Chapter 1

“Why are shitty people always happier than you?”

 

Raindrops tortured the dark streets of OldMouth Bay. It was 6:57 p.m., and a short, scraggly man named Dan Harrison stood alone at the base of a damp parking garage. Chill wind streaked in, flapping his tie to the side. Shutting the door of his tiny single-seater car, he shook the ache from his arms, took a long breath of the stuffy city air, and flipped open his wallet. Five royal marks clung together inside. Might as well have been cobwebs. Still, he stood himself straight and trudged into the downpour.

It only took him five minutes to shiver his way across the glistening blacktop to the bar Ted had chosen. It lay a few blocks down the street, covered in pink, purple, and orange neon lights: Tannerson’s Classic Mits-Pub—a squat, single-story building jammed in the gap between two rows of giant townhouses.

Same as any self-respecting city, skyscrapers loomed over the center of OldMouth Bay. Out on the edges, where Dan lived, the beggared and bankrupt bunked in shacks and tents. But here in between, row-houses and row-stores and row-everything-elses tangled and weaved for leagues on end. Every now and then, a section would burn or get demolished or just up and disappear, and seedy little holes like Tannerson’s would pop up in between. Dan was never the sort who’d scuttle into one on purpose, but tonight was special. Charlie, his manager, had personally invited him. How could he refuse?

Across from the bar, three figures huddled under the roof of a bus station. The tallest, Ted Dithers from HR, was white like most men in Mitsol, with light brown hair and a frog-like mouth. Beside him stood Karla, who worked with Dan in Accounting. Her dark skin and straight black hair gave her away as Itonic, but in the two decades he’d worked with her, she’d never seemed like a bad person. Of course, he was half-Itonic himself on Mother’s side, but he didn’t talk about that much.

Their heads perked up as Dan approached. From behind Ted, Charlie, Dan’s manager, peeked his skinny face out, his bushy brown hair bouncing with the breeze.

“Danny!” Ted said, shouting over the rain. “Stop to catch your breath on the way?”

Dan rushed over. “Sorry, I had to do public parking.” He held his arms in front of his face and grimaced as his shirt clung to his side, drenching him.

“Long way to go to save two marks,” Ted said.

Karla leaned in and wheezed into Ted’s ear. “Can we not stand out and chat in the rain?” she said. “Lord, it’s like ice.”

“It’s not that bloody cold,” Charlie said. “We’re months from winter, my God. I thought your types were supposed to love weather like this.” He shook his head and tramped across the road.

Even with their coats and shirts held over their heads like floppy umbrellas, rain attacked their legs. Dripping and sputtering, they stopped under the flapping shreds of the bar’s torn awning, which shucked a spritz of freezing water into their faces every other second.

Dan cracked the door open, and the bar greeted him with a solid wall of smoke. A long time ago, some helpful chaps had said that smoking could kill, and everyone in the Mits had collectively told them to fuck right off. Hard to look out for your long-term health when most people agreed there wouldn’t be a long-term at all. But Dan didn’t buy into any of that apocalyptic nonsense.

For eighty years, ever since the Iton rebelled back in ’36, Mits-folk had panicked about the end of days nonstop. As if a couple of countries without kings made any difference. The Iton was worthless, anyway—so cold it snowed all year, so far north the sun didn’t set for months, and so icy that even endelwood couldn’t grow more than ten meters tall. Six wars later, and Dan was tired. Hell, he didn’t even watch the news anymore. What did he care if some Trant islanders had a rebellion three thousand kilometers away? If they wanted to live in shacks, let them. Nothing would change. The Mits had shared a border with Anarchist Marobia and Glasdale for ten years. So, where were the death-squads in their black, faceless masks? Where were the nukes? Bloody nowhere.

Dan stepped inside and shook himself off in the bar’s warmth. The building had a low ceiling decorated with rows of fluorescent lights, half of which didn’t bother to shine. Each light was partly covered with thin, scattered lines of orange and black spray-paint. They cast an orange glow across the whole place. At least it seemed the sort of bar he could afford. The only sort he could afford.

The four fellows shambled across the room as the dim lights forced them to walk like they’d already quaffed a few pints. Dan grabbed a menu off the table and scanned for the cheapest entree. Four marks for scotched egg—three marks for Wethand Light. His shoulders sank. After the five marks in his pocket, he’d have to pull out credit. And probably skip another dinner that week. Still, he let his coworkers know what he’d chosen with a toothy smile.

Not a moment later, a waitress with brown teeth emerged from the smoke-wall. She croaked something at the bartender before turning toward them. “Know what’cha want, or d’ya need a minute?” she said.

Ted nodded and started to talk. Dreading his turn to order, Dan rapped his fingers on the desk.

If Dan had half of whatever gift Charlie had, he could have owned the company years ago. But for some reason, he couldn’t pull himself up, no matter how many extra hours he took. Dan had to go two days a week without dinner, but Charlie was one of those chaps who could succeed anywhere. Ten years ago, a decade after Dan started working at Gretcheldson and Smarg, Charlie had burst in straight from university. Two years later, Charlie earned seniority, and not long after that, he stepped up to management. Of course, Dan’s other coworkers whispered rumors behind his back, but Dan didn’t subscribe to that “favoritism” nonsense. He subscribed to good, honest work, and he could see it when he saw it. Somehow, Charlie knew the secret. He had the right charm, the right drive, the right willpower—damn it if the man could do anything wrong. But Dan could never figure that secret out, no matter how close he got to Charlie. No matter how many favors he did for the man.

The waitress collected the menus and disappeared into the haze. Charlie picked at the cracked pleather on his seat. “Who chose this place?”

“I’m a regular,” Ted said. “Good gammon on Thursdays. That’s when they get it in fresh.”

Charlie shook his head. “They’ve got a stove? Or do they just dangle the hog from two forks in the electric sockets?”

Karla pursed her lips and looked at Dan. He cocked his head, confused, and she rolled her eyes.

“You saw the lights, right?” Charlie said. “Is it for mood lighting? Well, it does set a kind of atmosphere—not sure ‘crackhouse’ is what you’d want, though.”

“I dunno. I just come here,” Ted said, leaning back.

Minutes later, the waitress returned, carrying a platter with four mugs balanced on top. Plopping them down before the coworkers, she promised she’d bring their meals shortly. A breath or two after she’d left, she re-appeared with the four plates. With that, she skirted back behind the smoke-wall.

“Well, it’s quick at least,” Charlie said.

“I’m impressed they catch the raccoon so quickly,” Dan said, lifting his glass in front of his face. “You’d think they’d learn to stop hanging round the alleys, but they never do.” He paused, but his coworkers stared at him with blank faces.

“The hell’re you on about?” Ted asked.

“He’s saying they make the burgers out of raccoon,” Charlie said. “It’s probably a joke—but it is Dan, so—”

“Alright, alright,” Dan said, rubbing the bald spot on the back of his head.

He stared down at the eggs. Whites as hard as rubber, yolks a dull green, all coated in a breading-shell that looked like someone crossed a coconut with a pinecone and fished it out of a septic tank. The others had taken to chewing, so Dan figured he might try his hand as well. But before he could, Ted tapped his fingers on the table and leaned in.

Ted shifted his eyes from left to right. “Heard what’s going on in Trant? Looks like we’re pulling out.”

Dan shook his head. “Oh, God.”

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“And just like that, it’s politics,” Karla said, pressing her head back against the booth.

Ted sat straight up and raised his eyebrows. “It’s not politics, it’s news,” he said. “Can’t fault me for making conversation. Besides, the way it’s going these days, people like you oughta be paying more attention.”

“No—Lord—this is why we avoid these topics,” Karla said. “Please don’t make me argue before I’ve even gotten drunk.”

“It’s not a crime to discuss current events. Best to be prepared, you know?” Charlie said.

Dan let himself sink into the booth-cushion. He shuffled to the furthest corner of his seat and slouched his shoulders. With a stiff hand, he put his glass to his lips and vowed not to set it down until the whole matter settled.

Karla’s face tightened. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just think it’s all just a bit loony, you know? As if the world’s going to burn any day now. I mean, shove off, I’ve heard talk we were in the end times since I was two.”

Dan almost nodded—but they’d have to drag him naked through the streets to get him to voice his agreement. If that infernal nonsense down in Trant was over, who cared? The Mits still had a King, the Anarchists still had a president. What did arguing even do? Everyone knew that the Anarchists were wrong. He didn’t need to know it more.

“I mean, hold on,” Charlie said. “The fact that the bomb exists at all is bad enough. Now toss in the Iton. You’ve got Anarchists in the streets! Rule of the mob. I don’t even know who’s in charge over there. It’s just—that’s scary, I don’t care who you are.”

“It’s not even Anarchism, it’s a Republic,” Karla said. “And you know, I’m not asking for the common vote to come to the Mits, but you have to ask yourself: if the people have power over there, and they get to make the decisions, why would they kill themselves? What’s there to gain? People care about what they can get. Yeah, they don’t have a King, but they’re still people, and people care about profit, and comfort, all that.”

Charlie shook his head. “It’s more than that. It’s ideology. They’ve got that—cult. There’s that whole thing about the apocalypse—I just don’t get it.”

Karla let out a low groan.

“Come on, don’t bring religion into it,” she said. She leaned across the table and spoke in a soft voice. “Just because it’s not Regalism doesn’t mean it’s a cult. You know I’m a Herrist.” Karla scowled and took a swig. “Honestly, I thought we were past this, Charlie—what’s it been, nine years?”

Ted shrugged and looked out the window.

“Don’t take it the wrong way,” Charlie said. “But they’re out there clambering for the end-times. I’m not liable to put trust in that sort.”

“That sort?” She locked eyes with Charlie. “Who’s ‘that sort?’ Not just me, surely—what about Dan? You think he’s that sort, too?”

At that moment, Dan ran out of beer. When he sat it down, his glass clacked on the table like a gunshot. All eyes went to him.

“Sorry,” he said. He gave them a half-smile. “Was a good drink.”

He let his eyes fall away from the others and focus on the eggs. Poking at them with his fork, he suppressed a scowl. He was only half-Itonic, not full. Anyone could see that—he was far lighter than Karla. That never stopped the passing comments, of course. The blinks and double looks. The white knuckles and the twitching eyes. Even from Mother, the one who made him so tawny in the first place. When he was little, she’d made him dye his hair brown and curl his hair. He still did, actually.

Charlie palmed his face. “Come on, Karla, Ted didn’t mean it. Nobody said anything, okay? We’ll just forget it. Alright?” He smirked at Karla’s glower.

Sometimes, Dan thought, even the middle-aged let their inner children show. And to put some kick into that point, Charlie gave Karla a sly wink.

“Really? Really?” Karla said.

Dan started eating faster.

Ted shook his head and groaned. “What is even happening—are we twelve?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Charlie said, half chuckling, half sulking. Before they could begin again, Dan jammed the last bit of egg into his mouth.

“Alright,” Dan said as he clattered his empty plate to the table. He scrawled his bank information onto the credit-cheque attached to his plate. God willing, he’d get his salary by the time the bar cashed it in. Seven whole marks—he’d have to skip two dinners this week.

As his pen whipped the last curve of his signature, he smiled up at his coworkers. “I’m off. Really good meal, I’ve had a great time.”

“Oh, come on, Dan,” Charlie said.

“I’ll see you all on Monday, right?” Dan said. He shuffled out of the booth and dusted off the front of his shirt.

“Sit down,” Karla said. “You’ve had one drink.”

“No, it’s fine, I wasn’t gonna get anything else,” Dan said. Rolling his shoulders, Dan shuffled closer to Charlie. “Thanks for the invite, I’ve had a great time. And don’t worry, I’ll be at your house by twelve—if you’re still flying out, that is.”

Sighing, Charlie spread his arms out. “I mean, thanks for that. But Danny, c’mon. Wasn’t that bad, right? Nobody yelled, nobody died. Why don’t we all just sit back and get plastered like we planned?”

For a moment, Dan pursed his lips. He glanced down at the cheque on the table, Karla’s pulsing temples, Ted’s fidgeting hands, and Charlie’s slight grin. Dan shrugged. “See you Monday, Charlie.”

With that, Dan walked away.

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