The smell was the first thing which Rook noticed.
It was not blood, but there was an abundance of that which was dried in a cracked brown crust on his cheek, sticky on his knuckles, softening the collar of his coat in something which was likely arterial. No, blood smelled of copper and regretting. He was used to that.
The raw sewage was something that was not used to by him.
Background of a weapon renting shop at 4 AM. Tidings of trash a letter of some sort. A slight chemical sweetness of the neon sign flickering over Xiu , repair, but it went dead, which was then each time as though a middle finger. Cold cement upon his back. His head was like a hammer that was used to test it.
He sat up slowly. His ribs complained. Something weighty was clutched by his left hand.
A sword.
Black blade, veins of gold running through it as through broken porcelain, and winking in the dark. Elegant. Minimalist. The hilt was made to his grip as though it were cut.
He didn't own a sword.
"You're awake."
The voice was omnipresent and omnipotent. Smooth. Male. The voice that might be able to talk over a takeover hostilely and one minute talk something filthy in a similar tone.
Rook looked at the sword. The gold veins pulsed.
You must have slept the whole thing through. Very disappointing. Your footwork was sufficient, but on the follow through? Lazy." The wait, as though it were waiting till he was sorry. I want better profits on my investment.
Rook gazed at the blade some long silent moment.
"Did I... kill someone?"
"Obviously. Rank 859. 'Crimson Dancer.' Played up to the name about a minute and a half, and that you cut me through her liver. A note of grudging approval. "Efficient, if unattractive. No flair whatsoever. The crowd actually booed."
Rook had no idea of any crowd. He did not recall his enrolment to anything. What he remembered
three weeks ago, in the lobby of Valeria Spire Municipal Hospital, and observed a clerk telling me that his medical subscription did not cover catastrophic weapon trauma since it seemed to me that having your chest cavity opened by a runaway subscription dagger was an optional procedure.
He remembered the bill. Five digits. Due in thirty days.
He recalled his landlord, a man called Tanaka, who smelled of cigarettes and cheap whiskey, and then he had put a notice of eviction under his door and his eyes were gleaming with the satisfaction of a person who had been saying next week, next week, next week me four months, and at last had been able to be right.
He recalled the human debt collector in the doorway, and the human face, the cheap suit and a badge on his laminated badge and the fact that his face never changed when Rook told him that he did not have it.
I shall get in touch of you, the collector said.
That was three weeks ago.
He was in an alley now, with a talking sword, rank 842 on a leaderboard that he had never requested to be on.
The sword noticed that you are considering rent, he thought. "I can feel it. Your repentance is like stale coffee and less good choices.
"Can you stop that?"
"Stop what?"
"Talking. Reading my mind. Existing."
"No. The binding is permanent. You're stuck with me." It sounded almost satisfied. I picked you because you were desperate, unconscious and had no choice. A good investment plan, historically so.
Rook closed his eyes. Opened them. The alley was still there.
"What's your name?"
A pause. The gold veins throbbed once, more slowly.
"Debt Collector."
... there's nothing like a name, it is a job title.
"It's what I am. What you are now, too."
There flashed a message in his side vision. No physical display, one that was projected upon his retina, such as a system notification that was placed behind his eyes. He'd heard about this. UI had been embedded in ranked hunters. It could follow your statistics, your match list, your sponsor requests in case you had any.
He hadn't gotten any.
REGISTRATION CONFIRMED
RANK: 842
NEXT MATCH: 72 HOURS
FAILURE TO APPEAR: BLOOD TAX x3
"Blood tax," he said flatly. "What's that?"
When you miss one of the matches, I feel hungry. I steal what I want out of you point-blank. The voice of Debt Collector was composed, detached. At triple the usual rate. It is not an actual death, but it is... nasty. You'll wish you'd shown up."
Rook tested his limbs. Everything moved. his coat was spoiled with new bloodstains, laid along the old ones, some of which were still wet. His boots were scuffed. He still had his wallet in his back pocket, and that meant that he could not have been robbed, and that was why whoever had dumped him here had been either kind-hearted or simply had not gone to the trouble.
"How did I get here?"
"You walked. Well, stumbled. You were very tenacious on the stumbling.
"And you just... let me?"
"You're the wielder. I facilitate. I don't direct." Another pause. "Usually."
Rook rose slowly supporting one hand on the wall of the alley. The sword went with him--his grip had not loosened. He attempted to place it on a garbage bag that was nearby. His fingers wouldn't open.
Permanent binding, Debt Collector told him. "You can't put me down. You can't pawn me. You cannot plunge me in a river, as somebody did. I don't recommend it."
Do you think that is supposed to make me feel better?
"No. But it's accurate."
He walked.
The sword stayed in his hand. People who passed by caught a glimpse of his blood crusted coat, naked blade, 4 AM shuffle and then looked away very intentionally. This was Valeria Spire. You did not make eye contact with anyone with a weapon unless you were prepared to be ranked against.
The leaderboard was suspended in the air over the city.
It was impossible to miss. A giant holographic display, which is visible on all the districts and which is updated in real time. Thousands of names, in blazing type, falling down Rank 1 at the top now KAGAMI, REI 'ABSOLUTE ZERO' down to Rank 1,543 at the bottom, names falling in and out, as hunters were created, eliminated, or simply ceased to be visible.
His name was at 842.
YAMAMOTO, ROOK
No title. No sponsor icon. Nothing but a name, faintly glowing, up a ladder on which he had never set his foot.
The system automatically gives you a default display name based upon your registered ID, said Debt Collector. "'Rook.' Interesting choice. Did you pick it?"
"No. Crowd did." His voice sounded strange. Hollow. Somebody screamed it when I was playing my very first game. 'Get him, Rook!' Like I was a chess piece. Like I was expendable."
"Chess pieces are expendable. That's their function. But, also, they can be queens.
"I don't want to be a queen. I want to pay my rent."
Then you ought have considered that before you had five figures up in medical bills and had signed up under a binding obligation with a cursed weapon when you were unconscious.
Rook stopped walking.
"I didn't sign anything."
"You bled on me. It is one of the signatures in most jurisdictions.
He stared at the sword. The veins of gold throbbed calmly.
"I hate you," he said.
"Noted. I'll add it to your account."
He lived in the bottom spires, in a small apartment in a wedge building between a butcher shop and another butcher shop. It always smelled of blood, offal, of the metallic smell of meat hooks and industrial cleaning fluid. The rent was low due to the smell and screams at 3 AM when the pigs came.
Cheap meant that he could nearly afford it.
Almost.
It was stuck in the key like usual. He pushed the door open and walked inside, and, as soon as he did that, he fell over a pile of envelopes.
Eviction notice. Past due. Final warning.
He placed them on the counter untouched.
The bathroom measured twelve square meters: a folding-wall bed, a hot plate, a mini-fridge making a buzzing noise all the time, a window leading to the alley he had just left. They were not enchanted mirrors belonging to hunters with patrons, who must see their reruns, who were important.
He placed Debt Collector on the table. The sword remained in place, yet he was aware of it inspecting him.
"You live here."
"Yeah."
It is stinking of death and hopelessness.
"That's the butcher shop."
"Ah." A pause. I have had poorer employment.
Rook didn't ask.
He stripped off his coat. The blood was now stiff and crackling on the garment. He would have to get another one sometime, but coats were expensive and he needed money, which he did not have.
A map of old wounds was on his chest. Pale scratches of cheap monster-hunts, a crimped scar of a subscription dagger that he had failed in the middle of a contract, the new pink flesh of whatever had happened during that duel he could not recall. His ribs were bruised. His left forearm had a fresh wound, clean and professional, which he could not remember having been given.
Your opponent was a follow-through artist, Debt Collector, suggested. But she was too much on the back swing. You exploited it admirably."
I do not recall taking advantage of anything.
"Muscle memory. You've been in enough fights."
Not ranked fights. Street fights. Food money brawls in back-alley. Finding employment that did not need subscriptions, but only sharpness of the blade and quicker reflexes. He had killed creatures more monstrous than those, primarily, the ones that grew in the undercity and had to be eliminated before they reproduced. He'd never killed a person.
Had he?
The notification said rank 859. Former rank 859. That was a person. That was somebody named, somebody titled, somebody might have a family, someone might have rent on the first.
He looked at his hands. Clean. He'd wiped them on something.
You are getting spiraled, Debt Collector said. "Stop it. Guilt is inefficient."
"I just killed someone."
"Yes. And?"
And I do not even know what their faces were.
"You will. In dreams. Eventually it fades." A pause. "Or it doesn't. Depends on the wielder."
Rook was sitting on the side of his fold-down bed. The springs groaned.
"Why me?"
"I told you. You were desperate and at your service.
"No. Why me. Why not one that desires this? Somebody who will award you the fashion cred you evidently desire, make you a leader, win sponsors, become a household name. He rubbed his face. "I'm just... tired. I've always been tired. There is nothing more that I can do.<|human|>I have nothing left to do.
A long time Debt Collector remained silent.
Then: "You think I wanted this?"
Rook looked at the sword. The gold veins throbbed at a slow steady, heartbeat.
"I was something else before. Something with a name. Something that made choices." A pause. "Then the system converted me. Bound me to this form. Turned me into a instrument of debtors that could not pay.
"...converted you from what?"
"From a person."
The silence stretched.
I picked you because you have nothing inside you, Debt Collector said. "Not broken. Empty. There's a difference. Shattered things attempt at mending themselves. Empty things just... accept."
Rook stared at the blade.
"That's not a compliment."
"It's not meant to be. It's an assessment." The veins of gold flared up, momentarily. And we are going to climb, little debtor. Not because you want glory. Not because I want freedom. Since you must pay rent on the first, and you are three months in the arrears.
Rook was examining the eviction notices. Looked at the sword. Glanced at his hands that had killed someone this night and were likely to kill someone sometime.
"When's my next match?"
Fifty-three minutes, seventy-one hours. I recommend sleep."
"I don't sleep well."
"Then don't sleep. Stare at the ceiling. Take a look back at your life decisions. I'll keep watch."
"You can't keep watch. You're a sword."
"I can judge you silently. It is basically the same function.
Rook lay back on the bed. The springs complained. The ceiling was water stained, weathered, known.
"...seventy one hours," he said.
"Seventy one hours."
"What do I do until then?"
"Survive. That's what you're good at."
He closed his eyes.
The sword remained on the table, with veins of gold throbbing, and awaiting its next investment to come to fruition.
Screaming of the pigs began at 3 AM.
Rook didn't wake up.
He was already awake.