#exinspired

Ryan’s not insane yet. He’s pretty happy about that fact. A lot of people in his line of work do go insane. It’s a health hazard, like cops getting shot or chefs getting burns. It’s something his curatores don’t understand. Ryan can’t count the number of times he’s heard ‘let someone else do it’, like his career is something unsanitary or wrong. Like nearly forty five percent of Americans don’t plan on using his services, a number that goes up exponentially with each decade. Youth of this generation may or may not be a lot of things, but one everyone can agree on is that they’re communicative.

Ryan’s not insane, but sometimes he feels like it. There’s this quote, that insanity is doing the same thing over again and expecting different results. As far as textbook definitions go it’s pretty bullshit, but there’s a kernel of truth in it. Every morning he wakes up and goes downstairs where his curatrix and curator are eating breakfast and expects to be respected, and it just never happens. There has to be something a little wrong with him that he just keeps taking it and never entertains the notion of auctioning himself. Something like two percent of Mancers stay with their curatores their whole adult lives. Everyone else knows to flee, to push their article on the mancer database to potential buyers like pedaling a resume. None of his coworkers have stayed with their curatores. Hell, Geoff left his at sixteen, the youngest you’re legally allowed to search for new owners.

After yet another sit down meal of bacon, bagels, and awkward judging silences, Ryan grabs his keys and exits through the mudroom. Ryan stops dead in the garage, turns, and walks back in. In the thirty seconds he’s been away his curatrix hasn’t moved, hasn’t so much as filled in another word in her crossword puzzle. Looking at her, she doesn’t look devious. Looks are deceiving.

“Where’s the car?”

She doesn’t look up from her puzzle as she questions “hmmm?”

“The car that I drive to work. Where is it?”

“Your curator went to the market. He should be back soon.”

Ryan wants to shout <i>do you want me to get fired?</i> and add some emphatic hand gestures. He carefully keeps his mouth shut for two reasons. The first is as devastating as being an hour late might be in another profession, Ryan knows nothing short of stabbing one of them could get Geoff and Lindsay to fire him. The second is that he doesn’t want to hear his curatrix shout back yes. It’s too early in the day for that kind of confrontation.

Instead of saying anything Ryan goes into the next room where he doesn’t have to look at her smug face any longer. For lack of a better option -who knows how long his curator will be out- he texts Lindsay. <b>need a ride to work</b>.

The phone buzzes with a reply almost immediately. Ryan’s expecting an <b>again</b> with a hundred characters worth of question marks and exclamation marks. What it says is simply <b>sure</b>.

Like the last time, and the time before that, it’s momentarily jarring to see Lindsay alone. There’s no explosion of curls and cacophony of noise beside her, as there should be. With a shake of his head Ryan dislodges the errant thought. Of course she’s alone. Michael’s at work, just as he should be. While Ryan won’t get fired for his curatores’ sabotage, Geoff’s hardly going to let Michael leave just to backseat drive Lindsay.

“What did I miss?” he questions, sliding into the passenger seat.

“You know, even with my commute here and back, it’s not that much time. I wouldn’t worry.”

Easy for Lindsay to say. Ryan shakes his head to prompt her. A lack of details doesn’t mean Lindsay is right.

“Uh, we got a rush client. Though that shouldn’t really thrill you, since it’s your job.” Technically speaking, intake is Griffon’s job. Griffon and Lindsay are co-owners of the funeral parlour, Griffon owning the majority of it as Geoff’s proxy, since only caeca can have property. Lindsay does more of the budgeting and admin stuff.

“Anything on record for him or her?”

“Jack’s not sure how powerful she’s going to be,” Lindsay says, deadpan. Ryan provides the proper reaction; a smirk. Jack’s always asking the rest of them to guess the corpse’s status, a question that should be rhetorical except he always seems to want an opinion. Ryan only ever shrugs. The connections he and his coworkers make can’t be planned, only contained.

“No, but seriously there’s a good chance she’ll manifest through dance.  By all accounts it was the best way she communicated.”

Ryan makes a non-committed noise. He may or may not get assigned her depending on what other funerals are booked. If he does he’ll deal, but he definitely doesn’t want to show interest in her or Lindsay will use it to throw him under the bus in a second. And then he’ll be stuck dancing in front of a room full of mourners, and won’t that just be the feces cherry on a crap day?

The rush client’s name is Carmen Porter, and because the universe’s stance tends to be ‘why have a bad day when you can have a worse day’, Ryan does get tapped as one of the five to help her communicate. Normally doing his job isn’t cause for complaint but Griffon’s intake questions rarely give false results, and Ryan knows what he’s skilled at, and what he’s not. Still, Geoff requested him, and what Geoff says goes. Her funeral starts at eleven, and with ten minutes to spare Ryan and the other four gather around her open casket.

Jack is the first to start the ritual. He grabs the woman by the armpits and pulls her stiffly until she’s upright. Geoff steps forward next. He gathers her hair into a makeshift ponytail and shifts it in front of her. The knife’s blade is small, little bigger than an exacto you’d buy from a Dollar Tree. It’s more than enough to bite into Geoff’s thumb and cause blood to roll down the digit. Geoff flexes his thumb a few times to get the blood really going, ignoring the way his gaping flesh stings. Once enough blood has pooled in his palm, he presses his hand against Carmen’s bared neck. Just like a kid messing with fingerpaints, a solid thumb and palm complete with creases and whorls is printed on her skin.

Michael is the second person to add his blood, index and palm. He doesn’t hesitate, despite being the only one at Achievement Funeral Home to have accidentally sliced a tendon more than once. Come to think of it, the lack of hesitation is probably the reason for the intermittent need to hire a musculmancer. Jeremy cuts into his middle finger, Ryan offers the blood of his ring finger, and Jack slices into his pinky while Michael holds Carmen in place. All together they’ve created a full handprint of blood on her neck. But that’s only the first step. And while cutting your own flesh might be more daunting, the next is a stark reminder of consequences.

At time of death, every American body has a vial of blood drawn from it. Some countries do things differently, but ever since Moore VS Bailey the states have a legal mandate to provide the family with a vial. What they do with it is up to them, but in most cases if it’s not dropped in the trash it ends up in the hands of a necromancer. Geoff breaks the seal of Carmen’s vial and distributes the five sterile swabs, keeping one for himself. Ryan paints his lips in her blood, as do his coworkers. Standing in a sort of circle they kiss each other’s temples. The magicked blood won’t turn brown and flake until she’s at rest. It’s as much a warning sign for the corpse trying to struggle to stay as it is the kindling of communication.

Kindling is the right word. The fire of delivering her final message isn’t there yet. That’s later. Now is about other senses. The taste of the end of a life on his lips. The smear of a mouth on a friend’s head. The reality of death and the fact that everyone has things they couldn’t or didn’t say when they’d have to face reactions. All these things are combustibles piling up. And just like the smell of smoke appearing before any bonfire plumes upwards, Ryan can feel her.

It takes a certain type of mancer to want to communicate with the dead. A disreputable type, if you ask his curatores. They tried over and over again to stop him pledging himself to necromancer training, but a mancer’s path is not for a curatore to choose. Ryan’s got a space in his head where dead people fit, and one of the few rights he has as a mancer is to let that space expand.

She’s there, stretching a little as they wait to be cued into the services room, the mental equivalent of being bored while in line and raising onto your tiptoes and back down. Or at least that what being possessed feels like to him. Jack calls it a drop of dye diffusing in water. Geoff says the dead entering his mind feels more like raw egg thickening in a hot pan. Ryan can make sense of all his friend’s metaphors, but it always feels like fidgeting to him.

Eventually Griffon informs them of their full service room, and sends them on their way. Ryan stands and hoists his section of the low quality pine coffin. It’s not now or never, that moment was passed when blood was shed. It’s only now, now.

There are generally three ways a funeral communications consultant gets brought in. Occasionally there are one offs, like the time a cop requested their services in order to get final clues about the corpse’s murder. But primarily, either the person will put it in their will, they didn’t specifically refuse it in their will and the family wants it, or the person is completely neutral but the family doesn’t do enough research and their loved one is brought to a FCC funeral home. Those last are the most awkward, and thankfully entirely Griffon’s problem.

Ryan would guess this group of mourners are column one. Some look distinctly uncomfortable to see necromancers walking in the casket. Millennials or not, not everyone is fond of ‘the darkest vision’. He doesn’t have long to read the crowd though. Sitting in the provided chair, the eulogy begins to stir her. Each word makes Carmen fidget more, mental movements bigger until it’s lunges and charges. Their words aren’t <I>right</i>, they can’t be the last things <I>said</i>, it can’t stand!

Ryan lets her win, then. She’s shoving and leaping at him but it’s still his choice. That control is the only thing that keeps a necromancer sane, prevents the body from being subsumed. Ryan gives himself to her, this dead woman he never knew, and sees through eyes that aren’t quite his anymore that so have his four coworkers.

The first instant of true communication is always a beautiful thing. This girl, as her report said she might be, is a dancer. She takes his body as though it’s her right, takes the five of them, and choreographs her story.

He can’t tell if his dancing is beautiful. He’s a necromancer, not a spatiumancer; he’s not watching himself. And he lacks the knowledge to judge contemporary dance anyway. What he does know is his dancing is necessary. This dance is the last thing Carmen will ever impart on the world, and whether or not the audience of mourners is interpreting it correctly, Ryan can tell she’s relieved to have this moment.

Finally she’s done flinging their bodies around the service room. She lets them sit down again, or in Ryan’s case, collapse. His thighs burn, and he knows he’ll be feeling this dance all over by tomorrow. His chest is heaving in attempt to reoxygenize himself. Meanwhile Jeremy is motionless beside him. Acrobatic motherfucker. He can feel Carmen’s scorn for his lack of athleticism, which is truly unfair. Blame Lindsay for assigning him this funeral, instead of the two pm funeral for the slam poetry car crash victim. Still, Ryan tries to calm his breathing. Wouldn’t do to have a gasping necromancer steal the attention from the next speech giver. It’s not like he can just slink out. It has to be them that carries the coffin, to seal it. Otherwise she’ll come into her body again, and burn there, instead of going to the beyond.

His fingers spasm for a moment when last words are said and Griffon opens the double doors to direct people to the reception room. Carmen understands that it’s nearly over for her, and she’s not ready. Ultimately, no one ever is. That’s a lesson Ryan learned a decade ago. But she lets him stand, and lets him put his scabbed hand on the basic pine box that hosts her corpse, so it’s less resistance than he’s faced in the past. Flexing his fingers around the thin railing rips open the scab, as it should. No one wants to cut their hand twice in one day.

Ryan hefts up his section of the coffin and once the others have theirs, begins the slow march to the crematorium. The bereaved haven’t paid the extra fee for the pyre, so cremator it is. Frankly Ryan’s happy about it. Family and friends rarely seem to factor in how much a burning body smells until the corpse is lit and they’re coughing into their black handkerchiefs. Not only that, but thanks to Juan VS Oregon five years ago, pyres are only allowed to be lit for two hours, to protect the surrounding woodland from being depleted. It’s rare a two hour open air pyre actually destroys the bones, so if that choice is made it only has to go in the oven once the family has left. There’s little Ryan dislikes more than trying to get all of a charred corpse into a wheelbarrow.

***

Funeral receptions are generally a bit of an uneasy time for necromancers, and Carmen’s is no exception. It’s not fair to say that what they don’t tell you about summoning a dead spirit is that when it leaves, the space it occupied doesn’t suck closed. They <i>do</i> tell you. It just doesn’t seem real until the first time you feel stickily, gapingly open. Ryan keeps finding himself unconsciously tilting his head, like that will get the feeling out of his brain. What he -and Michael and Geoff and Jack and Jeremy- need is grounding. What he’s not going to get while there’s a room full of a hundred mourners is grounding. Geoff understands it, of course, and he’s the boss in everything but name. Unfortunately he’s of the opinion that it’s better for business if the necromancers of any given ritual can be interacted with post ceremony, and that no necromancer has ever died of waiting a few hours for proper grounding. Where that leaves all of the Achievement Funeral Home staff is munching on a dainty or two and performing whatever comfort rituals will get rid of their questionably psychosomatic mental trauma.

Of course, where that <i>also</i> leaves everyone is surrounded by others who have the same problem. Michael sidling up to him, mindlessly tugging on the edge of the toque he put on the second they put Carmen down and the blood flaked off is nearly standard operating procedure.

“Rye, you wanna hang out?”

“Hang out or get grounded?” He’ll come to the Tuggey house for either, he’s really got no interest in going back home at this moment, but it’s important to know whether they’ll be playing videogames or reminding themselves they’re alive. It’s another reason his curatores hate his choosing necromancy. The majority of mancy  types don’t require grounding afterwards, and everyone knows sex is the number one form of grounding, eating a meal ingrained with memories a distant second. His curatores don’t appreciate him ‘choosing to be a slut’.

Michael swoops in then. He curls one hand around the far side of Ryan’s skull, and kisses the side facing him. It’s obviously his answer, and one that Ryan will happily take. Most of the mancers just get with their significant others. Ryan has no doubt that Michael and Lindsay love each other best, but he never feels like an outsider in a bad way when they invite him into their home.

“Catch you in a bit, then,” Ryan replies to the wordless answer. Bad enough that he was late this morning and made Lindsay take a bit of time off to come get him. He sure the hell isn’t talking Lindsay and both into leaving work early to get into bed. Geoff’s stance of suffer through it will just have to stand as gospel.

A brunet approaches Ryan as the reception is winding down. “What time do you get off work?”

Despite his discomfort, Ryan wants to laugh at the bold cliche of it all. It takes a certain kind of audacity to hit on someone at a funeral. That said, the accented man has acknowledged that he works here, which means he’s fully aware Ryan’s a mancer. It’s been frustrating in the past, when other mancers have made a move on him. Since mancers are only allowed to marry and procreate with caeca, anyone looking for a long term relationship knows better than to start what can’t be finished. But this man is available, is attractive, and is self confident enough that Ryan will probably be able to enjoy some verbal sparring. So why not say yes? Ryan had a plan of grounding himself with Lindsay and Michael after work, but they won’t miss him. Not really. A large hearty meal will do almost as well as sex could have, and might end in a second date, instead of going out into the cold alone.

“You gonna take me out for coffee?” If the Brit says yes Ryan will just lightly correct him. Not only is that not enough substance, he gets his caffeine from Diet Coke, not coffee. The important thing is that he relates that he’s up for this.

“Wot? No. Have to know what time to take you home. Your new keeper, aren’t I?”

A sweat breaks out over Ryan’s skin. “What? What are you talking about?”

“You don’t know? I put a bid in on the database and your curatores accepted it. You’d think there’d be an app for that. You probably had your phone off during the funeral so they couldn’t call you. Yeah. Gavin Free, you’re Ryan, and tell me what time to come bring you home.”

The next ten minutes are kind of a blur. Somehow he gets Gavin to leave. Somehow, despite the heaving of his stomach he doesn’t actually throw up all over everything. Somehow he gets away from all these stupid mourners who only want him for his talent and into a private room surrounded by only his friends. Somehow he doesn’t fucking die.

“Maybe it’ll be good,” Jeremy offers, rewetting the cloth that had just been on the back of Ryan’s neck. “You’ve complained about your curatores not respecting you. Maybe he’ll be cool.”

“Not all of us are owned by someone who only wants a second income to cover the rent.” Literally the only thing Matt wants of Jeremy is someone to play Minecraft with.

“Look, buddy. It sucks. You want a drink?”

Ryan’s never accepted any of Geoff’s well meaning offers of intoxication, but he could almost accept now. The only thing that’s stopping him is his incredibly low tolerance. He’s not Geoff or Griffon, he doesn’t know how long it’ll take him to sober up. The only thing he can think of that’s worse than integrating himself into the household of a man who didn’t even tell him he was making a bid, is doing so drunk. There’s a thousand things that could go wrong, and he’s just not reckless enough to doom himself like that.

“No booze,” he moans. Fuck knows how he’s going to get through the rest of his day, but it won’t be that.

It’s almost annoying, how well meaning everyone acts for the rest of the afternoon. Ryan’s had occasional bouts of jealousy towards his coworkers since starting at AFH. His warlock brood, he’s actually heard his curator say recently, like that word isn’t a slur you’re not allowed to say on television. Sure, they’re all mancers, equal in the eyes of the government and society at large. When you pull in in scope though, Michael, Geoff and Jack have all married their keepers, and Jeremy and Kdin’s keepers are more like roommates. The only thing Jeremy actually <I>does</i> for Matt is keep him up to date on vitamins so he doesn’t die of scurvy thanks to his horrendous diet. Lindsay and Michael have the best give and take of anyone Ryan knows, and Ryan can’t help but feel like Jack would dote on Caiti even if he wasn’t a mancer and she his keeper. And then, there he is on the other side of a wide gulf, twenty eight and still with his curatores, who by all accounts should have never claimed him, considering the ever present disdain. Or, there he was. Now he’s got his first keeper, and the law of averages says he’s probably fucked. Caeca/mancer relationships range from spectacular to abusive, and if everyone he knows has a great one, the odds say he’ll be the one in ten desperately peddling himself on the database for a higher bidder, a better person. Yet everyone won’t shut up about ‘don’t freak out yet, you don’t know’, and ‘things could be great, wait and see’.

Gavin comes back at five. Evidently Ryan did tell the truth in the blur that was getting the foreign man away from him. Well, reprieve over. Time to find out what the next who knows how long of his life will be like. Point the fucking first, he’ll apparently have to deal with an absence of relevant details. With Gavin is a woman who looks like a professional model. Big boobs, heart shaped ass, hair that has some sort of professional alteration, whether it’s dye or pilimancy. Is he going to be co-owned? At this point it’s safer to assume so. Besides, what’s the alternative? That he’s being resold to a caeca with specific tastes, that Gavin’s merely a redistributor of special mancers to particular clients? That way weird things lie. Ryan would really rather just be owned by two people.

It’s a silent death march to the car. Or at least it is for Ryan, maybe these two are naturally quiet. If that’s what the next years will be like, will it be tense or soothing? Ryan can’t tell yet.

It’s not until he’s buckled in the back seat and they’ve taken off to locations unknown that the woman looks in the rearview at him. “Hi. What’s your name?”

The question is telling, depending on if it’s legitimate or not. She should already know, his file on the national mancer database has details a lot more uncomfortably personal than merely his name. If she doesn’t know, what does that mean? That Gavin is so impulsive he doesn’t even text his significant other a link to the profile of the mancer he’s about to buy? That she’s profoundly apathetic, or has a bad memory? That they don’t care because they’re going to go the dehumanising route and don’t plan to use it?

“It’s Ryan.”

“Cool. That’s what your last own- your curatores said you went by, but who knows how much choice you were given.”

Implies disdain for lack of choice. A good sign, if he can trust it.

“We asked your curatores if you had any stuff we should come pick up, but they said legally you don’t own anything. You, uh... you okay with that?”

Ryan shrugs slightly, tempering his reluctance to reply with the possibility of upset if he doesn’t respond to direct questions. He knows Texas law, how different states and countries view the apocalyptic warning about mancers and property put down centuries ago. Is he surprised his curatores are going hardline about the legalities, despite his bedroom full of stuff? He’d like to say yes, but no. He’s really not.

“We’ll get you gear, but first things first. Tell me everything about Carmen.”

Ryan doesn’t know what to make of Gavin’s demand. “What? You attended, didn’t you? You saw what happened when we rose her.”

“I saw what was shown, yeah. But that doesn’t mean I know what she said in your head.”

“She didn’t say anything. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Half the people that die give last speeches!” Gavin protests.

“Yes, I know. In the position to know, aren’t I? But they don’t recite them to me. They don’t practice a rough draft. I hear what they say when you hear it. And that wasn’t even what she did!”

“I’ll find out all of it,” Gavin vows. Threatens? Either way, Ryan’s not happy.

“All due respect, if the only reason you bought me was so I’d give you super elite information you might as well sell me back. There’s nothing more.”

Gavin has no comment. Meg doesn’t say anything either. It’s a stone quiet ride, and for the whole of it Ryan wavers back and forth on whether or not they will return him as useless goods. In the end though, they pull onto a cheery street called Orangegrove Court, and drive halfway around the little roundabout before pulling into a driveway. The garage door opener Meg clicks is proof that they own this place, that he’s not getting dropped off somewhere worse.

Meg and Gavin’s house is large and well maintained. Ryan would even bet they have professional landscapers. He’d play ‘bet how long before that task gets outsourced to free labour’ except why depress himself now? Later is surely full of depression. As he’s taking in the stainless steel and the hardwood floors, Gavin storms off. Ryan inwardly winces, but keeps a vacant expression. Meg knowing he’s unsettled probably isn’t a good thing.

There’s a chair at the kitchen table with a kidsy hoodie draped over it. Meg picks it up and shucks it on, then drops into the seat. She nudges the chair next to hers out further, a clear invitation to sit. Ryan takes the seat, partially because standing when she wants him to sit isn’t the hill to die on, and partially because he’s legitimately exhausted and sitting is a fucking blessing.

“Look, I’m sorry he’s being a jerk, but he does have a reason.” From a friend that statement would get swiftly rebuffed. Asshole is a way of life, ask Geoff. There’s no way in hell Ryan’s daring snark with Meg. Still she clearly wants some sort of prompt. He stares at her until she goes on. “He’s a filmmaker. He was doing a doc about Carmen’s dance troupe. There are a lot of holes right now, that only she could have put together. Without new info he’ll have to reframe the story.”

The fact that she’s willing to explaining things means there’s a chance of reciprocal communication. Gavin is obviously completely irrational -how the fuck is it his fault that Gavin didn’t do his interviews in the right order- but she might not be. Hoping for better luck the second time around, he rebroaches the subject.

“I can’t do what he wants. I’m not being ornery, or attempting a power play for more perks, or whatever he thinks. Not to mention I don’t even know if you have perks, I’ve been here all of five minutes. I just really can’t.”

“It’s fine, Gavin’s just freaking out. My expectations are a lot more manageable.”

That remains to be seen, Ryan thinks but knows better than to say. Reasonable is a prism of a word, different from different angles.

“Off the top of my head I’ve got six requests-” Oh, is that all, Ryan thinks, “and I’ll screen anything Gavin might come up with.”

Ryan listens without protest as Meg lists off the things she requires of him. There’s a remote possibility he’ll be able to half ass, or completely dismiss some of these orders. What won’t get him anywhere is arguing them. He even takes the revelation that he’ll be sleeping in the same room as Meg to prevent her night terrors completely stonefaced. Who wants a bed? Not fucking him, apparently.

“What do you need?”

Ryan has no clue how genuine the question is. For all he knows they’re hardline Norman Prophecyers too, and his correct answer is supposed to be ‘nothing mam’. His saving grace is that his calling really does require certain things of keepers and he has every right to demand them. “I need one of three things; either a car of my own, access to a car during standard work hours, or money to rideshare. Showing up sporadically, or late, is not an option for me.”

“Fair enough.”

“I need full cupboards too. I need to eat large dinners practically every day. Otherwise I’ll become untethered, and that doesn’t bode well for your investment.”

“Yeah, okay. We’re kind of big on eating out, as you can see,” Meg gestures to the counter, where a huge paper bag with a restaurant logo printed on it sits. “But I’ll go buy some shit, or sign up for Blue Apron or something. I’ll make it work.”

“Good. Thanks,” Ryan tacks on only a smidge belatedly.

“So, I guess go get yourself settled? Go make your bed, maybe. The sheets are easy to find, it’s just a bead curtain.”

Taking that as his dismissal, Ryan goes searching for the spare bedroom. Or maybe the realtor marketed it as the mancer bedroom. It’s a pretty common real estate tactic, to make the potential homeowner feel big and rich, by suggesting that soon they’ll need a room to house the mancer they managed to purchase. The second floor is as charming as the open plan first floor, real interior decorator shit. Neutral coloured walls with brightly coloured furniture that pops. Framed posters intermingled with other more professional art so nothing comes off as childish. Coming off his curators’ love of butter yellow and blue gingham and paintings of wheat it’s a pleasant change.

Nice aesthetics doesn’t change the fact that everything’s fucking upside down now, though. To think in a world where he’s a little more lucky, a world where the status quo hasn’t changed, he would have Michael’s thighs enveloping his head right now. But no, the universe decides to rock the boat and replace his awesome rimming with awkwardness and linen cupboards. And why the fuck is he digging for sheets anyway? According to his new orders, he’s not going to be sleeping in his own bed anyway.

***

“You’re having cereal?” Meg asks. It’s the first thing she’s said to him today, despite waking up at approximately the same time in the same bed.

‘I wasn’t aware I had a restricted diet.” Ahh, to walk the fine line between outward respect and internal fuck you. Ryan knows it well. One thing that hasn’t changed between his past and current owners, at least.

“Huh? No, it’s not that. Before bed I did some necromancy research. Full stomachs are really important. I just don’t see one bowl of cereal getting you there.”

“It’s not the fullness aspect, I don’t know what site you were reading. It’s that foods trigger strong memories. Smell goes through your olfactory bulb, which is so close to the hippocampus and amygdala that it ends up putting you back in sync with your brain.” Damn right Ryan knows his neurobiology. “Cereal could work just fine, if it’s a brand I ate as a kid, or with a best friend for dinner. And it doesn’t matter now anyway. It’s a post-work thing, not a pre-work thing.”

“Okay, that’s fine. Just saying, we have eggs.”

Ryan sits at the table, spooning in the slowly softening Rice Krispies, saving the banana slices for last. He looks up a few times at Meg, who’s busy cooking poached eggs, but looks down each time. It doesn’t really matter where Gavin is, as long as he’s not here in the room making absurd demands of him.

“What time do we need to leave?”

“We,” Ryan states.

“Yeah, for now at least. We’ll probably start saving for a second car, but we can’t just get one right now.”

Ryan nods. They know what his salary trust is, it’s listed on the mancer database with all his other pertinent information. His salary is proof of supply and demand not always relating properly. There’s lots of supply of dead bodies and tons of demand for his time, yet he’s not raking in millions. If the Turney-Frees are waiting on his trust for enough money for a car it’s gonna be a while. “We should leave by nine.”

The drive is quiet, relatively speaking. Meg plays a playlist synced from her phone. Ryan’s fairly sure it’s a video game soundtrack, not just lyricless techno. They don’t talk, just listen to the synth. If it was anyone else, Ryan would ask for confirmation of his suspicions, but she’s his keeper, and he’s known for her for twelve hours. A video game title is not worth sticking his neck out.

The moment Ryan steps through the door of Achievement Funeral Home he’s swarmed. Common decency might say he’s overwhelmed and needs alone time, both space in which he can be left and peace after who knows how many orders the night before. Luckily his friends aren’t burdened by such difficult attitudes as decency.

“How was it?”

“How were <i>they</i>?”

“What do they want from you?”

“Are you safe?”

It’s Geoff’s question that gets the rest of them to shut up for a moment. Truly no point in not filling the silence, though. It’ll only get worse if they think he’s too traumatized to speak. “They’re no Matt.”

“Most caeca aren’t Matt,” Jeremy comments.

He’s right, as far as it goes. It takes an odd sort of brain to invest deeply in purchasing a mancer because they’ll one day pay off their own purchase and start making money. But Ryan doesn’t care about Jeremy’s weird financial deal, and neither does anyone else. “I have fucking chores. Like I’m damn ten. Gavin’s kind of a pretentious filmmaker asshole.” Ryan decides to not tell them that he fucked up his keeper’s film. That’ll just make them act like they did yesterday, annoyingly over-reassuring.

“Sucks, man.”

“Yeah. So now that you’ve all seen I haven’t been beaten to within an inch of my life, can we do our job? Do any of you know who the client is?”

It’s not accurate to say that being a necromancer gets repetitive. It’s like any job that involves a lot of interaction with people; daycare teacher, nurse, social worker. Sure there are the basic tenets of the job that you have to follow every day, but there are always huge chunks that are completely unique which make for good stories that you’re not technically supposed to tell for confidentiality reasons, but probably do. Then again, there are also the days where nothing particularly memorable happens, and the biggest moment of the day is going home and watching your favourite prime time show. In direct contrast to Carmen being a part of his life falling apart yesterday, Sam Torini bitchily gets in the last word on a spat he’s been having with his uncle for a decade, a spat which means absolutely zip to Ryan. He’s still left with a sticky clinging hollow when the man leaves his head, it’s the nature of necromancy, but beyond that, nothing interesting.

Though Ryan had had a car for a long time, as a mancer it was a very nominal kind of possession. He’s had to wait on rides more times than he can count. When Ryan gets bored on any given sidewalk he starts to play street games. Inevitably every sidewalk has stains. Splatters of juice or beer bottles carelessly thrown out windows, quarter sized circles of gum turned hard and black by a thousand shoes. The stains never change, always change, they hide under the leaves in the fall but spring melt cannot wash anything away. Ryan tries to find shapes in them, objects, like an adult version of examining the clouds, looking down instead of up. When that gets old he follows the endless cracks, the bigger filled by black lightning lines of tar. He looks at the scattered cigarette butts and imagines playing pick up sticks with them. Ryan’s nearly positive there’s no such thing as sidewalk-mancy -what would that even be, tramesmancy?- but sometimes when he’s a combination of introspective and annoyed he wonders how much different his life would be if he’d chosen that instead.

The red four door eventually pulls into the large parking lot, just about when Ryan’s moved from considering calling one of his coworkers to pick him up to actually getting his phone out. Ryan climbs in and does up his seat belt while Meg launches into an explanation. “Sorry. I was trying this tutorial for jacket boning and every time I screwed it up and had to stitch rip, impatient-me pulled the ‘just one more try’ card, until it was like five freakin tries, the fabric was totally perforated, and I was super late. Sorry, really.”

“It’s fine,” he says evenly when it becomes obvious she’s waiting for a response. What does she think he’s going to do, complain?

“When I was a kid there used to be this program called Dinner and a Movie. They’d play a movie, but interspersed through the movie, before commercial breaks they’d give you steps on how to make a theme dinner based on the movie. Like The Godfather and pasta. I was thinking you could pick a movie and I’ll cook something?”

“Okaaay?” Ryan answers, confused. There’s no reason to say no, it’s just weird. It’s not what he expected from one of the people who bought him without even speaking to him first.

Meg risks their lives to twist in the driver’s seat and look at him. “You alright? You sound out of it. Did the client mess with you?”

“Eyes on the road!”

“Ryan-”

“I’ll talk if you watch the road,” he hastily bargains.

“Fine, fine.”

“They always mess with you. That’s sort of the point of it.”

“No, the point is final communication. Isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I mean- Yeah. But that’s never gonna not mess with you. All mancers see how to alter the things that are, right? That’s why we’re mancers and you’re caeca. Being a necromancer means that what you see is the hole inside yourself. The place that another person can fit, temporarily. It’s like blowing up a balloon inside a tube. It fits, until it doesn’t, and that sudden <i>doesn’t</i> is a noticeable change. It’s just the balloon can talk. Or something. I probably don’t make any sense.”

“No, I get it,” Meg offers. And Ryan doubts she does, really, but he appreciates her attempt. It’s more than his curatores ever did.

Ryan thinks about it for a few minutes to the jaunty tune of instrumental music before the meal that’d hit the spot bubbles up. “Have you ever seen The Blues Brothers?”

“Yeah?”

“Then you know what I want. Do you know how to cook it?”

Meg snorts. “I know how to order fried chicken at a drive through, but I’ll figure it out.”

Meg turns into the next supermarket parking lot. She parks the car, then grabs her phone out of the cup holder and opens a cooking app. Ryan doubts she had it last night, if the stack of takeout containers in the garbage is anything to go by. Meg flips through a few variations on the theme before announcing “we need to go to Kohl’s when we’re done here. I don’t actually have a deep fryer.”

“Huh, you’re really going all out.”

Meg shrugs. “You’re fixing the drain. The least I can do is make you meals. Nothing with beets though, I hate those.”

“I think I can live a beet free existence.” It takes a second, but curiosity gets the best of him. “Why beets?”

“When I was younger one of my sisters told me they were cut out hearts and I totally bought it. I just can’t shake the ick, no matter how grown up I am.”

***

The next few weeks are like that; a combination of work being base standard, Meg performing random kindnesses towards him, Gavin essentially ignoring him, and chores once he gets home. In actuality though, the orders shake out fairly reasonably. Ryan might not mind them, if he had any sort of choice about doing them. The most demeaning is the drain work. Both of his keepers are heavily haired, Gavin with a beard and a wide thatch on his chest, Meg midback with extensions. The two of them shed almost as much as their pets. Meanwhile the house has terrible plumbing, and drains that back up if you so much as breathe on them. It’s his duty to patrol and clear the drains each time someone cooks or does dishes or showers. Beyond that, everything else is basic household upkeep, things expected of a roommate, not demanded of a mancer.

Things change drastically three weeks in. It starts with Ryan waking up suddenly. The absence of hair on his bare shoulders clues him in. Meg’s gone. For a few minutes he stays unconcerned. She has to pee, so what? It’s when her absence drags on that he starts getting uneasy. No midnight piss takes this long. Could this be a test? One of his tasks is to stay with her all night. Maybe she wants to see how long it’ll take him to realise he’s not performing to the proper standard. And if that’s it- shit. Even grade schoolers know failing tests is a bad thing. There haven’t been any punishments or degradations yet, but then, he’s been doing his tasks. The stark truth of being a mancer; you never really know your owners until you disappoint them for the first time.

Intent on saving his own ass, Ryan hurries out of bed. He searches the house room by room, naked because if he finds Meg while clothed she’ll think he wasn’t irrationally frantic about her wellbeing. The more of a show he can put on, the better off he might be. Soon the only room left is Gavin’s quarters. It’s an office with a bed or a bedroom with hundreds of thousands in equipment, depending on who you ask. Ryan’s been told not to go in, but Gavin’s barely interacted with him in the last three weeks. When weighing the active threat of Meg testing him to the potential threat of Gavin finding out he’s gone inside, Ryan’s going with the real problem.

He’s not expecting the sight he sees when he opens the door. Despite it being four am, Gavin’s awake, sitting on his bed. He’s got his laptop balancing half on a pillow, half on a thigh. Rather than lounging comfortably against the grey tufted headboard he’s arched to the side like some yoga bullshit that hurts more than it helps. Meg is curled deeply into an arm.

“Mmmm, you did come look for me,” Meg murmurs sleepily.

“Told you he would.” Gavin’s voice, soft and sweet towards his girlfriend hardens a little once it’s aimed at him. “She had a nightmare. You were asleep, so she came to me.”

Oh Jesus fucking shit. This is the kind of shit mancers get sold off for. “I’m- I’m sorry-” he can’t say why the hell didn’t you wake me up, that implies it isn’t his fault. “I wish I’d woken up sooner. Sorry, seriously, so sorry. Is there anything I can do now?” She seems almost asleep, surely she doesn’t want to get out of the warm spot to go back to the other bedroom.

“C’me’re.”

Ryan steps as close as he can to her, shins hitting the bedframe.

“She means get in, you mong. Give her a rub.”

Meg’s laying on her side with her face smashed against Gavin’s ribcage. The best Ryan can do is lay down low on the mattress and stroke his hand up her thigh and hip, then back down again.

Ryan is the last to fall asleep. Meg drifts off first, and Ryan makes sure to keep up the soothing petting, just in case that’s what got her there. Despite it all, he doesn’t want her to have nightmares. Gavin is next, his spooning relaxing as his muscles no longer hold. His laptop topples off his pillow and Ryan breathes a sigh of relief when it stops short of falling off the bed. As for himself, Ryan tries to hold on to consciousness. It would really suck to get dinged twice in one night for the same mistake. Yes there weren’t really any consequences the first time he fucked up, but maybe they were just too sleepy to care.

Fatigue is a battle that’s impossible to win, however. Before he knows it he’s struggling to keep his eyelids up. He’s in his undies, and against best judgement Ryan grabs a throw flung over the footboard and covers himself. Not to fall asleep in, of course. Just to warm his goosebumped skin.

He wakes to the gentle rhythm of the bed jostling. He cracks open one eye to make sense of it, and rapidly opens the other when his brain clues in. In general Meg’s clothes haven’t left much to the imagination, and despite Ryan trying to be careful with his hand placement, snuggling someone for weeks straight clues you in to the feel of them. What he previously would have considered first hand knowledge pales in the face of this experience. Meg’s on her back, sleep boxers nowhere to be seen, no doubt flung across the room. Her shirt is rucked up over her breasts. The way that Gavin’s hands and body are technically covering her do nothing for modesty.

“Oh, you’re up,” Meg notices eventually.

“Been watching long?” Gavin smirks. Or he tries to, at least, but he’s been fucking Meg long enough that his mouth is a little too open-mouthed panting for a true smirk. The attitude should rub Ryan the wrong way, like it has the few interactions they’ve had so far. Maybe it does, a little. There’s also no denying that he could have left the room, or if he was too concerned about orders to stay with Meg to move, at least close his eyes. Instead he knows what it looks like when Gavin bites Meg’s chest, and wants to return the favour.

“What if I have?” he asks defiantly.

“Then I’d say we’re not asking you to do this. Let’s get that clear. But we’re telling you we wouldn’t say no.”

In the dim light of sunlight peering past a blackout curtain it’s easy to dismiss the reasons this could be a mistake. So without giving it a second thought, Ryan rolls onto his back and raises his hips until he can slide off his boxers. That should a pretty clear statement of intent.

Gavin pulls out of Meg to rest on his haunches. He dramatically gives Ryan a head to toe once over. Ryan doesn’t squirm. He may lack agency in a lot of areas of his life, but in bed he knows exactly how to feel on top. The more people interested by him, the better. Gavin must appreciate the confidence, because the next thing he does is swoop down to grab Ryan by the neck and pull him up into a kiss. If it’s a test it’s one Ryan passes easily. Gavin doesn’t have the freshest morning breath, but he’s good with his tongue and it’s been a month since Ryan last touched someone with the goal of intimacy. How could he not react enthusiastically?

“Any ideas?” Gavin prompts him the moment they separate. “Anything you want to bring to the table?”

Meg’s take on the question is a bit kinder, unsurprisingly. “What’s your favourite thing to do?”

Well, if he’s doing this, might as well do this fully. “Sit on my face.”

“Who? Me?” Meg gestures.

“Sure,” Ryan says amicably. He is an equal opportunist when it comes to eating out. Whoever claims his tongue first can have it.

To Ryan’s delight, she takes him literally. With a slow and sexy shuffle overtop Gavin, breasts pressing firmly against him, she winds up planting a knee on either side of Ryan’s head. She lowers herself down and as she does, naturally spreads wider. It’s a fucking glorious sight, her cunt looming in closer and closer, flushed red. There’s a fucking reason Ryan loves eating people out. Well, okay, there are a few, but one this is; the purely hedonistic sight of sexual areas so close up. Meg finishes her descent and suddenly sight is gone, replaced by other senses. Smell and taste are the important ones now.

Except he can’t actually taste. It’s like a bullshit porno, sex that looks good from an angle but does nothing for the participants. From Gavin’s perspective it probably looks sexy and fantastic. From Ryan’s it’s not good. Meg is just barely in contact with him. She’s holding herself up, and what’s he supposed to do with that?

Ryan uses his shoulders to shift a few inches up the mattress. Just enough so that he can talk unmuffled. “Look, I can’t eat you out if you won’t put your cunt on my mouth, okay? That’s just basic logic.”

“I’m not trying to pull some girl shame bullshit, but I weigh some pounds. Human faces aren’t meant for that weight.”

“I’m mildly horrified you think I’m a virgin. I know exactly what my cheekbones can support, and it’s more than you think. Just fuckin’ go for it, okay?” Ryan pulls her perfect ass closer and she actually goes with the movement. The moment her lips are on his, he does his best to use his mouth the way she likes.

Ryan can feel the heat of Gavin against his side. If he had to guess Gavin’s angled behind Meg, something like kissing her neck or tickling her spine. Or maybe he’s being too much of a romantic and Gavin’s just playing with her breasts. Whatever it is, she’s into it. Ryan can tell. And Ryan himself likes the texture of an exceptionally hairy thigh against him. It’s been a while. Not to mention the suffocation. He really fucking likes the suffocation. He can barely breathe, and the only word for it is awesome.

She’s close now. Meg’s grinding down on his face, increasing the pressure so much he can barely keep licking her. All he can hear is the pounding of pulses, Meg’s and his own, but he imagines Gavin’s whispering filth in her ears.

When she comes, it’s more subtle than he’s expecting. She doesn’t scream loud enough to be heard through her skin, or squirt like he’s opened a shaken soda bottle, both of which he’s experienced before. Instead it’s stiller. Meg clamps down. She locks in one movement, a big counter to the directed undulating she’s been doing. She stays frozen for a ten count, and Ryan does his best to guess what she wants in that moment. Then Gavin’s supporting her climb off, like a good boyfriend who invites third parties into the room.

It always feels like a job well done, the exposure of cold air to his wet face. Victory, or something like it. That said, it’s only one part of a three part equation.

“I don’t think I want you to fuck me,” Gavin says.

“That’s fine.” Gavin exudes surprise about his easy acceptance, but why would Ryan try to demand something someone’s not into? That’s shitty.

“But, maybe, like, a finger or something. Maybe?”

“Okay,” Ryan sames in the same tone. He doesn’t think he will. Gavin sounds too much like he’s trying to placate annoyance that Ryan doesn’t feel.

Meg laughs a little, smile to match. “What Gavin isn’t saying is eat him out too.”

“You sure?”

“Yep. Gavin’s got a reluctance fetish, but you don’t know that, and I’d like to get this sexy show on the sexy road, okay?”

The information strikes Ryan oddly. He doesn’t know what to do with it. He imagines holding Gavin down and doing ...something undecided, and can’t say if it’s hot. But that’s really a later problem, an advanced tactics thing. Right now he has the info that he needs, that he can shove his tongue up Gavin’s ass and they’ll both like it, if for different reasons.

“Wanna go wipe with a facecloth? You know, just in case?”

For a second he’s not sure if Gavin’s going to go. He seems stuck on the bed, frozen in blushing horror. Then he gets up and scurries out.

“See?”

So maybe Ryan’s previous assumption was wrong and he’s not a dirty talker. Gavin’s apparently an innocent soul. A freakin’ blusher. Then again, how many innocent snowflakes like fake force?

He comes back into the room only about a minute later. “So it’s fine,” Gavin says flapping a hand in the general area, “but uh, I’m not sure about this?”

“Yeah you are, apparently,” Ryan replies. It’s not like he won’t stop if Gavin says it and means it. That goes without saying. It just sounds like Gavin isn’t prone to meaning it.

Sure enough, Gavin inches close to the bed. “How- Where do you want me?”

Ryan considers it for a second. What he’d most enjoy is Gavin assuming the position Meg did, just directly on his face so he’s fucking smothered by it all. That’d be a memory he could jerk off to. It might be a bit much to ask of Gavin though. It puts him in the power position, like he’s making it happen. With an act he’s so embarrassed by -he’s still flushed- it’s too much.

“Lay on your stomach,” he demand, tone a bit rougher than he’d normally go with.

Gavin does and Ryan repositions himself far lower on the bed. From where he is now, he can easily grab both of Gavin’s hairy ass cheeks and squeeze enough to make the man jump. A combination of lack of negative reaction and a glance at Meg’s smiling face says he’s done well. Ryan spreads Gavin’s cheeks and lowers his head enough to lick up his crack. Then he really goes to town, burying his face for the most length of tongue he can possibly have. He’s not reaching prostate, of course, but Gavin’s squirming like he is.

A few minutes in the man underneath him starts waving his hips from side to side like he’s trying to escape the overwhelming sensation, and Ryan has no choice but to grab him by the hips to hold him in place. It has the bonus of allowing Gavin’s asscheeks to spring closed. Or at least as much as they can be closed with a face lodged between them. It’s the best feeling, to be surrounded, and it’s the second time this morning Ryan’s getting it.

He keeps his tongue going, expanding and contracting Gavin’s rim and making him crazy. And he was half right in his earlier assumption. Gavin might not be a titillating dirty talker, but he is producing amazing stream of consciousness cursing. They’re half muffled, and a quick look up during a gasp of breath shows why. Gavin is white knuckle death gripping one of the pillows and his face is jammed into the soft fill. Still, he’s clear enough to be heard, all the <i>oh fuck</i>s and <i>christ shit</i>s and <i>oh fuck my gob shiteing fuck</i>s. The more nonsensical they get, the more proud Ryan feels. Gavin wanted this because he didn’t think he wanted it, and Ryan’s making him love it.

Meg’s not soothing him. It makes sense, if this is their thing. What she does do, after a while, is coax her arm past? Ryan’s throat. He can’t say for certain, but he has to guess she’s playing with his cock. After a second Gavin’s attempted squirming and humping gets all the more hysterical. Ryan decides to go with the flow and change tasks slightly. He switches one of the hands holding Gavin to cup his balls. He tries a few different things, stroking and very lightly squeezing, but it doesn’t seem to add anything to the experience for Gavin.

Undaunted by the lack of reaction Ryan moves his hand again. Actually, both. One’s back on Gavin’s cheek, helping the spread of flesh. The other gets in closer, a finger pressing alongside his tongue. There’s enough spit now that it sinks inside without real lube. Ryan doesn’t even get to his prostate before that’s all she wrote. Gavin lets out a whine of a ‘haaaah’. It raises an octave as it stretches on.

“So what are you in the mood for?”

The question is somewhat impressive. In Ryan’s experience men are far worse at refractory periods for more sex acts than women are, and Gavin <i>just</i> came. Not only that, but given the last three weeks Ryan would put money he can’t own on the fact of Gavin not caring one whit about his existence and only keeping him for Meg’s sake. Even the way he was invited into bed lends proof to it. Reciprocating an orgasm though, that’s something Gavin doesn’t have to do. Maybe he’s more interested in the third in their house than Ryan’s credited him for.

“To fuck someone? A blowjob? It’s not gonna take much, I don’t think.”

Meg smiles at him. “I’ve got the standard working.”

Ryan assumes that means they’re about to fuck, safely. He’s not wrong. For the second time this morning Meg is climbing on top of him, much to Ryan’s approval. From there it doesn’t take long to finish. First times with someone are always exciting, and he’s been waiting the longest from onset of sexy times.

“We’ve got two showers, who wants to double up?” Gavin asks.

“Nah,” Ryan mumbles. He’s one of the aforementioned men that succumb to laziness once an orgasm hits. He’s got to get up for work in three hours, he’s not wasting a minute of that showering.

“Well I have to go pee to prevent a UTI,” Meg laughs a little, “but yeah, fuck showering. I wanna sleep. If you have to work, just go sit in the armchair.” Meg punctuates her statement by pulling Gavin’s bed’s blanket over Ryan. He feels it rather than sees it, eyes being dragged shut with happy exhaustion.

“No love, I’ll sleep too.”

Ryan hears the water running a minute later, temporarily alone in the room. He doesn’t last long enough to hear it shut off.

***

It comes as a huge surprise Thursday morning when Ryan gets out of the shower, gets dressed and goes to the kitchen to find not only Meg, but Gavin eating breakfast at the table. It’s very remotely possible that he came for the eats. Sausages aren’t something Meg’s made before. Usually it’s some variation of eggs while she nags him to eat something more filling than cereal, never mind that Ryan habitually slices fruit into his bowl for some non-carbohydrate content. Somehow though it just seems extremely unlikely that Gavin only eats one breakfast item, Meg knows this fact, and yet hasn’t bought any for three weeks.

“Come, let me pick your brain folds.”

“Sausages?” Meg asks over Gavin.

“No, I’m gonna have cereal.” He’s said it every day and for some reason it’s not quite annoying yet.

“‘Kay. I bought mango yesterday, if you wanna get creative. Otherwise it’s the usual.”

Maybe it’s that reason, the providing options thing. At his curatores house Ryan continuously had to reassert himself, and they never listened, never mind provided him with options. Meg’s listening, Ryan thinks.

Gavin flails for attention. “Have durian, for all I care. But shut up about Fruity Pebbles and give me your brain.”

“Okay?” This is likely the first real conversation they’ve had. The sex ones don’t count. Ryan’s not entirely sure what to expect, only that if it’s too much, Meg might step in. It’s more reassurance than he ever had at his curatores.

“If you found out there was a one in ten chance you could drive wherever you wanted in less than six hours, even New Zealand or Japan, even Atlantis or Sunnydale, but to do this you had to sell your home and live in your car, would you?”

“What?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“I guess, yes? I mean, there are so many really cool places you could go, what’s it matter that you don’t have a house? Er, do you get to sleep in hotels?”

“Yes,” Gavin says definitively. “Yes, but you can’t stay in a hotel for longer than a week, or it gets too close to a home because of routine. You have to really nomad it.”

“I still say yes, I can handle switching up hotels as long as I’m not sleeping on a belt buckle for the next thirty years.”

“What if, even when you get a family, you still can’t have a house? You have to raise an infant in the back seat, no height notches on the door frame or photo albums?”

“You can have photos, it’ll just be landscape pictures instead of weird portraits on the stairs. Yes, final answer. What’s this about though?”

Ryan digs into his breakfast and listens to Gavin explain. Turns out he’s asking people hypotheticals as research for a series of short films set in fantastical universes. Since the documentary burned him so badly, he decided to do a 180 and write the oddest fiction he could. He’s even come up with a universe in which there’s only one kind of mancy, instead of dozens. Ryan doesn’t say it out loud, but he thinks he’ll watch Gavin’s film once it’s completed. It’s a kind of creativity Ryan doesn’t have, but really appreciates.

***

Ryan’s playing a game on one of the thirty five computers Gavin owns when the man himself comes into the room. “Uh,” he hesitates. This could be about anything and like any grade schooler knows, better to let the authority state the purpose than backpedal and apologise for things they might not even know happened.

“Hey- Oh, that game’s top. Well, now I’m kind of torn.”

“Why?”

“Like I said, that game’s great. I know a great mod for it, I could go in the other room and we could battle.” That is an offer Ryan wasn’t expecting. “But the alternative’s pretty top too.”

“Oh yeah?” It’s the closest he’s getting to supporting a great idea as thought by someone he barely knows but will be obliged to follow.

“When I thought you were just faffing about, not busy, I was going to ask if you wanted to sex me.”

“To have sex?”

“You know, putting stuff places til you spaff.”

“Just with you? Will Meg be okay with that?” It’s odd. It’s not just a bluff to try to get left alone. Ryan would happily reexperience a few nights ago but Meg’s close enough to a friend that he doesn’t want to hurt her.

“Was planning to get Turney next. Already know the lovely woman will get with me, it’s you that’s the question, innit?”

Given the choice between online multiplayer and an orgasm or two, it seems pretty clear. “Let’s get Meg now, and I’ll destroy you in this game later.”

“No you bloody won’t, but later it is.”

As she is most evenings, Meg’s in her creation room. On first glance it looks like a sewing room, a serger and boxes of fabric take precedence. But cosplay takes much more than that. She has PVC pipes and resin and heat guns, not to mention about twenty styrofoam heads with wigs carefully placed. Even when she’s not making things she’s drumming up business with vlogging and slightly softcore photoshoots.

“Hey love. Can you put the spats down and come juggle some knobs?”

Meg looks up from her project and rolls her eyes. “That’s the least sexy thing I’ve heard all day, and I’m reading a Mira Grant book about parasites. But sure. You’re both cute, I think I can manage.”

She stands, and in one gliding movement takes off her shirt and starts on her bra. It’s a good look on her, if a little startling. “Here?”

She smiles at them. “I don’t see why not. We’ve already sullied it, don’t tell me you don’t remember.”

“Of course I remember a shag that great,” Gavin says, faux-hurt.

“Just don’t come on my self-healing mat. I’m honestly worried it’ll absorb it.”

This bout of sex starts just the same way that the sex a few nights prior ended. Meg’s clear favourite position is being on top, and Ryan sees no reason to deny her. She rides him furiously, ass continuously hitting his thighs with an audible smack. Ryan’s sure the pace is just as much for herself as it is for him. The way she’s biting her lip with her eyes screwed shut says it all.

Gavin’s close to them. Not content to be a simple voyeur, he’s got his right hand on her breast, roughly thumbing her nipple. The fact that Gavin’s left is playing with her asshole is a little unusual for women, but not at all out of character for the types of sex he’s been having with them so far.

Gavin leans in and pulls her purple hair back to murmur something in her ear.

“Shit yeah,” is her loud, emphatic response.

Ryan doesn’t ask, trusting that at least in this moment they’ve got his best interests in mind. He just keeps his tight grip on the meet of Gavin’s thigh and lets Meg set the rhythm that’s doing so well for the both of them. In the next minute though, she pulls off. She stays on her knees, legs spread wide to brace herself as she plays with her cunt. Meanwhile Gavin does one of the dirtier things Ryan’s had happen to him in bed.

Gavin leans down and starts sucking his dick. No, not sucking him. He very precisely starts licking Ryan’s dick. It’s like Gavin’s trying to lap up any of Meg’s juices from his cock. Only once Ryan is shivering and objectively completely licked clean does Gavin move back and Meg clamber back on top of him.

It happens twice more before Ryan comes. He expects a fourth go-over then, expects Gavin to follow the pattern. Gavin instead bares Meg to the bed and licks Ryan’s come out of her. It’s so dirty his spent cock twitches.

***

For a while Ryan attempts to convince himself that it’s two separate impulses. He likes to hangout and spend time with Meg after work, and is equal parts amused and annoyed by Gavin, the man with the most stupid hypotheticals in the world: impulse one. He really enjoys having great sex with the pair of them: impulse two. At some point though, self illusion wears away.

He’s at work when the last smudges of it smear off. It’s post funeral, he’s in a room with fifty plus septuagenarians who spent the last hour listening to Ryan and his coworkers speak in the voice of Petal Purdue, queen of the card table at Willow Tree Retirement Home, and he doesn’t want to be here anymore. He wants to be home, he wants to fuck Gavin and Meg and eat a ridiculously unsexy meal like ribs while they’re still naked in bed, and for their kisses to taste like the garlic that’s in the sauce. He wants the residue of Petal off of his aching brain, and he wants to be with his keepers, because they’ll make the gaping hole shrink closed.

It occurs to Ryan about ten seconds after he starts the conversation that he could have looked this up online. The internet has trillions of pages, surely someone has discussed this before. And honestly, probably much more concisely than Michael will. There’s no backing out now though, not after starting with “Hey, can I talk to you about something?” Ryan’s never used that phrase once in the two years of working with him, Michael must know something’s up.

“Yeah man, whatever.”

“How do you deal with Lindsay owning you?” Judging by Michael’s expression, the question sounds as annoyingly caeca-minded as it felt coming out of his mouth. “Bear with me, okay?”

Michael sighs, heavily. “Gimme one of those bottles of wine and I’ll let you ask whatever dumb questions you want.”

Procuring the wine is as easy as sidling up to one of the few tables that doesn’t have old people sitting at it, and taking the bottle from the centerpiece. Ryan takes a goblet too, just so Michael’s not the inappropriate man chugging directly from the bottle. Geoff woudn’t fire him for it, but he’d definitely get yelled at.

“I’m not really asking how your relationship started.” At Michael’s pointed raised eyebrows, Ryan capitulates, “I guess it sounds like it. But it’s not what I mean, not really.”

“So what do you mean then, if you don’t want the auction table origin story?”

“Every mancer knows from the first day of people-noticing puberty that they have a limited dating pool. Genetically speaking, it’s important the world stays at equilibrium. Whether or not the Abbrams prophecy of marriage is trustworthy-”

“Fuckin’ drunk,” Michael mutters. Slightly pot-kettle coming from the man on his third cup of wine in as many minutes, but on the other hand, Abbrams was a notorious alcoholic.

“Whether or not you believe the prophecy, the population needs to stay at current level, which means mancer-caeca couplings. I’ve dated before, I’m not a fucking sadsack. And I’m not completely dense, I get that marriage will by necessity mean being purchased. It’s not like future hypothetical loved one would ever want to move in with my curatrix. I didn’t want to move in with my curatrix, by the time I was twelve. There just seems like this huge chasm between loved then bought and bought then loved.

“There are only so many ways to get together. Watch a few romcoms and you’ll learn that fast.” Romcoms, just another place Ryan could have gone for this subject without having to talk about it. “As far as I’m concerned, the how is way less important than the why. Why do you want to spend time with her? Why does her laugh make you shiver? Why does she smell so good? Fuck the how, think about the why.”

“It’s that easy for you?”

“Did I fucking say it was easy? We’re not caeca, life isn’t easy for us. But given the lesser fucking choices we were deigned to be given, that’s what it comes down to. Is the why of being with her- Or them, I guess, I assume you like both of them. Is the why of being with them more important than the how? Because if it is, fucking date the shit out of them.”

***

“Before we have sex again I need to bring something up.” Ryan blurts it out during dinner. Maybe not the best time to have a serious conversation, but chances of someone initiating sex before Meg goes to bed and Ryan goes with are high. Over buttered peas and steak is better than once Gavin’s taken his pants off.

“Gavin’s lube is too sticky and gross,” Meg offers.

“Meg should tie her hair up instead of yelling at me for accidentally pulling on it during missionary when it’s all splayed under her.”

“Neither of those. Though I guess we could talk about those things once we finish this, depending on how it goes.” It’s not going to be necessary to talk about lube if he gets slapped down to his ‘proper place’.

“What’s going on?” Gavin’s cutlery is down on the placemat now, knife dripping melted butter from the way he’d been using knife and fork like chopsticks for dummies on the peas. He clearly gets that this is a conversation to pay attention to.

There are a few different ways to approach this, Ryan knows. He decides to start from the side. “So have you guys had sex with a previous mancer you’ve owned?”

“That question supposes we’ve had a previous mancer at all.” Meg’s got a tone of <I>obviously</i> that Ryan doesn’t appreciate.

“Excuse me. Caeca don’t have a fucking database.”

“It’s no, Ryebread. You’re our one and only.”

Ryan gestures at Gavin. “See, that, that right there is what I’m asking, I guess. Before we do this a bunch more, I have to know if we’re friends fooling around casually, a kinky couple using a new sexy toy, or if you like me and consider all the kitchen and den dates actual dates.”

“It started as kink.”

“Gavin!” Meg yells.

“Wot! He hardly wants us to lie, does he?”

“No. Please don’t.” That’s one of the few ways this situation could get worse; if they committed to liking him for the continuation of sex, then bailed in a few months because the feelings weren’t there, and had never been. Ryan would much rather cold honesty now, than a vast dragging out of it all.

“Ryan, I don’t know, Ryan. I’d date you if I wasn’t dating Meg, but two keepers on one mancer looks bad. Like we’re bullying you into it.”

It’s a mess of an answer, not what he expected to hear. It’s time to lay down his own messy opinion. “Do you feel like bullies? Because I haven’t felt bullied. I’ve had fun, and I like you. I would date you, both, at the same time. But if we are, you have to cut out the assigned tasks and shit like that. It’s not like I wouldn’t help out around here. Obviously everyone who shares a space should pitch in. It just has to be of my own volition.”

“You want us to keep you without having a say in your life?”

Ryan academically understands how it’s a difficult concept. Caeca are born knowing that if they get to a certain station in life, they get a mancer. It’s a prize dangled for the ambitious. Do enough in life, accrue enough money, and you’ll get the status of ownership, the right to design another person’s life. Practically, there’s a reason why half the mancers in the world resent the apocalyptic prophecy that started this whole system of society.

“Yes. That’s what I need, if you really want to continue the intimate part of our relationship. If you need some examples, ask practically every one of my coworkers.”

Meg looks at Gavin, and Gavin looks at Meg. Ryan really, desperately wants to look at the delicious, oily blood pool surrounding his steak and darkening his potatoes. Eye contact doesn’t feel like a good thing here. But looking away shows that he’s uncomfortable with subverting societal expectations, and that’s the wrong thing to portray. He knows it can be done, Geoff and Griffon, Michael and Lindsay, Jack and Caiti prove that. Even if it feels weird to ask, it’s what he wants.

“We’ll do it. No more sleeping with me, or helping with the plumbing.”

Ryan stretches out his arm and curls his hand around Meg’s arm. “I’ll snuggle because I want to, not because I’m ordered. It’ll be better.”

“Can you not post on social media that we’re letting you do whatever you want? My parents would glack me.”

Ryan rolls his eyes at Gavin. “I’m not starting a revolution. I’m not trying to kickstart the apocalypse. I’m trying to get myself a boyfriend and girlfriend. Stop being dumb.”

“Succeeded.”

“You’ve succeeded in not being dumb? I’m not sure I’ll live to see the day,” Meg jokes weakly, trying to lift the mood a little.

“No, idiots. Succeeded in getting a boyfriend and girlfriend. Or at least I think. Kiss to seal the deal?”

Jeremy grunted wordlessly as Ryan’s hands ghosted over him, didn’t even touch him and still caused him pain. Like some sort of force field was broken and even his personal bubble (which was apparently some kind of real thing one way or another) was popped and shattered enough to cause him pain. How did he even get here? Any other heist would’ve gone the same way. A big one like this always has them splitting off, usually into groups of two, and into safehouses around the city to lose their heat and lay low for a little while. JDoolz was somewhat surprised that some of these guys even knew the meaning of the words ‘lay low,’ The Vagabond most of all. Especially when he found out that they were, magically, one and the same, that their magic flowed through some channel in them that kept them alive. It meant they couldn't push themselves--that overdoing magic was literally suicide and it didn’t even make their magic stronger on average. . .unless handled correctly. Jeremy hadn’t grown up using his magic--he had physical strength, threw punches and dropped kicks that broke bones and spirits and whatever else there may have been. He didn’t need this dangerous energy anyway. But the magical criminal underground was a whole different ballpark than the one he’d been playing in, and somehow he went from admiring the abilities of the Fake AH Crew to joining them despite hardly being able to make a spark without hurting himself in his inexperience. “You’ll be fine.” Caleb had told him and his more magically skilled friend and partner Matt, who had agreed to join him in appealing to them, really only meaning to get a closer look. But somehow Caleb was right and while it wasn’t their intention, they’d entered a surprise inauguration after doing simple temp work to help them with some “games” and upcoming jobs. After Brownman’s departure, JDoolz was pushed up onto the plate. He didn’t see how he fit that empty space in their puzzle--wasn’t a sniper so much as he was a brawler--but quickly knew, despite whisperings outside the crew and by their own little militia of lackeys and wannabes, he didn’t need to. He was his own piece of a grander sort. And that piece needed some polish--magically--to get its bearings. Since his rise to the top he’d been placed under the masked member’s tutelage. It was rare that magic flowed and formed and was used the same way in two people who worked together, with one of them being skilled enough to be a teacher to boot. With that plan in place, Jeremy and Ryan were stuck together on jobs, when fleeing police, when hiding out from danger and wherever else it did or didn’t make sense. And when they weren’t, somehow they still crossed paths, when the Crew had some downtime Jeremy would practically chase him down to demand more magical lessons. He was a little surprised the Vagabond never grew tired of him, but he took advantage of the good fortune. Yeah. That was the start of it. Was his life flashing before his eyes? He really couldn’t even tell. Maybe he was just. . .reminiscing. In all that time, he still barely got to know the guy. Jeremy couldn’t help but wonder if Ryan was worried about the same. About missed opportunities between them. He’d’ve liked to think their feelings were mutual in that it was at least pretty cool to work with someone with the same kind of magic in every way. But when he slid his hazy eyes open, the Vagabond seemed impassive as ever. The absence of his mask didn't really occur to him in the dull thumping of his being. The makeup didn’t compare, but got across the same point, and the boney grin that served as his face was replaced by a painted on set of teeth, following his lips in a toothy scowl. “I might’ve fucked myself this time.” He croaked, thankful for the warm and solid presence of the Vagabond’s chest against his back and head, and the warmth and steady hold of his arms, surprisingly gentle around his body. He wondered if he’d’ve just let go if he were on his own.

Ryan had taught him something very important about their magical abilities. They could slowly regenerate on their own overtime, sure, but it was highly detrimental to their health to go too hard with it. The period of weakness, where his magic was inaccessible at risk of his life, where Ryan would zap him with a flash of lightning off the ground if he so much as started drawing on his power after a day of practice, to put it lightly, fucking sucked. To have all this power and not be able to use it, what was the point!? How was he supposed to be a magical asset to them if he could do so little? His complaints that day, in the car with the crew, escaping the cops after a simple robbery gone right, made Ryan chuckle. His face was invisible as usual, but even Jeremy could tell he was grinning beneath the mask. “Is your gun out, JDoolz?” Always about business, The Vagabond never called him by name. Glares at him if he started using his, even in safety and private. Somebody else had to tell him his “human” name (and they used those exact words and sometimes Jeremy didn’t question their legitimacy) and “Ryan” nearly snapped him in half when he wouldn’t share who did. Jeremy stroked his firearm and lifted it into the sight of the rear view mirror, receiving a nod from the skull in the passenger’s seat. “I’m going to teach you something.” He said, still sounding amused, even pleased at the idea. “Remember when I taught you to open your channels? So your magic would flow better and you could draw it wherever you wanted, instead of recklessly throwing magic around and hoping it went in the right direction?” “Well, yeah, that was like lesson one, why?” He’d taught him to make his punches even stronger, to protect the flesh of his hands with magic in and around his fists. He’d taught him to channel his magic through not only parts of himself (which was a fun lesson, one where he swore Ryan may have even been flirtatious towards him, although Jeremy dismissed it without much comment as he had a habit of flirting with anything that showed a sign of human life now and again) but through objects as well, and he sat on the porch swing of a safehouse and watched him shoot and cast magic through sticks “like a little wizard.” He loaded up brass knuckles with “sharpened” energy to brutalize enemies from the inside with only bruises and some cuts to provide any reasoning as to how. He wrapped bullets in magic to amplify pain and effects and even recourse bullets, which nearly knocked the wind out of him with just the effort. (He took him waterskiing to help him understand physically what needed to be done to manipulate a bullet’s course, to help him route magically how to make it all happen. Jeremy found the water skiing much easier. Ryan squeezed his bicep between two fingers and claimed it was understandable as he’d only just started and he’d never really relied on his magic before. His body’s muscles were stronger than his magical ones. He tried not to flex under the pinch.) “And when I shared my magic with you?” It was one of the most intimate experiences of his life, really. He’d never felt anybody touch him that way before. Nobody really knew about his magic and he didn't really consider it something be could feel until it was gone--and then along came Ryan, rolling his own energy over him in waves, like he was dragging cloth over his skin, and then it brushed his own and they threaded together and Jeremy had never felt so powerful before, let alone so intensely one with a person. And then Ryan cut his magic off and retracted himself from him, and despute the absence Jeremy still felt like he’d been injected with caffeine or cocaine or something. Ryan’s magic was just like his own, his body accepted it and welcomed it and he could use it and adapt it to his own needs but. . .it was something else entirely. And it was part of Ryan’s own life. In essence Ryan had healed him by giving up some of his own life, and Jeremy couldn’t imagine doing the same. It seemed utterly foolish. But even when that lesson was over, he played with and examined Ryan’s magical signature--the remaining life force he’d put in him--and kept a reserve of it for as long as he could. It meshed together too well with his own, still remained distinct and even acted almost as if it still wasn’t entirely part of him, nudging and twisting around his magic like a new pet examining its housemates. Like Ryan had truly given him part of himself. “Earth to JDoolz!” Gavin’s somewhat nasally voice cut in, nudging his side as if equally curious to the contents of the lesson. “What!? Uh, yeah, of course! Sorry, just--trying to remember how that worked again.” Ryan didn’t comment on the extended silence. “Well this isn’t going to be spoon fed to you, so you might wanna cut that out of your mind and think about how you’re gonna take it this time around.”

But there was no one to take it from now. He could certainly try taking it from Ryan, but if he wanted him to break his neck he could've probably just asked. No, hiding out in a safehouse, that wasn’t an option, what he’d taught him that day. Not to mention, in the days of sharing prior, he’d taught him that magic and life force were hard to just give away. It was easy for them, their magic so similar, but Jeremy’s own magic made it possible, otherwise he’d’ve had little to “grab onto” to thread it into him. And as far as magic went, he was pretty sure he was empty. To think he did all this to impress a guy not even worried about his coming death. . .at least he was kind enough to hold him whole he faded out.

Jeremy hung out the window, same side as Ryan doing the same, their guns aimed and firing. The police car swerving behind them made it a little hard to follow the given instruction of “shoot to kill” but it was nothing he hadn’t done before. Death came from Ryan first, of course, a well-aimed shot to the chest for the passenger’s side officer. Jeremy had noticed, as he got more in tune with his magic, the dispersing of life among the dead. Some life forces clung to their bodies, only to flow away as like smoke in the wind. Others clung on better and some didn’t stick at all, flying away like popped balloons full of helium into the ether. It wasn’t a visible phenomenon to Jeremy, but one he felt. It felt. . .nice, to free that life. It made him feel like his hair stood on end, excited and energetic. Powerful. But he never realized what a familiar sensation it had been until he was as close to Vagabond doing it as he was now, as close to understanding magical life force and such as he was that day. The officer had died, the life energy, through non magical, had fled the body. . .and then it drew closer. Pulled by some mystical force--more specifically, Ryan’s magical force, which felt like fog and oncoming storms, even when it had nothing to do with those things in its action--towards them, towards Ryan, a magical life vortex swallowing up the resulting energy and channeling it into him. And once it reached him, once Ryan brought it in, the conversion was near instantaneous and with little struggle of any meaning. Like all of Ryan’s life force, it became magic, took on that same feeling of an oncoming storm. “Your turn, JDoolz!” He breathed loudly and raggedly, pleased by the extra energy surging through him. The reaction from inside the car was mixed amazement and disturbance, most never having had seen the event so close.

“Hey, Ry--ugh, Vagabond. . . .” Jeremy grumbled, drawing up whatever physical energy he had left. He didn’t have a grand speech planned--he didn’t plan on any kind of death like this. He wanted to go out active, with a fight, not in practice! But Ryan looked down at him, an eyebrow raised as if surprised he was still hanging on. He wasn’t even trying to get him any help. He must’ve been hopeless. It actually made him a little angry, how little he seemed to care. Instinctively he tried to draw magic to his fist, only to recoil in pain as his muscles all cramped impossibly tight, like they were trying to shrink him. “I didn’t mean shit to you, did I?” He finally growled, eyes screwed shut. He hoped he wasn’t tearing up. He didn’t need to go out even more embarrassed. “That’s why you aren’t upset. You didn’t care from the start, did you. This was just another “bad idea” that Geoff made you go through with, right?” “To be honest,” Jeremy braced himself. He hoped Ryan didn’t notice. “I’m really just waiting for you to give up.” “Well I’m gonna miss you.” He admitted shakily, moving his aching arms so he could grab onto Ryan’s pantsleg tightly. “I’m gonna miss doing crimes and shit with you and getting drunk and letting you take care of me and learning shit from you and killing people with you and I’m gonna miss. . .I’m gonna miss the way it feels to have you in my life. Everyone, but you the most.” He really hoped he wasn’t dying now. He’d hate for his dying breaths to be so cheesy and compliant. The Vagabond didn't need his ego stroked any more than it already had been. Unfortunately, he chuckled over him and pinched his tightened bicep, a familiar little gesture of affection that lit the tiniest spark of hope in Jeremy’s mostly lifeless body. He couldn't bear (or perhaps didn’t have the energy to) try and shake him off. “Oh, no need to worry about missing me from your life for long.”

To pull a life force from another, that other must be willing or dead. Despite what the others joked about in fear, Ryan nor Jeremy could pull the life from their bodies to fuel and heal themselves. (Yet.) Jeremy took the shot and, with some struggle, nailed the driving cop’s head. Ryan said something about this one being easier--the life was trying to stay in the body, even though a corpse struggled to maintain any life at all. (They’d had several conversations about zombie possibilities. Jeremy made plans just in case, if only because he and Matt spent so much time with a certain How To crew who were on the Fakes’ side.) A life struggling to stay in its place meant it would stay still--the only issue being their quickly moving vehicle kept it a little challenging. Ryan enjoyed playing with the weather with his magic. He drew up rain and clouds and wind and lightning storms. So a cyclone, a vortex was easy for him. Jeremy stuck to more pressure-based magic usage, powering up other things he did or used rather than trying to make blasts of energy into flames or floods or just overwhelming pain. So manipulating his energy into its own tool wasn’t his strong point. And this was even more advanced than just that. “Hurry up, Jeremy!” He heard Michael yell over the wind and the whizz and clang of bullets. Panicked at the distance between him and the still warm body of his kill, Jeremy attempted to recreate the cyclonic effect Ryan had made, using his arm as a channeling device to make things a little easier on him. The resulting stroke of magic scratched a thick stripe into the street--too physically focused, not magical enough in its own right. Ryan grabbed him to steady him when he wobbled, trying to rein his power in. “Try making it an extension of your arm instead!” He yelled, muffled through his mask. “It's not going anywhere and you do much better when you have something to base your channeling on!” There, too, he pinched his bicep, then gave his shoulder a clap and held on to encourage him. He tried again, extending his arm and his fingers, extending his magic into a sort of glove around them, then extending it, occasionally flexing his fingers to make sure everything responded accordingly. Someday he hoped Ryan would teach him to see these things(it was a little scary to just push magic into your eyes--he’d hate to join the members of the group with vision problems just because he’d ruined his vision by trying to enhance it) but for now he relied on feeling and on faith. And when his magical claw reached the lingering life force he snapped his fingers over it and gasped, recoiling as his magic snapped back, eating at and converting the other’s life into his own. It fought, for sure, and it fought hard enough that Jeremy fell back into the lads’ laps back in the car, struggling against it as it was all pulled into him and only intensified with the proximity. His magic still unstable but strong, with some screaming and fighting (and a few elbows to the crotches and stomachs of his friends) he overcame it, his magic swallowing it up until it was gone and only he remained. “Sooo, how d'you feel?” Geoff asked as he calmed down and began to breathe normally, able to feel his stabilizing power. Jeremy looked around, trying to see what may have been different besides that they were all back in the car and speeding down the road,cops lost and no more shooting going on. Ryan was watching him, mask obscuring his expression, but he nodded at him in a way Jeremy took to be approval. “I, uh.” He sat himself up with little issue, looking around still. In disappointment, he whined “I may have lost my hat.” Then he examined himself, finding no physical damage seeming to have had lasted, and even his previous wounds seemed to have had cleared up or began to. He felt awake, like he could run a mile if not for old wounds. He felt more lively and energetic than he had all day. “Otherwise, pretty fucking great! Do I--do I have more magic now? Will I live longer?” “I mean, I can’t say anything about how long you’ll live, but you’ve certainly got more life reserve you can use for magic.” Ryan chirped, popping the cowboy hat back onto Jeremy’s head, to his excitement. “Not bad for a first try.”