CHAPTER 18

  Confession

  As Luis's breathing deepened into sleep and Patrick's silhouette stilled, Bash lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

  He didn't let himself drift. Didn't let the void pull him under. Not tonight. The woman's face kept surfacing. Ella Okon. The way her terror had frozen her solid as they fastened that collar around her neck. The way she'd stopped struggling, stopped begging, stopped everything.

  And before that, back in Old Village. The man forced into prayer. Both times, Bash had stood there. Watched. Done nothing.

  God damnit. He thought, sitting up slowly, careful not to make the bed creak. His feet found the cold floor. He stood, grabbed his boots, and crept toward the door. The handle turned with only the smallest of sounds.

  “Where are you going?” Patrick's voice cut through the dark. Firm. Maybe suspicious.

  Bash froze. “No… Nowhere! Just... the bathroom.”

  A grunt. Patrick rolled over, putting his back to Bash.

  Bash slipped through the door and eased it shut behind him. The hallway stretched before him, barely visible. The only light came from below, a single lantern hanging on a hook in the common room, its flame throwing long shadows up the stairs.

  He descended slowly, each step measured, avoiding the boards that looked like they might protest.

  The common room was empty. The bard had left hours ago and even the NPC’s had been put to bed by whatever system governed this place.

  Bash reached the front door and hesitated. What's my plan? What am I doing?

  “Just taking a look,” he whispered a reply to his own thoughts.

  Right. Like last time you ‘just took a look.’ Fought an army of bandits. Killed a man.

  Carl's ruined face flashed behind his eyes. The blood. The sound his skull had made.

  Bash shook his head. No. This time was different. This time he really was just looking.

  He opened the door and stepped into the night.

  The street was wrong. Not dangerous-wrong. Empty-wrong. The kind of silence that pressed against your ears. Every window shuttered tight. Every door barred. No drunks stumbling home, no lovers sneaking between shadows, no merchants making late deliveries.

  You could always tell a city's character by its nightlife and this place had none.

  Bash moved through the dark, keeping to the edges where the shadows pooled deepest. His boots barely whispered against the cobblestones. The buildings loomed overhead, their upper stories blocking out the stars, turning the streets into tunnels.

  Every few blocks, a torch guttered in an iron sconce, casting circles of weak orange light. Bash avoided them, skirting the edges, trying to stay invisible.

  He retraced their path from earlier, following the memory of where the priests had dragged Ella. Past a familiar row of homes. Past the wall where children had played dice under Maximus's painted sneer. The sneer looked worse at night, the shadows filling his eyes, making them hollow.

  The street ended at a junction. Left or right.

  “Damnit,” Bash muttered. “Which direction?”.

  Then he heard it. Voices. Flickering light bleeding around a corner to the left.

  He pressed himself into an alley, back flat against the cold stone, and waited.

  Two figures emerged. White robes catching the torchlight. That same picture of Maximus's face stitched across their chests.

  One of them looked familiar. The same priest from the square. The one who'd produced the collar.

  What luck, Bash thought grimly.

  The priests turned right and continued down the street, their voices low, words indistinct.

  Bash counted to ten. Then he slipped out of the alley and followed. Keeping his distance he stuck to the shadows, only moving when they moved, stopping when they stopped. Every few seconds, his Oracle skill flickered at the edge of his vision, tracing probability lines in the dark. Amber warnings. Potential threats.

  The priests turned down another street. Bash crept to the corner and peered around. A courtyard opened before him. Larger than expected. And at its center, rising from the darkness, stood a temple.

  Black stone columns. Iron doors. And flanking the entrance, two massive statues of Maximus, their faces carved into expressions of divine judgment. In daylight, they probably looked imposing. At night, lit only by scattered torches, they looked like the devil.

  The temple doors were just closing as the two priests disappeared inside.

  Bash smiled. Gotcha. Straightening, he smoothed his clothes. Adopted the posture of someone who belonged. Someone who had every right to be here.

  Stepping around the corner, Bash walked toward the temple like he owned the place.

  A guard at the gate, who had been half-dozing, snapped wide awake, hand going to his sword. “Halt! State your business past curfew!”

  Bash didn't slow. Didn't hesitate. Confidence was everything. “I'm here on urgent church business,” he said, letting his skill nudge the words toward believability.

  The guard's eyes unfocused for a moment as Tactical worked its magic. Then he shook his head, as if clearing cobwebs, and his expression hardened. “Show me your pass!” He pulled his sword a few inches from its sheath.

  Bash hesitated, “Oh, sure, my pass,” he said, still walking closer. “Let me just check my pockets here...” Making a show of patting himself down, he first checked his left pocket. Then right pocket and back pocket. Each pat bringing him one step closer.

  “I know I have it somewhere...” Another step. “My supervisor is going to kill me, I swear I had it when I left...” Another step. “Ah, here it is.” He pulled his hand from behind his back and held up his middle finger.

  The guard's face twisted in confusion. “What?”

  Bash's other fist swung around and connected with the man's face before they even realized what happened. The punch had more force behind it than Bash intended, way more, and the guard's head snapped back with a crack that echoed off the courtyard walls. The man crumpled backward, collapsing behind the low wall surrounding the temple grounds.

  Bash froze, hand still extended, staring at his own fist.

  Okay. A bit softer next time.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  He glanced around. The courtyard remained empty. The torches flickered. Nothing moved.

  No one saw that. Probably. Hopefully.

  He hurried over to the fallen guard, grabbed them by the ankles, and dragged them between the wall and a row of decorative bushes. The unconscious, or maybe dead body fit surprisingly well into the gap, as if the game world had planned for this exact scenario.

  Bash stood, brushed off his hands, and gave the bushes a little pat. “You stay there. Good talk.”

  Straightening his armor, he continued his casual stroll toward the temple doors, whistling innocently.

  Entering the temple, he moved quickly to one side and closed the large door behind him.

  Turning, the interior made him gape. It was the Old Village temple scaled up to cathedral proportions. The ceiling soared overhead, lost in shadow, supported by columns carved with scenes of Maximus's supposed glory. Stained glass windows lined the walls, though in the darkness they were just shapes, waiting for dawn to give them color.

  And at the far end, dominating the space, stood a massive statue of the man himself. That same outstretched hand. That same benevolent smile. That same look that said “trust me” while everything else screamed “run.”

  What a piece of work, Bash thought, his lip curling. I see through your bullshit. He circled along the edge of the main chamber, keeping the columns between him and the open center. Several doors lined the back wall, and two more on the opposite wall. On his side, no doors, but something else caught his eye: a row of confession booths, dark wooden structures with curtained entrances. Catholic church aesthetic, Maximus cult edition.

  Voices echoed from somewhere deeper in the temple. Getting closer.

  Bash darted into the nearest booth and pulled the curtain shut behind him. The space was cramped. Barely room to stand. A small bench. A mesh screen separating his side from the other.

  He pressed his eye to a gap in the curtain and watched. A priest entered the main chamber, with two figures trailing behind him. Both wore the distinctive white clothes of temple servants, and both had metal collars glinting at their throats. Both Uploads, but neither was Ella.

  “Clean the cathedral before morning prayers,” the priest ordered. “I want every surface spotless.”

  The two servants nodded mutely. The priest turned and disappeared through one of the back doors.

  Bash sat in the darkness of the confession booth, his breathing loud in his own ears. His heart thudded against his ribs. Every creak of the old wood made him flinch.

  The two servants began their work. Folding cloths. Straightening candles. Moving with the mechanical efficiency of people who'd done this several times before.

  Minutes passed. Bash's legs started to cramp. His back ached from the awkward position.

  Am I really going to sit here all night? He watched the servants work. They weren't paying attention to anything except their tasks. Their collars glinted in the candlelight.

  Screw it. He pushed open the curtain and stepped out, walking around the edge of the chamber like he had every right to be there. Like he was just another priest doing priest things.

  The two servants saw him and froze.

  Bash didn't slow down. Didn't acknowledge them. Just kept walking, following the curve of the wall toward the back doors.

  Behind him, he heard frantic whispering. “Should we tell the priest?”

  “We have our own problems. Go back to work.”

  Bash glanced over his shoulder. The one who'd spoken, a woman with tired eyes and gray streaking her hair, met his gaze. He gave her a small, respectful nod. She turned away and resumed folding.

  As soon as he rounded the massive statue, putting it between himself and the servants, Bash let his shoulders drop. Let out a breath. Thank god. That could have gotten really awkward. In a sad kind of way.

  He shuddered at the thought, then reached for the nearest door handle and pulled it open.

  To Bash’s surprise, Ella stood on the other side, her eyes going wide with shock.

  Bash barely had time to register her face, before his gaze shifted slightly to the left, where the same priest from before stood frozen, hand outstretched, reaching for the same door handle Bash had just pulled open.

  For one eternal second, nobody moved. Then Bash slammed the door shut and stared at the closed door.

  “Wait. That's not right.” He opened it again. The priest was already halfway down the corridor, robes flapping, running like his life depended on it. Which, Bash supposed, it did. Ella still stood in the same spot, still staring, apparently too shocked to move.

  Bash took off after the priest. The man had a head start, maybe fifteen feet, but Bash's stats made the difference. His legs pumped, eating up the distance with terrifying speed. Faster than any human should move. Faster than any Olympic sprinter could dream of.

  He nearly overshot the priest entirely, skidding to adjust, then grabbed the back of the man's collar.

  The priest's legs kept churning even as his body stopped. He nearly flipped up into the air, feet swinging forward, a strangled yelp escaping his throat.

  Bash raised his other hand and slapped it against the side of the man's head. Just a slap. Just enough to knock him out. But instead of knocking him out, the priest's neck snapped sideways with a wet crack and he went limp instantly. Bone jutted from the side of his throat. Blood spurted upward in lazy arcs, spattering across Bash's arms, his chest, the wall.

  Bash stood there, holding a corpse by the collar, watching blood drip onto the stone floor. Seriously? I even held back this time!

  Looking around, Bash saw a large wicker basket sitting against the wall, overflowing with what looked like dirty laundry. Good enough.

  He dragged the body over, popped off the lid, and unceremoniously shoved the priest inside. The body didn't quite fit, so Bash delivered a few strategic elbow drops to compress things, then jammed the lid back on.

  There. Problem solved. He turned around, plastering the biggest, most sincere smile he could manage onto his blood-spattered face.

  Ella stood at the end of the corridor still frozen, staring.

  “Hey,” Bash said, spreading his arms in what he hoped was a welcoming gesture. “I'm here to rescue you.”

  She screamed.

  “No, no, shush!” He stepped closer, hands raised. “I'm the good guy here! Stop screaming!”

  She did not stop screaming.

  A door at the far end of the corridor burst open. A guard filled the frame, sword already drawn, face twisted with righteous fury. “HALT!”

  All his fantasies crumbled in that instant. The grateful damsel. The tearful thanks. The way she'd throw her arms around him and tell him he was brave and good and everything she'd hoped for. Instead he got screaming. And guards. And more screaming.

  Story of my life. He turned and ran. Past the statue of Maximus with that stupid outstretched hand and that punchable smile. Past the two Uploads still cleaning, who looked up just long enough to see a blood-covered man sprinting through the building before wisely returning to their work.

  The front doors slammed open under his palms and the night air hit his face and he just kept running, out into the courtyard, past the probably dead guard in the bushes, into the dark streets beyond.

  Behind him, a bell began to toll. Alarm. Pursuit.

  The streets blurred past him, a maze of identical buildings and identical corners and identical wrong turns. Behind him, voices shouted. Dogs barked. Torchlight bounced off walls.

  Why did she have to do that? he thought desperately. I was so close. I could have saved her.

  He was faster than the guards. Faster than the dogs. But he had no idea where he was going. He swore he'd passed that same cobbler's shop three times now.

  “He went that way!” “No, you idiot, that way!” “Split up!” “Cover the alleys!”

  This is bullshit, Bash ducked down another side street. Why did I even bother? Nothing ever goes the way I plan.

  He rounded a corner and skidded to a stop. Dead end. Brick walls on three sides. No doors. No windows. No escape.

  “Shit. Shit shit shit.” He spun around just as torchlight began bleeding into the alley entrance. Shadows of men and dogs stretching toward him.

  Cornered. He looked up. The buildings rose three stories on either side, their walls rough and pitted with age.

  Worth a shot. He jumped. His enhanced stats launched him a good twelve feet into the air, arms reaching for the roofline. Not even close, he came crashing back down.

  Okay. Can't jump it. What about climbing?

  He'd never climbed anything in his life. Not really. But what if he could cheat? He activated Investigator and focused his intent. Handholds. Footholds. A way out.

  The overlay flickered to life, painting glowing highlights across the wall. A crack here. A jutting brick there. A window ledge. A drainage pipe.

  The shouting grew louder. Closer.

  No time to do this gracefully. Bash threw himself at the wall. He grabbed the first glowing handhold and pulled, not bothering with his feet, just hauling himself upward with pure arm strength. Grab, pull, grab, pull.

  The highlights guided him, showing the next hold before he'd even reached for it. His arms burned. His shoulders screamed. Stats or no stats, he was basically doing vertical pull-ups at sprinting speed.

  Ten seconds later, he cleared the lip of the roof and rolled onto flat stone, gasping for breath.

  Below, the alley filled with soldiers.

  “Where did he go?!” “I saw him come down this alley!” “Shut up and keep looking!”

  Bash lay flat on his back, staring up at the stars, chest heaving, his arms cooked.

  After a moment, he turned his head.

  A window sat open across from him. And in that window, a petite woman with a cigarette dangling from her lips stared directly at him.

  Bash raised his hand in a little wave.

  The woman slowly stubbed out her cigarette, reached up, and closed the shutters without a word.

  “God, I hate this city,” Bash muttered, pushing himself to his feet.

  He made his way across the rooftops, eventually finding a way down, and spent the next hour wandering lost through streets. By the time he found the inn, the sky was starting to lighten at the edges.

  Dragging himself up the stairs, Bash paused at the latrine long enough to scrub off the night’s activities. The mirror judged him, reflecting back a tired face with hollowed out eyes and dark bags underneath.

  Easing open the door to their room, he crept over and collapsed onto his cot, without bothering to take his armor off.

  Patrick's voice came from the darkness. “How was the piss?”

  Bash rolled over to face the wall. “Shut up. Don't ever talk to me again.”