Otherworld Squad

Desperation is a nasty state to end up in. But as the pair made it to the scene of the disturbance it was plain to see that, inevitably, the unwanted cousin of opportunity had taken hold of a small number of individuals. With the prospect of many more rough nights ahead, compounded by the shadow of winter creeping through the rotting back-alleys of the human psyche, wool was akin to gold. So often those with the highest need fall prey to those with the greatest want.

The supply wagon had pulled into the centre of the camp, the pulling horse had been detached and was standing nearby, its manner nervous. The poor beast’s eyes were wide, ears flicking to and fro with uncertainty as it tapped the floor with an anxious foreleg. All efforts to distribute the cargo had halted. The guard leader who had announced their intentions at the gate stood on the driver’s bench, lungs bellowing as he tried to take control of the situation. The rest of the guards had taken a defensive posture around the wagon bed in order to prevent a frenzy of grabbing hands. From their viewpoint at the edge of the clearing they could see four pockets of disturbance, with a further handful of potential flashpoints spread throughout the area. Three of the main disturbances were high tension shouting matches, primarily groups of men but with a small number of women weighing in. However, the fourth off to their left side had advanced into a free-for-all slugging match. All over a pile of food which, unbeknownst to the brawlers, had been nearly halved in size by stealthier opportunists that slipped out from gaps in the tents.

“Never thought I’d get a front row seat to World War Turnips.” Alter commented dryly to his companion, his arms folding across each other as his brow furrowed.

“It’s a sorry thing.” Vangroover agreed softly, his voice barely audible above the din. The two took a hurried step back as a teenaged boy charged past with a purloined bread loaf nestled snugly in his arms like a rugby ball. Alter shook his head.

“They should’ve anticipated this, six men was nowhere near enough to keep control.”

“Maybe. But in many ways such a show of force could prove counterproductive.” Vangroover cautioned.

Alter nodded, recalling the antagonistic points the man at the gate had used. “Still though, it would be good to see them take a more proactive approach to keeping the peace. Our opponents will be able to make a fine meal of this fighting.”

“I think they might already be doing that.” Vangroover took a couple of paces forward, eyes squinting across the space as another one of the arguments descended into a whirlwind of thrown fists.

“Talk to me.” Alter moved up alongside him, unsure as to what the other man had spotted.

“Look at the guards, specifically the pair on the left side of the wagon.” He pointed.

Alter focussed his attention on the indicated individuals. The guards had their eyes firmly trained on the fighting, but their body languages varied greatly. The closer guard leaned casually against the shaft of his spear, eyes sparkling as he chuckled and cheered as another man crumpled into the churned earth of the melee. His compatriot was silent and rigid, face grim, eyes steely and hawk-like. His lips parted into a snarl of disgust, even from this distance Alter could see the white-knuckle grip that threatened to break the wooden handle of his spear.

“That’s … concerning. You think they’re plants?”

“Not necessarily. Both of them are showing fairly common responses to what they’re seeing. When you’re in a position of, erm, self-perceived social superiority…” Vangroover paused, pulling an uncomfortable face at his own words before continuing. “...and you’re made to watch the less fortunate fighting over scraps like animals. There are some that find themselves unable to distinguish between the person and the animal. It’s doubly true for soldiers.”

“Case in point, those two?” Alter asked, curious as to both his friend’s sudden talkativeness and choice of subject.

“Some men cannot comprehend how people can live and act like this, and their subconscious response is hatred. Others cannot help but laugh, perceiving it through the lens of a show, or a sport. We’ve all been guilty of that, from time to time. Almost every human in the world takes some secret pleasure in the suffering of others.”

“Is this something you’ve seen a lot of?”

Vangroover was silent for a long moment. “Yes.” His answer was simple and cold.

“So, then.” Alter reasoned aloud. “You’re saying that these supply handouts could be used to further drive the wedge between the immigrants and the city, even without aggravator interference?”

“In a long-winded way, that’s right.”

“Would you happen to have a solution in mind?”

“Not immediately.” Vangroover admitted.

“Fair enough, it’s certainly something we can mention to Oliver later.”

Alter watched as the ruckus began to die down. One by one, the losers of the various brawls were levered up, bloody and bruised, to be carried away by family and friends. Presently the guard leader saw fit to resume giving the supplies out and the scene, while still cautious, relaxed into gratefulness at the extra provisions. The show was over. He instead found himself pondering another little mystery that had just revealed itself. From the moment they had arrived in the world of Meios to now, the amount of time he’d known Vangroover had increased by over thirty percent. He knew next to nothing about him other than his nationality, the last few minutes had been the most they’d ever spoken outside of in-game chatter. The Canadian’s ease of transition to their new life had been notably smooth, as was his weapon handling. Now, with this sudden speech, the man felt much more ‘military’ than Alter had previously suspected.

“I get the feeling you have more experience with the armed forces then you originally let on, would you be alright to talk about it?” He asked gingerly, already knowing the answer.

“It’s not something I like to talk about. I’m sorry.” Vangroover replied quickly as his neck buried itself within the confines of his shoulders. A most sore subject.

Alter opened his mouth to apologise but was interrupted by the radio crackling into life. Boats reported that the aggravator from earlier, having spent a good amount of time in deep discussion with various groups, had made his way over to the daywork tables. He nodded as he blipped a confirmation, the tables had already been identified as one of the most likely infil-exfil points. If the agents were calling it a day then there likely wasn’t much more to be gathered here, the two men began picking their way towards the tables.

Situated on the outskirts of the camp, close to the city wall, the daywork tables were a collection of said furniture arranged in a semi-circle. Clerks from the administration manned a small number of these tables, equipped with long parchment lists of hopeful names and thick leather bags that jingled with glorious promise. According to Oliver, morning was by far the busiest time but even at this late afternoon hour there were a handful of queues and chattering groups hovering between the watching guards. Sure enough, the brown-haired man stood with a group of nine others a short distance from where they had arrived. Their manner was loose but with a secretive, conspiratory feeling of exclusion prevented others from getting too close. Alter and Vangroover moved away, placing another group in between them yet still keeping the secretive band in eyesight. Presently, one of the clerks stood up and cleared his throat with a flourish.

“Attention candidates! The Last Flourish is seeking cleaners and maintenance staff for tonight! This job will last until morning! There are ten slots available, experienced workers only please!” He called.

Like a flock of seagulls descending on an unsuspecting toddler with an ice cream cone, the ten-man group surged up to the table and within seconds the clerk called that all slots had been filled. The few enterprising individuals that had taken an interest never had the time to make it to the back of the queue and were left to stomp back to their positions shaking their heads in frustration.

“Fools.” Muttered a bitter voice from nearby and Alter turned to see a middle-aged man with a moustache wide enough to give an albatross cause for concern. From the look of his clothes, he would’ve once been a fairly well-off man. From the look of his clothes, that life was long behind him.

“What was all that about?” Alter asked as he moved to stand next to him. The man regarded him with suspicion for a moment before harrumphing and shoving dirty hands into dirtier pockets.

“Every day that place advertises for the same number of workers for the same job, and every day that group of men sign up instantly. Surely they must realise that the Flourish is just taking advantage of them for cheap labour. Those asses have no intention of employing any of us, why give them what they want so readily?” He raged, eyes boring spiteful holes into their unknowing skulls.

“Hope is a powerful drug.” Alter shrugged as he watched the men be collected by a pair of guards to then be led towards the gate.

“Well, it leaves more promising opportunities for the rest of us, I suppose.” He stroked his moustache. “If you’re looking for work then you might be in luck. There’s an animal market that employs night watchmen every few days, tonight should be one of them. It’s quite pleasant really, once you get used to it.” His gaze turned to a currently empty table wistfully.

“Here’s hoping. Best of luck to you, sir.” Alter smiled before moving back to his original position.

“Well, that’s confirmed how they’re getting in and out. What do you want to do?” Vangroover asked.

“We call it a day here, we’ve learned enough.” Alter fiddled with his shirt, nestling his face into a shoulder before talking into the hidden radio. “Squad, gather at the cart and prepare to return. Four, send the exfil request.”

“Affirm.” Boats answered as a number of blips from the other men on the ground confirmed the order.

Ten minutes of relative peace passed, with the man he’d just spoken to making infrequent and awkward attempts at conversation that never made it past five sentences. Finally, a new clerk appeared and took one of the empty tables, after a couple of minutes of fiddling he too stood.

“Maresham Sawmill requires a trained logging and timber-working crew for a rush order! This will take multiple days! Highly experienced men only!” He shouted.

That was his cue, Alter strolled across to the table and gave the code phrase identifying him as the fake job’s intended recipient. The clerk nodded and immediately closed the order, much to the dismay of the line that had formed. Alter received more than one dirty look as he left to rejoin the others, he’d expected a word from the moustached man but strangely he was nowhere to be seen.

With great relief the men wheeled the cart through the camp and were escorted back through the gate. There was still some pantomiming to do but they were all just glad to be away from the smell. Alter looked ahead to their next steps with grim anticipation, it seemed there would be some close quarters room clearing in their near future.