Two figures trodden across a barren desert. Ropes tightly interweaved between their clothing snaked behind to a large carcass. Blue-skinned and four-legged. And wolf-snouted and car-sized. Black oozed from its orifices and wounds. A Demonic Jackal is what this creature had come to be known as.
The larger figure, a broad titan of a man led the way. His every stride was twice the distance of the shorter man lagging behind.
"Do remind me, how many expeditions have you been on before?"
Rory laboured to just keep up, speaking on the move? An even greater challenge.
"Eight… this is my nineth"
The man mused for a second, then turned so he could see Rory. Looking intently through his protective goggles.
"Have you ever considered applying for work with the Hunting Division? Summoners such as yourself are in demand with those folk"
Rory took a moment to reply, swallowing one answer in return for another.
"I used to be with them… but the pay frequency got too long compared to the Expedition Division,"
Make no mistake the pay was by no means something to scoff at, a solid two thousand minted Slips. That is more than enough to live within the second wall and to afford three square meals a day.
perhaps one could even live within the first wall, but the frequency of food would be much more random.
Rory however could not afford to sit like a starving animal, eager for its meal, every two weeks for an average salary. Two months back? He absolutely could, he would and was. There would be no way in hell he would give up an opportunity like that without a solid reason.
But ever since the second siege, ever since that Demon attacked. He had debts to pay. Two thousand slips weekly, not including rent and food.
'I don't think he knows just how bad my summoning really is, at most I can make three daggers. And they're standard at best!'
The man let out a chuckle as he kept walking.
"That's understandable, you'd best work on your technique then. You were a bit shabby back there, but you've got some nice moves with those knives."
Rory only let a sigh and picked up his steps.
***
"Good work today"
A woman sat at a desk handed Rory an envelope and a red slip of paper. Her smile was genuine, bright like a star and about the only thing that was a daily constant for Rory.
"I... I'm really sorry Rory but there's been changes to the food slips. They only guarantee eight hundred grams of meat now."
Rory's eyes widened at the reveal.
"Wha- How!? Is the food shortage that bad?"
The woman jumped up slightly, she coughed twice.
"Orders from the first sector I'm afraid. There's not really a lot I can do about this, I'm sorry, I really am."
Rory took his rewards with a defeated look. He was about to step away from the desk.
"If it helps, I've had a request for an expedition come in a few hours ago… he's looking for a single expeditioner, pay's decent but it's a ruin dive, officially it goes up tomorrow, but I thought you'd be interested"
Rory paused. He dwelled on the thought and accepted the request.
He now had six hours before he was out of the outer walls again and back into that wasteland. It didn't take long for him to rush to the butcher. A red slip was exchanged for some minced mixture of blue and yellow meat. Demonic and Angelic. A hundred extra minted slips had been traded too. Some fat was needed to cook his meal.
Home was the next stop. The cheapest possible building to rent a living space in, bar anything outside the third wall. Nothing is worth the chance of being ambushed by a Demon or Angel at night. Or whatever else lurks The Middle that hasn't been documented yet.
The walk back was never as pleasant as it was before. Streets always became draped with filth the closer he got to the second wall. The housing less appealing too, regarding the same metric. Once he crosses the threshold, into the final walled sector, the damp and stench grimly welcome Rory back.
Everything, absolutely everything that can be in this zone is stripped to its most basic form. Cars reduced to frameworks, even half of that in some cases. Uncovered cement, towers of grey and rebar.
Off to the left used to be the third largest housing in the city. Before a third rank Demon led a siege on the city. Had it not been for their own third rank awakened, Surge The White, this city would surely have been wiped off of The Middle.
'Enough about the past!'
Rory shakes himself from those thoughts and speeds up.
***
'Is it Demonic or Angelic that smells bad?'
Rory could never really tell which meat was supposed to smell good and which foul, or if they even could have a smell. Fresh kills had no scent, and as far as anyone knew, things just didn't rot in The Middle. They could oxidise slightly and change colour, but Demon flesh from a century ago and a day ago were exactly the same thing once cooked.
It was probably a rumour. It came from some shifty traders by the wall. But it merited a thought every now and then.
And in the end even that was unimportant in the face of a truth he could experience: frying meat had a scent, and by God was it divine.
Eight hundred grams resulted in eight neatly flattened discs of crunchy meat. One he ate then and there, careful to not scald himself with the hot fat. The other seven were dumped back into the pot. Left to cool so the fat would protect them from sand and contaminants.
It was now four hours until Rory had to leave the city.
He doubled his efforts in prepping for the expedition. Water canteens to last three days. A bag to sleep in. Fire starter and Demon leather to burn for hours. Binoculars he found on his second expedition.
With that he was nigh ready to sleep until the last hour.
A final ritual had to be complete.
He left his rugged backpack on the kitchen table, if the bare room could be called a kitchen. He stepped into the only corridor in the space he rented, walking by his own room and directly to the next.
A name had been scratched into the door.
Tom.
Rory opened it with intense care, peaking only his head inside, and slipping through a fragment of hope.
Empty mattress.
A cassette player on the floor.
Only those two.
Two months ago, his brother would surely have been waiting for him in there. Either with a new fact he learned at school or a drawing of Rory and his daggers. But then that Demon attacked. Tom had been in a hospital bed ever since.
The image was still fresh, a bandaged stump of a leg. IVs and wires and cables on every part of his body. Skin glossy and pale. Had it not been for a healer…
'He'll wake up one day. I have to make sure he wakes up,'
Rory retreated from that room, now to his own. Supressing all but two tears.
He set an alarm. Three hours is better than no sleep.
'Goodnight Tom'