Slumrat Rising

Vol. 3 Chap. 38 Buran

Vol. 3 Chap. 38 Buran

Truth sprawled in the plush king-sized bed in “his” suite at the Dunbar. The Grand Imperial Deluxe, apparently. He vaguely wondered if they had a Grand Imperial or an Imperial Deluxe. What exactly qualified this suite for all three terms? Well, it had a second bedroom attached, a living room, and a little kitchen. When you got right down to it, he was pretty sure that it was bigger than the apartment he grew up in. And he was staying here rent-free. Bliss.

The bed was so comfortable it was uncanny. It seemed to know precisely the balance of softness and support Truth liked best, resulting in the deepest, most peaceful sleep he had enjoyed since leaving Siphios. He could set the flavor and aroma in the air. He chose orange with a cool caress of mint. He could control the light, temperature, and humidity to the most minute degree. As it was morning, he set it to “dawn at the beach,” and the orange-scented air took on the faintest tang of salt. Even the carpeting seemed designed to caress his toes. The deep pile almost wiggled upwards, and he couldn’t help but make little fists with his toes- grabbing and playing again and again for the sheer joy of feeling.

Simply existing in this room was utter sensuality. Everything in the suite was designed to bring him pleasure. The experience of a luxurious hotel room was completely different when you weren’t guarding the body in it.

That was Buran, the Second City of Jeon. Harban controlled the government, finance, industry, and research… but Buran was where the wealthy and their glittering toys came to play. It, too, had a university and industries and commerce, but what it had most of all was luxury. White sand beaches, each grain carefully selected and polished by chained spirits, then raked to perfection each morning by denizens. Ancient temples selling incense made from the rarest, most precious fragrance trees. Restaurants staffed by beauties who were on the menu every bit as much as the wine they served. Their enchanted collars promised guests that if they didn’t like what they saw on the menu, the kitchen would be happy to whip up something special. Just for them.

Truth had spent a little time here, guarding various bodies. Starbrite had a very sizable presence here too. His next job for Merkovah was a hit well north of here, but Truth felt it would be a missed opportunity not to pull some kind of stunt here. People paid more attention when rich people got hurt in luxurious circumstances.

Starbrite did too, for that matter. It was their most important client base. Not to mention their higher-tier employees took just as much advantage of the amenities as anyone else. It was like a special membership card- some things that weren’t even on the menu were available with a lapel pin. Especially these days, with everyone watching the end of the world come rolling in like the tide. Anything to make a connection. To find even a shred more security. No matter how much it hurt or degraded you to earn that “favor.”

You were lucky to have the opportunity. So many didn’t even have the chance to make a rich woman laugh or a pampered son smile.

Truth started mentally reviewing his options. What was the right combination of pointed message, drama, and paranoia-inducing implications? A nightclub? Restaurant? Party boat would be a killer choice. Oooh, or flying platform. Yeah, one of those fancy luxury flying clouds with their own bound spirits of music and light talisman systems. The young and beautiful and rich, dancing on the heads of everyone else. It would be just terrible if their cloud happened to disintegrate for no reason, right?

He smiled and snuggled into the bed, enjoying the bewildering comfort of the sheets. Why did they feel so much better than other sheets? He didn’t know. But they did.

He missed Etenesh. He wanted her in this bed too. For sex, but also just to have her near. He was so scared when they first slept together. Now, the bed felt wrong without her. The way she laughed with him, or explained things to him, or used him as a headrest as she wrestled with texts whose every word was critically important- and they ran for six hundred pages. He missed the comfort of her. The warmth of her. The way she fussed with her hair, worried about it, going so far as to try and hide her bed hair from him.

He loved her hair however she wore it. But he would always remember seeing it fly wild and free when he first laid eyes on her. Somehow, it had become the way he loved it best. He told her so, but she kept fussing with it anyhow, and he loved to see her do it.

Truth confronted a growing problem, decided against doing anything about it for the moment, and took a cool shower instead. Time to be about the day. Time to see what trouble he could stir up. Plus, he wanted to hit a bookstore. Nothing quite like catching up on the last five years of talisman maintenance literature to take your mind off things.

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The Dunbar Hotel was on the western edge of what could be considered proper Buran. It was at that point where you got past the suburbs and the residential areas for the less appealing locals, but before you really hit the downtown. A comparatively discreet, “affordable” luxury hotel. Naturally, there was no public transit connection worth mentioning nearby. If you could afford to stay at the Dunbar, you could, at a minimum, afford to take a carpet everywhere.

The Dunbar did not have a garage. They did not care how custom your chariot was. Not even if the VGR Workshop only made six in that colorway. Maybe you could find on-street parking. The Dunbar had an Aerie, where guests of quality could house their flying beasts, summoned spirits and flying clouds. Truth sincerely admired the flex, then got into character.

With conscious effort, he reassembled his Rich Prick persona. His battered clothes became “Pre-Distressed” and clearly designer. His handsome looks and strong physique silently informed watchers that his parents had spared no expense in his development. Most of all was the air of indifferent brutality. Jeon was strictly hierarchical. Everyone, everyone knew what that look meant. Obey, or suffer. You might suffer because you obeyed, but disobedience would be so much worse. No mere dilettante thug, he was the second generation of an ancient family.

It was distressingly easy to settle into. The persona was built around power- magical, social, and financial. It was built around a personal capacity for violence and the promise of protection from that violence and the violence of others. He knew he was a born gangster. The rich were just another gang. He summoned a livery carpet, paid cash, and ordered the driver to take him downtown. In silence.

Truth alighted on a high-end shopping street, hunting for very particular products. First- the duffel had to be replaced, as did the clothes. He would acquire the duffel first.

At this point, his duffel bag was more of a conceptual construct than a physical one, lined with trash bags to keep its tears from leaking precious intel or supplies. You could buy a basically adequate duffel for very little money, almost free if you were willing to trawl thrift stores. But, for only a very great deal of money, you could buy a duffel bag made of synthetic fibers spun from some unholy alchemical process and the silk of demonic spiders. Spell-resistant (up to a very limited point), corrosion-resistant, tear-proof, ripstop weaving, and available in a variety of fashionable colors. Truth went with a basic black, carefully stuffing its price in wen into the mouth of the sales clerk who dared to ask for his identity sigil. The young master had no need for credit.

Word apparently got around the neighborhood shop association- at the next store, his demands for equally durable clothes (suddenly and mysteriously in fashion amongst the more forward-thinking rich) were speedily met. Truth had to control the urge to buy all black. It was never as stealthy as your instinct insisted. He picked up pants and shirts in blacks, greys, browns, and other muted tones. He looked longingly at a Robin's Egg Blue shirt but ultimately went with Moss Green.

Shoes were irritatingly trickier to find. What he really needed was a highly durable work boot, something that simply did not exist in the stores of the very rich. He ultimately chose a “hiking boot” that cost more than rent in most places. Which was fair, given the sheer quantity of alchemical refinement that went into the materials. Cash payment was gratefully received with both hands by the silent clerks.

Picking up books was an even harder challenge. What he was looking for was highly technical and niche. Even quite large bookstores were unlikely to carry technical handbooks on talisman maintenance and repairs. At best, they would have glossy, high-color guides filled with quarter-truths and questionable advice aimed at the untrained. For the real deal, you had to go to the source. Truth found a quiet place and carefully dispelled the young master persona. In its place, Johnny Bells, Maintenance Technician, snapped into being.

Johnny’s feet hurt. He had been on them all day, every day, for two months. It showed in his gait. None of that pep that supervisors so loved to see in their “service associates.” But then, he was using his day off to go get the latest service gazettes from the campus bookstore at the local technical school. He picked up the slim, paper-jacketed maintenance guides for a dozen common talisman systems, magazines, and out of sheer nostalgia, an air conditioner repair manual. You could see the last few years had been hard on Johnny. The mismatched clothes, the crummy boots, and even his duffel bag looked like it had been jumped on dozens of times. The clerk had the decency not to smile understandingly as he fished around in his pockets for cash.

“The closest bus is the 86?” Johnny asked.

“Yeah. ‘Fraid you just missed it. The next one is in half an hour.” The clerk replied.

“Figures.” He sighed. Johnny had already vanished from the clerk’s memory by the time he stepped out the door. Just another tired worker doing his best.

Johnny walked over to the bus stop and tried his best to sit on the bent poles that were provided instead of seats. He fished out a gazette and started reading, watching his day off slip away. It took twenty deeply unpleasant minutes for “Johnny” to fade away entirely. Apparently, the world really believed in him. A lot more than it believed in the unnoticeable operative Truth Medici (Deceased.)

The rest of the day was spent scoping out party venues, flying platform rental agencies, and similar. As a result, he was running across town all day and staring at warehouse space. It was a universal truth- those organizing the party, and running the party, and working the party are having exactly zero fun. Truth retreated to the Dunbar and his delightful bed with immense relief. He had earned a good night’s sleep.

Four hours later, he jolted into wakefulness. A rich man kicked open the door, dragging a couple of giggling pros in with him.

“I don’t care if you rented this room. You aren’t leaving it alive.” Truth swore.

“Fuck did I do to you?” The man slurred.

There was an awkward pause.