if you ended up in the dirt and ditches like the rest of the dregs?
He shut his eyes, trying to drown out the noise.
Someone touched his shoulder.
Morgan looked up into the face of bland young woman with braided brown hair and a long blue dress.
“Er,” His mind was a wreck, “Did you need this spot? Because I’m sort of having a meltdown here right now. I’ll be done quick, promise.”
“What?”
“Look, It’s been a very long day for me and I only got up an hour ago. Do you mind if I just have my,” He struggled with a word for the situation. It took him nearly five seconds to finally settle on “moment.”
“I’m sorry,” The woman said. “But I think there's been a terrible mistake.”
“Oh?”
The feelings faltered, the sensation of fear and overwhelming sadness passed him by with nary a wave of tidings. Pity, he thought, you can't even have a good panic attack in this town anymore without being interrupted.
“I’ve been told that I should speak to you about protection and guidance.”
“I don’t…” Morgan looked around, and caught the sight of Jim of Second Street shambling his way out of the Square. It seemed that at least someone was looking out for him. Perhaps it had been the extra coin that had led Jim to lead this woman to Morgan, but Morgan also knew that it wasn’t ever so simple as that. “What I mean is, who sent you my way? I should thank them. That is, if you’re in a hiring position.”
“I am.” The woman said. She seemed to have a glint of intrigue in her eyes that didn’t sit right with Morgan.
“Well that's good then, cause I’m for hire. Or I might be, perhaps.” He paused, recalibrating to the direction things had gone. “Protection and Guidance, sure. I can do that. Where we headed?”
“Don’t you have any further inquiries or forms of interrogation on the job?”
“Interro-? Oh! You mean asking further questions.” Morgan considered the reality of entering into a job without any knowledge of the path ahead. Alarm bells dinged internally, sounding the alert of danger. His gut said it would be bad news, that he should walk away and see about buying into one of those Cardboard HOA’s.
But his heart…
“Hmm, no, I can’t think of any. Oh, well perhaps the pay. There was talk of pay, yes?”
“Of course, I wouldn’t consider it a job without payment.”
“Good, er, great. That’s great. Because I also wouldn’t, uh, well yes anyway. The pay then?”
“I can’t tell you the sum currently. But, if our relationship is to be one of trade, then I will grant you a single percentage of the total, minus the additional bonuses that may come with it.”
“A percentage of the total? One percent? Thats kind of-”
She produced a thick coin pouch from a pocket that surely couldn’t have held it, and passed it along to Morgan, who’s hands were open and accepting before his mind had registered the act. He pulled the string back and peered inside. There was a golden shimmer of reflection from the midmorning sun, and Morgan quickly shut the bag.
“Is it all…?”
“Yes, surely that’s adequate payment for a service to be rendered.”
“More than you think,” he muttered “Well, where to then miss…”
“Artessa, no miss or such prefix. Just Artessa will do.”
“Well, Just Artessa,” She frowned. “Where can I take you?”
“We’re headed to the Capital as our final stop, but we have a few others to make along the way.”
“The Capital, huh? That’s quite the trek from here. In fact, if i’m not mistaken I believe an ocean lies between them.”
“Is that a problem?”
Morgan looked back to the coin pouch in his hands, did some quick mental maths, and slipped it away for safety sake. “No, No, it’s fine. No trouble at all really, just considering how to get there.”
“I’d imagine by means of travel.”
It was Morgan's turn to frown. “Truer words,” he breathed “Well, do you have somewhere you’re staying currently?”
“I actually just got into town and was hoping we could leave relatively quickly.”
“Quickly, quickly? Or just simply quickly? Or do you mean to say that you want to get there quick but by any means necessary?”
Artessa’s frown deepened. “This is going to become something of thing with you, isn’t it?”
“Can’t say I know what you mean,” Morgan lied. He packed up his remaining belongings, a task that took the combined effort of a simple look around to notice that he had nothing, and slung the sack of his clothes, tooth brush, and other essentials over his shoulder, then motioned ahead for Artessa to lead. “I am at your disposal.”
“Mhm, and what is your name?”
“Me? Well I’m…” He thought through the myriad lies and deceits he could pawn off on the woman. She’d given him a pouch of gold, hadn’t asked his name, and openly said she was new to town. There couldn’t have been an easier mark if he’d created them himself. Short of simply being handed money and told to walk away, this was the simplest con there was. He could just say he’d take her somewhere, drop her off at an Inn, skip town, and he’d be rich!
“I’m Morgan,” He managed after a minute.
“Well, Morgan, is there anything I should know about you before we begin traveling together?”
“Yeah. I have to stop by a shop and pick up my weapons and coat.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing I’m willing to share with you yet. I feel that may very well be the same for you, yes?”
“Indeed.”
“Good, then we’re in agreement. Neither one of us wants to know about the other and I’m delivering you to the Capital? Correct?”
“Sounds accurate.”
“Fantastic.” Morgan adjusted the bag and motioned towards a side street with a theatrical wave. “Please, this way.”
