Saving the school would have been easier as a cafeteria worker

Chapter 103

It had been a lengthy run through urban sprawl and fallow fields before arriving at the colosseum he'd visited so long ago. He'd slowed when he reached the perimeter, leisurely strolling toward his final destination. Some watching might misinterpret it as a power move, but in reality, he was simply reminiscing.

During his last visit, from the moment he stepped off the train, he'd had to contend with a veritable sea of people. They'd been on the platform, crowding stalls, and fighting their way toward the entrance. All the while, their incessant chatter melded into a dull roar.

He remembered being annoyed at the commotion, rushing through the plaza to enter the colosseum proper.

Cal approached one of the vacant stalls. They'd been arranged in a way to funnel the crowds toward the entrance, but now he wondered how they hadn't been overrun entirely. Each was little more than plywood and iron poles, with a few of the more fortunate ones having rolled up awnings.

He knocked against the counter, hearing it creak. No cabinets or storage bins were in sight, suggesting they either packed everything away at day's end or just tossed whatever remained.

Cal tried to recall what they'd been selling. Clay cups with rudimentary signs, flimsy toy swords, and dubious copper amulets. He'd described it as cheap crap at the time, but now he regretted not purchasing something. It didn't particularly matter what it was, just that he had something.

He left the stall alone, continuing down the plaza. Even at the distance he still had to cover, it was impossible not to think about the colosseum looming over him. Its red granite arches were stacked tall, their maws open with a foreboding sense of welcome.

Deciding to ignore that sensation, Cal refocused on the job at hand. What prompted him to ask Miss Plusier about meeting with Infinita Nox was the presence of The Watcher in the Waste. That had been an organized operation, and signs pointed them to rearing beasts for cores, potentially summoning demons for the same purpose.

Considering Romero's current supply problems, Cal thought it was safe to assume they'd been the ones providing cores to the dealers on campus. The big question was why they would do something like that. It seemed like an awfully large amount of risk for what couldn't be that big of a profit stream. There was also the way Miss Plusier described The Watcher. She implied he was more of an associate than a direct member, which had the potential to complicate things.

It would be slightly embarrassing to murder everyone only to find out later they had very little to do with anything. Granted, he'd probably get a medal out of it and pad out a bank account he still didn't know how to access.

Movement caught his eye from under one of the arches, but even with his augmented eyesight, he couldn't spot anyone there. His senses were already dialed to the max, and his shell primed for use. Anyone attempting a surprise attack on him would be in for a rude awakening.

Cal took a few more steps before lightly pushing off the ground. Once he was in the air, he held his palms behind him, and a burst of wind had him soaring toward the arch. He slipped through it smoothly, landing on his feet and skidding to a halt along the curved interior walkway.

His head swiveled, thin tendrils of his shroud fluttering around him. The concourse was empty, abandoned, similar to the plaza outside. He could not say the same about the colosseum as a whole, and several signatures pinged off his senses.

That confirmed there were active wards.

Good, he wouldn't have to hold back then.

Resisting the urge to fiddle with the radio awkwardly affixed to his face, he bypassed the shuttered concession stands and traveled down the dim tunnel leading to the stands. He picked apart the signatures he was feeling, attempting to commit them to memory. His results were mixed, and before he knew it, he was once more standing under the night sky.

In the arena below, a long stone's throw away, roughly a dozen figures stood among flickering torches. Twice as many watched from the stands, scattered in loose groups of twos and threes.

Contrary to what he expected, his arrival didn't draw everyone's attention. He could feel several gazes on him, but the bulk of the crowd seemed far more interested in a rather loud, middle-aged man.

The man's hair hung in stringy lengths past his chin, and he wore a ruffled linen shirt whose once‑white threads had long since yellowed. His pants were baggy and black, a heavy chain wrapped around his waist serving as a belt.

"I demand compensation," the man stressed, peeling back his sleeve to reveal blistered skin. "The Geyser would never have raided my enclave if you hadn't indirectly assaulted the crown. We're paying for your arrogance."

Olivia's dossiers had provided physical descriptions, but it was a lot to remember, and Cal had singled out key features to identify people. Weapons tended to be a safe bet, and he'd dubbed this man Sparky Chain Man. He was known to operate in the western reaches of the Empire and might have a noble heritage. Cal couldn't recall being particularly impressed by his entry, which made the person he was mouthing off at all the more surprising.

Miss Plusier stood there in her macabre parka, looking utterly uninterested in the irritated man speaking to her. Her bun was still stuffed with needles, and she was toying with one in her hand.

"I couldn't possibly care any less about your plight," she said indifferently, flipping the needle to point at another figure. "And you wonder why I ignore your summons so readily. If the younger generation can't contend with a mere Finger, then they aren't worth fussing about."

Cal followed her line of sight and locked onto the scarred man. His face was long, hairless, and deathly pale; one of his ears was gone, along with the tip of his nose. He was short, but the way he held himself made the fact easy to forget. A black robe, eerily similar to a burlap sack, was all he wore.

The Federation marked him as a potential leader of Infinita Nox, acknowledging his long tenure in the group. Most would recognize him as Dusk, but Cal had labeled him 'non-issue.'

"Save your aspersions. You called the Cabal," he said in a dried-out voice, prompting several in the stands to shift in agitation. "These fruits of discourse are your own doing. The young blood shall be heard."

The woman huffed in exasperation, shoulders sagging as if he'd asked some impossible task of her.

"Dusky, dearie," she said in a higher, almost patronizing tone. "I only called because your pleas showed no sign of ending. How many variations of 'I'm retired' must you hear before the message takes? Unless you've finally decided to be properly fitted, I have no desire to be in your presence."

Hmm…

Cal had been ready for many scenarios, but being essentially ignored hadn't been one of them.

Should he have made a bigger entrance? Was it too late to walk out and have a redo?

"Then relinquish your seniority," Sparky Chain Man said with a touch of eagerness. He seemed to catch himself and continued in a more subdued voice. "Let it go to a worthy successor."

Did he want Miss Plusier's position? According to the notes he went over, Infinita Nox's use of covenants was extensive, and that resulted in a very blurry picture of their hierarchy. Based on her strength, it did follow that the assassin-turned-tailor had a position of authority in the group. Even if she suggested otherwise.

"How inelegantly put," another man interjected. He wore a silver-trimmed suit, with his dirty blonde hair swept to the side. Gloved hands played with a deck of cards, shuffling them as he spoke. "Is this the moment you declare yourself worthy?"

The speaker was one of the highest-rated threats Olivia provided, solely because the full scope of his abilities was in constant flux. Wards weren't generally used in combat, being too large and complicated to deploy. In fact, one of the few times Cal had seen it done was by Ferguson when he briefly trapped the spirit B in a pyramid. Deck, as Cal referred to him, bucked that trend, condensing wards onto surfaces no larger than playing cards. It was the kind of tech he'd expect to see in the Federation.

However, Deck wasn't unique in that regard. Across the arena, another man carried what Cal swore was a shotgun. It was bulky and draped over his shoulder. A wide‑brimmed leather hat sat on his head, matched by his jacket and pants. There was a red cloak hanging off his back, and Cal thought there might be something tucked behind it.

Olivia had underlined the man's name and highlighted some of his crimes. The major ones included raiding Federation factories and illegally exporting firearms. Honestly, Cal felt a little bad for the guy. He was trying to sell guns to a country that really liked pointy sticks.

"Oh, would you two shut up?" a woman nearly screamed, clawing at her nearly bald scalp and staring up at the night sky. "I'm sick of dealing with pissant nobles. Someone just kill someone already."

Ironically, judging by the shiny knuckledusters on her hands, she was the one he'd marked as a gender‑bent version of himself. It had nothing to do with her appearance and everything to do with her aggressive fighting style.

Her words were almost an invitation, but Cal hesitated. Waiting in the wings might net him more information.

"Give me a coin," a nearby voice said.

Cal turned to see a slim figure in a dark blue body glove. She was seated cross-legged in the stands behind him, and her face was wrapped in strips of grey cloth, leaving only demanding blue eyes to go off of.

"Coin," she reiterated, pointing at his waist. "Hand one over."

Was he being robbed?

More importantly, wasn't the guy he was meant to be impersonating a big deal? First, he was ignored, and now someone was trying to mug him.

Cal contemplated several ways to reject her when his presence was finally acknowledged by those below.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

"Dearie," Miss Plusier said with a tad more energy, beckoning him from below with a hand. "Join us, if you please. I grow weary of the present company."

That put him on everyone's radar, and he could feel a prickle against his skin as sharp gazes roamed his shrouded form.

Cal didn't shy away from them, promptly leaping from the stands. It was a calculated jump, and he landed in their midst, knees bending slightly. Surrounded on all sides, he casually straightened himself.

Silence hung in the air as they sized him up. More telling was the fact that no one backed away or even raised a guard at his brazen move. They all stayed where they were, standing among the torches—except for one man who'd been seated the entire time.

He was on a mat in a fetal position, hugging gaunt limbs to his chest. His eyes were gouged out, and he kept rocking back and forth while muttering to himself incoherently. Cal had the sense he could have directly attacked, and the man wouldn't have noticed.

As the silence stretched, Cal began to wonder if he should have put more thought into what his opening line should be. In fairness, he'd been mostly convinced they were going to attack him outright.

Alright, what exactly did a spooky and, allegedly, intimidating criminal say to a bunch of other criminals?

Hello, fellow bad guys. How's all the crime going? Sorry about riling up the Fingers?

He didn't think opening with an apology was wise, but it did lead him down an appropriate path.

Cal inclined his head toward Sparky Chain Man, seeing a deep scowl on his face.

"Problem?" Cal asked, his voice coming out garbled courtesy of the old radio strapped to his face. He amplified the sound with a hidden manifestation in front of his mouth, adding to the deception.

Mr. Gun‑Runner let the shotgun slip from his shoulder, pointing it at the ground but near Cal's feet. Deck stopped shuffling, and Sparky Chain Man dropped a hand to the chain around his waist.

Other reactions were mixed. Female‑him glanced around feverishly, waiting for someone to take a swing. Non‑issue Dusky held a steely gaze but wasn't outright hostile. The previously unmentioned combustion man, wearing an open vest and puffy pants, leaned against a torch, content to watch things play out.

Ear‑bleed guy, whom he'd mentioned in the car, was here as well, wearing his dull brass bracers and idly manipulating a magic circle with his fingers.

Then there was Acid Chick, combing her long black hair. It was slick, and each stroke sent droplets of liquid to the ground, where they landed with a light sizzle.

Those were the known quantities.

The next two were not. They were an odd pair, standing close to one another and appearing out of place amongst this motley crew. One of the men was hulking, towering two heads above Cal—his bulk barely contained by an orange silk shirt and frilly pants. He had two sets of arms, which would have been alarming, if not for the presence of his partner.

They were reasonably sized and dressed in a similar orange. A hooded silk robe concealed their features, but it didn't hide the creature perched on their shoulder. It was about the length of Cal's forearm, with blocky, rust‑stained limbs attached to a perfectly spherical torso. There was no neck, but what passed as a head was bolted on top, glass lenses glowing faintly.

It was either breakthrough technology or the exact opposite. A living relic—an automaton.

The pair, or trio, appeared confused at the proceedings, questioning glances traded amongst them.

"The imposter shows themselves," Sparky Chain Man said grandiosely, clapping at Cal's arrival. "To slay a member of our order is bold. To adopt his mantle and incur the wrath of the crown is outrageous. And to appear here idiotic. Tell me, what flowers would you like planted at your grave?"

Should he even have come disguised if he got called out so quickly? Well, Miss Plusier had said something like this would happen. She'd also provided him with a solution. It didn't matter if he was The Whistling Death. What mattered was if he could be The Whistling Death.

And fun fact: Cal could whistle.

His lips pursed, releasing a shrill sound. A streak of wind pierced through the air, spiraling toward the man, who whipped out his chain, deflecting the manifestation with a grating scrape of metal.

Cal hadn't intended it as a full-on attack, but he was moderately impressed that the man dealt with it so cleanly. The question for him now was whether to push on or see if that friendly hello was enough to have a chat.

The attacked party's head snapped to Miss Plusier, who wore a coy smile on her purple-painted lips.

"Don't look at me," she said giddily, flicking her needle to point at each of them. "The challenge has been issued, and the challenge shall be honored."

Sparky Chain Man turned to the other senior member of the group, Dusky, whose stare had not wavered.

"The Spider speaks truth," he offered, agreeing with Miss Plusier. "These are our ways."

Female Cal gathered wind around her wrist, but before she could enter the fray, her shadow betrayed her—wrapping around her limbs and suspending her in a stretched, helpless arc.

"What gives?" she shouted angrily, bucking wildly at the restraints. "He's not one of us, and I already got cheated out of one fight today. You're not going to cheat me out of a second."

So, were they fighting, or were they not? Cal wanted to scratch his head, but felt it would ruin his air of mystique.

Dusky's thumb stroked an onyx ring on his finger, magic wafting off him with an aura of dread. Furious grey eyes glared at the mage who'd ensnared her, and her magic began to build.

"Give it up, Raya," Combustion Man called, the torches pulsing with his voice. His head gestured to the stands. "If you want to fight, pick a fight with them. That way, nothing of value will be lost."

So, standing in the arena itself was a status symbol? That made a certain amount of sense. Those he recognized hadn't been rated as threats.

"Time is money," Mr. Gun‑Runner added gruffly. "If Dusk says this is a challenge, that's that. Just finish it up quickly."

Everyone was being extremely civil for what Cal was starting to believe was a ritualistic death match. If he'd settled on anything, it was that this group was no unified organism.

"If it expedites matters," the orange-robed figure added. "Our enclave, and by extension our chapter, supports the challenge."

That seemed to settle things, and Sparky Chain Man grimaced, uncoiling his chain. The weighted bar at its end dropped with a thud, but it didn't stay there long. A twist of his wrist sent it spinning, each rotation gaining speed. Electricity danced along its end, creating a crackling loop.

Cal had been hoping to learn more about that enclave and chapter deal they had just talked about, but he guessed they were back to fighting.

He held his arms loosely at his sides, wondering how he should play this. Overwhelming strength? Or casual indifference to the threat.

Why not both?

The chain rose above the man's head, and a flick sent three hoops of electricity barreling toward Cal. One spun flat and horizontal to the ground, the next came straight at him in a vertical line, and the last cut in from an odd angle, facing him like the mouth of a tilted bottle. They resembled hollow buzzsaws, carving through the distance with startling speed.

Magic really did love its threes.

As if he were playing a children's game, Cal hopped over the first, twisted his shoulder to avoid the second, and decisively dove into the third, recovering in a roll. He was on his feet by the time the chain struck out, aiming to smash into his gut.

Cal caught it with his left hand, feeling the jolt of electricity run across his shell. He smiled, thinking of Lily, as he yanked the metal with the entirety of his strength.

The air cracked, heralding a warning of what was to come. Sadly for the man hurtling toward the disguised figure, his mind hadn't caught up to the change in circumstances. Cal wasn't looking to give him the chance.

He fully opened his connection to the void, allowing its reservoir to flood into him. It filled him like never before, answering almost gleefully. His right fist trembled, struggling to channel the magic coursing through it. He bled the magic into his shell and then into the world without hesitation.

To date, Cal could still only do two things with sound magic. Dampen sound and amplify it.

As his fist collided with the man's chest, he chose the latter, directing it in a single direction.

For a moment, the world held still, unwilling to conform to the new reality. Then everything seemed to happen at once. The torches were ripped from their stations, shattering as they fled the scene. With few exceptions, the figures in the arena were thrown back, tossed by an invisible hand. Those in the stands had it worse, their backs slamming harshly against unforgiving stone.

And as for Sparky Chain Man?

He was gone—removed from existence, not a scrap of his chain left to bear witness to his legacy.

Cal let a breath out, his little radio distorting the noise. It had barely survived the secondary blowback, shielded by the turning of his head.

That had felt better than expected, and he grinned, feeling the rush of magic thrumming through him.

Muzzles were leveled, cards were arrayed, acid was gathered, needles were flaunted, fire was called, wind whispered, earth rumbled, water pooled, and haunting shadows arose—through it all, Cal didn't lose his smile.

The one called his mother declared him a monster. He'd chosen not to live like one, but now and then…

"Oh?" he continued, surveying the magic emerging around him. "Are we still fighting?"

…he needed to remind the world he was one.

"Then come."

Inexplicably, even the battlenut appeared to reconsider.