“You don’t have a scratch on you,” said Quai. She pushed her water-slickened hair back, gathering it, squeezing it. She glanced in the mirror to see Wellson, watching her.
“We fought demons on Drænor, we watched the grass melt. Remember that?”
Quai nodded. She turned to face him. “And you’re avoiding the issue.”
Wellson sighed. He supposed he was, or was — at the very least — engaging it in a terrifically oblique manner. The fact was, Quai was right. He had not taken a single knick of damage during the Collective’s encounter with the Naztherim.
“The point being,” he said, “that demons only have so many tricks up —”
“Arrogance doesn’t suit you,” she said.
She was right about that, too.
He had not felt himself since leaving the Grand Alliance Navy – not since Darkshore. Indeed, he had felt something else entirely: some other presence in his mind, some other taking up space. It was subtle, but it was there.
“You want to start over?” asked Quai.
Wellson tipped the mop bucket, dumping the dirty water into the work sink. He set it down, and wiped his brow. He watched as the water slosh about in the sink, settling into a whirlpool, before draining out completely. Sediment — an unknowable conglomeration of sweat and puke and dirt and beer — lined the drain. He did not touch it.
He nodded to the dwarven bartender as he finished his shift for the day, stripping off his work gloves, and undoing one of the shoulder snaps on his coveralls. The door shut behind him.
Helping the Breach’s bartender had felt good, productive. It did not matter his capacity, the humdrum life of maintenance has allowed him time to think, time to pray. Coldwall had been generous in hiring him. If someone with his level of projected arrogance had approached him and asked him for a job, he would have said No, stalked the offender, and then killed them in their sleep. Not Masnira. She was too smart for that; it was one of the draws, for him, to be quite honest. As quick as Quai, stubborn as Cliara, deadly as Justine, smart as Thalsian, observant as Kyara. She commanded his respect from the moment he had walked into the room those weeks ago.
When he reached his bunk, he undid his maintenance coveralls, and slipped into his leathers. He stowed his crescent wrench and gloves and truesteel-toed safety boots. He picked up his razor and soap, and left the room.
“You want to start over?” Quai asked. She crossed her arms and frowned™.
Wellson shifted uneasily. He approached her with a small towel, and helped wring the water from her bunched hair. He traced his finger along her shoulder.
“What...?” she started. She shivered. “...what did you do?”
“I made it back to you,” he said.
“Not what I meant,” she said.
Wellson grimaced. He knew what she meant, of course, though he had no desire to discuss it. Again he reached toward her. Quai could feel his body; she could feel his presence radiating a cold shadow, like evil was seeping from his pores. She turned to face him:
“Are you using again? Did your ‘goddess’ give you something. What is wrong with you?”
Wellson lathered his hands, and spread it across his face and neck. He raised the straight razor to his throat, watching himself in the mirror — the same mirror in front of which he had assisted Quai two weeks ago. He stared into his reflection, eyes searching. He could see his neck throbbing, pulsating as blood ran through his carotid artery. The thought of her flashed through his mind; she deserved more than he had to offer. He ground his teeth, and pressed the razor to his flesh.
N̶̡̧̖̮̣̠͛͆͒͒̔͌̄o̵̦̻̦̮̊̏͊.
Wellson started to cut, ignoring the voice.
N̵͈͐͑͐̌͒̂̐͘ö̵̡̢̡̜̱̺́̈́͂̐͌!̶̯̦̹́͋̀̉͗̌͒̄ It screamed in his head.
The razor was batted from his hands by something unseen. Even still, Wellson knew what it was.
W̵̡͇̰̣̦̗̮͍͠è̸̢̥̟̰͉̖ ̷̘̞́̈́͜͝h̶̢̺͉̩̖̖͆͋͊́̅͝ͅả̴͚̟̙̭͖͇̲̘̀́̎͝v̶̢͕͕͓̰̫̠̰̈́̐͌̆e̸̼͓̟̝̘͗̑̈́̏̚͜͝͝ ̶̧̧̝̭͚̮͚̈́͂ͅḁ̷̢͍̻́̀̒̓̒́͂̕ ̴͍̰̱͊̓̔́d̸̮̻́̉̄͋e̶̡̝̦̭͂a̶̪͂̎l̸̪͍͎͇̮͑̐̀̑͒͂͋͝, It shouted, ả̸̢̞̅̏̿̀̚ ̷̘̭͉͙̦̝͗̈̊͛̌̕c̷̡̧̀̒̆̊̕ơ̶̻̍̈́n̵̰̰͒̃̃̈́̀t̶̜̠̞̄͜r̶̢̯͍͚̫̠̃̒͑̀̽̂̚̕͜ą̴̜̫͈͖̮͉̝͑̏̽̃͒͝ĉ̷̠̲̱̱̹̜̥́́̾̚̚͝t̵͕́̒̀̆͐.
“I upheld my end,” he murmured, eyes flickering down to the blade in the sink. “I did what you wanted.”
The strait razor erupted into a dark purple flame. It vanished. Wellson simply stared. A searing pain where he had been shot tore through his body. He felt like he was dying – again.
N̵̲̙̘̩̭̳̆o̵̯̭̠̼͉̓̈̌̓͋̚ţ̶̛̘͕̇̔͆̄́͝ͅ ̸̡̨̻̬͎̝̠͐͜y̸̛̜̔̈́͆͒̊͑͂ḙ̶̬͎̃͆͗͌̾̈́͘ť̵̜̦̟̞͐͐͝, It said.
“Not yet,” repeated Wellson. He started to cry. He swiped at his eyes. The pain in his side dwindled to nothing, his razor reappeared, and the looming darkness receded. He picked up the blade, and finished shaving. Something had to change.
“I have to go,” said Quai.
Wellson looked devastated. “For how long?”
“I don’t know. I just need to get things straight in my head.”
Wellson did not say anything. After a moment, he stood next to her and her open bag. He pulled something from his pack, and handed it to her.
Quai accepted it, fingers wrapping around the cold metal cylinder. It took her a second, but once she realized what it was, she glanced over at him:
He nodded once. “Maybe it will help you see things more clearly,” he suggested.
“I’ll keep it safe,” she said, clipping it to her own belt.
“...if I need to,” she said. She reached for his face, tipping his jaw toward her. She kissed him, long and passionate. She ran her hand down his chest, stopping at his beating heart. Neither of them said a word.
“Mas,” said Ra from the door. “You have a visitor.”
Masnira did not look up. She continued writing in some log or another. She listened to the approaching footsteps, soft and unerring. “Mister Wellson,” she said.
“Miss Masnira,” he replied.
“Have you tired of serving as a barback? Scrubbing floors and mending armor not as glamorous as you had hoped?” She set her fountain pen down her desk, arranging it just so. “Or did you just come to talk in circles?” Her voice was tinged with annoyance.
Wellson cringed at the memory of his interview. “I know you desire information,” he said. “And I would like to offer my services.”
She sat back, gesturing. “Go on.”
“How much do you know about that semi-autonomous arm of SI:7? The one operated by Kat Hawke?”
“Oh, now you have my attention,” she said, folding her hands in her lap.
“With your permission, I would like to … become acquainted with their current dealings. I would like to acquaint you with their current dealings.”
“Continue, Mister Wellson,” she said, listening to every word.
A letter arrives at SI:7 headquarters. The letter is in a thick envelope, and its wax seal is stamped with a decorative ‘W’; it is otherwise unremarkable: block handwriting, no return address, no postage. It is sorted by the overworked gnome working the administrative desk. The gnome passes it to a man, who passes it to a woman, who passes it to a drænei. Within hours, it has been screened for all manner of harmful substances and magicks before it is delivered to Kat’s desk. She opens it:
It was an honor to meet you a few weeks ago, back in the Stormwind Memorial to the Fallen. You stuck in my memory as someone who genuinely cares about the Grand Alliance, and all those who serve. After much consideration, I would be interested in working with you, to act as eyes on the ground and relay intel to you.
If you wish to reach out to me, you may send correspondence to the Au’llionian Estate House in Elwynn Forest, Eastvale Logging Camp. They know where to find me.
I do hope to hear from you.
I am,
Sincerely yours,
Doctor Brian Wellson, Lt. (Ret.)
( @quai-mason @seattlebourne @enigmatic-elegance @kat-hawke @killerkyara @thalsianiii ; @coldwall-collective )
