//------------------------------// // Ticket to Tartarus II // Story: Midnight Rail // by daOtterGuy //------------------------------// Soarin trudged through the streets of the Rust, avoiding the rough-looking crowds that gathered on street corners. Tall, poorly constructed buildings of lackluster quality cluttered the sides, looming over him as he walked past. Gaudy signs advertising seedy business ventures bathed the dirty road in flashes of colour. Thick smog permeated the area, clinging to everything. There was a desperation here that Soarin knew didn’t exist anywhere else. Those that lived in the Rust were the debt-ridden, the poor, and those that had fallen from the high Havens. Even the Burn Out, the area he had just come from, was better in a way. He didn’t need to worry about thugs ambushing him for what little he had when he was out hunting. He’d grown up in a Haven. One of the better ones, since its only quirk was a highly competitive environment, which he thrived on. Had. Until… he tried not to dwell on it. New Wing, his office, appeared in the near distance, squished between a cheap hair salon and a restaurant that served terrible pizza. Climbing the stairs quickly, he pulled his keys out of his pants pocket, unlocked the door, and shoved his way in with his good shoulder. He flicked on the light, bathing the room in sterile white. All the better to accentuate the filth. It was both his office and home. One side had a large worn down desk with a comfy lounge chair and green filing cabinets behind it. There was a fax machine, a land phone, and a computer monitor all crowded onto the surface that did nothing but stream messages to him. The other side had a pile of blankets and pillows in a natural nook that acted as his bed. There was a mini-fridge filled with old takeout, some “nicer” clothes that he wore for (the possibility of) higher-end clients, and a detached bathroom that needed to be cleaned several months ago. Ring. Ring. He winced at the shrill sound of the phone going off. He decided to ignore it in favour of getting some food from the fridge. Yanking open the door, he took out a container of old takeout, then slammed the door shut behind him with his foot. Using a fork taken from the top of the fridge, he dug in as he settled into his desk chair. Soarin didn’t need to answer the phone to know who it was. Instead, he ignored it and focused on the papers spewed out all over his desk by his fax machine. Debt statements. Advertisements. Debt statements. Job offers not worth taking. Debt statements. More advertisements. Staggering amounts of— Ring. Ring. Turning toward his monitor, he flicked it on. After a moment, a dark screen appeared. The desktop loaded, followed by a messaging app which began to scroll green text automatically. A highlight reel of his new emails. Advertisements. Some obvious scams. A few more worthless jobs. Messages about his— Ring. Ring. He ate up the last of his food and tossed the rest into a nearby waste basket. He got out of his chair and wandered over to the nearest filing cabinet. Pulling open the top drawer, he reviewed past jobs he had completed on the off chance that he could follow up on any of them for more work. He knew the whole endeavor was pointless, since most clients never used the same hunter twice, but there could always be some loose end that he hadn’t noticed— Ring. Ring. Soarin slammed the drawer shut, only for it to catch and fall off the rails. He caught the drawer with a curse and tried to force the wheels back into its proper place. He wiggled the metal bin, a low growl emanating from his throat. Ring. Ring. The bin fell diagonally and spilled case files onto the floor. He didn’t notice. His body was shaking as his thoughts spiraled. Anxiety crept up on him, pulling him down into its grasp. Ring. Ring. The fax machine turned on. More papers. Timing meant they were all going to be about that. Because his entire life now revolved around that. He could never escape that. Ring. Ring. He covered his ears with his hands, and used his wings to cover his head, desperately hoping it would block out the horrible noise. Ring. Ring. His body shook. Inhale. Exhale. His heart thumped hard, filling his ears. Inhale. Exhale. He felt his office close in on him, the world narrowing to a single point. It was too much. Ring. Ring. Inhale. Ring. Ring. Exhale. Ring. Ring. It was all— Bang. Bang. Startled, he withdrew his hands and wings then turned toward the door. The ringing had stopped. Before acting, he waited to confirm that there’d been a knock. Bang. Bang. Moving quickly, he ran to the door and peered out the peephole, worried about who could be there. On spying the person standing on the front step, he breathed a sigh of relief. He yanked open the door. His mail carrier, Parcel Post, stopped mid-knock. Unlike him, Post was especially chipper, with a clean uniform and nary a sorrow weighing down his body. Perks of delivering for the nearby Haven of Manehattan. Steady, safe, and, most importantly, well paid. “Hey, Post,” Soarin greeted, barely managing to keep his voice steady. “Well, hey there, Soarin. Got some mail for you.” He rummaged through his carrier bag. “How’s business?” “Doing alright. Just finished a job for the Solar Order.” Post whistled. “That’s doing better than alright. They’re some generous clientele.” Soarin held back the wince as he recalled the final pay negotiations. Post pulled out two letters then offered them to Soarin. He took them. “And that’s all there is. Take care, Soarin.” “Will do, Post.” Soarin shut the door. He walked back to his desk, glancing at the envelopes in his hand. One was dark blue with simple embellishes and no noted address. The other was a cream-coloured envelope from the central hunter office. He threw the blue envelope onto his desk and tore into the other. Quickly reading the contents, he could feel excitement building up inside him. A job. A well paying one. Some Level 2 Deviant called We Sell Wholesale was lurking near the border of the Rust and some well-paying clients wanted it dealt with. He was exhausted, and his injury still throbbed within the confines of his bandages, but he couldn’t pass this up. Central jobs were good money, but had a first come, first serve basis. Not to mention rare, with how many hunters there were registered. He couldn’t afford to wait and potentially lose out on such a massive reward. Besides, his other option was to sit at home and wait for the collector’s notices to continue piling in. There wasn’t really a second option. Soarin exited through the front door, slamming it behind him. The blue envelope lay forgotten on his desk.