After an hour or two of fruitlessly searching on foot for an unclaimed patch of greenery we might hope to plant on, Sander has the bright idea of querying the brainband for a solution to our woes. What that turns up isn’t merely a parcel of land, but an entire garden already on Citadel soil, maintained by the staff here. Its purpose is twofold- firstly, to provide fresh produce for certain establishments, and secondly, to create a source of fresh food in case the Citadel is ever cut off from the Imperium’s teleportal network, leaving us without the imports we require to keep everybody here fed. There are large stores of nonperishable food as well, but if some major crisis was to keep us cut off for an extended period, those would eventually run out, and having a garden to harvest from is generally preferable to hunting animals in the wild.


    None of that would be especially relevant to us at the moment if it wasn’t also the case that a section of that garden is set aside for use by the students of the Citadel. A section that currently sits unused, owing to the fact that most of the Nobles here don’t see something like gardening as a worthwhile use of their time. Frankly, I’d probably agree, but I’m not doing this because it’s what I’d most love doing, I’m doing it to find a common interest between myself and the man who I’ve entrusted my life to while I’m here.


    Before heading over, we pay a visit to a general store, where the cashier seems surprised to see anybody purchasing seeds from the shelf in the back, which doesn’t appear to have been touched in some time. Sander makes most of the selections, while I only pick out a handful of packets based on what I can remember Mother Kalli or Father Nico growing in our garden back home.


    With a bag full of seed packets in tow, we cross almost the entire distance of the Citadel to get to the garden, which is larger than I’d anticipated. Only a few people are present tending the crops, and they pay us no mind, once they’re over the initial surprise of seeing a pair of Nobles anywhere near this place. The section of the garden reserved for students is easy to locate, because it’s the only place where nothing is growing. The soil seems to have been maintained, but only to the minimum extent necessary.


    Sander is initially hesitant, but hastens to join me once I get down to work. I know the basic principles of planting seeds, but let him show me the ropes. In typical fashion, he says only what’s necessary, leaving the rest for me to figure out myself.


    Over the course of several hours, we plant seeds for more than a dozen different plants, from celery to strawberries, and begin the cultivation process with plenty of water and a healthy dose of artificial fertilizer. I read once in some historical text that humans used to use actual animal excrement instead of the synthetic stuff we employ now, a prospect which seems so vile that I have a hard time believing it ever actually took place.


    To my surprise, however, the overall process proves quite relaxing, even if I get more dirt beneath my nails than I’d really prefer. That’s not exactly new, having come from a world that’s mostly dirt, but I’d been glad to kiss that goodbye when I came to the Citadel. Besides that, though, gardening turns out to be rather pleasant, as does Sander’s company. He still resists my occasional attempts at small talk, and certainly doesn’t initiate any himself, but he does lend the odd word of encouragement when I’m struggling with something, and never seems to get frustrated when I make a mistake.


    The two of us could probably have kept going well into the night, if it weren’t for a brainband message from my copyclan, reminding me that dinner was fast approaching. We finished our last planting and hurried back to the Hyperion Building in order to prepare, Sander apologizing for not being more aware of the time, though I of course dismissed it as unnecessary.


    Besides thoroughly washing my hands, the only real preparations necessary for either of us are getting changed. I already had an outfit in mind, while Sander simply threw on a black button-up that does little to disguise the fact that he’s wearing body armor beneath it. My evening gown, black with purple accents, provides no such protection, but that’s not of much concern. We’re eating at the Stygian, not going into a war zone.


    The gown isn’t easy to move in, nor are the heels that accompany it, and I didn’t exactly have much opportunity to try similar outfits back on Demeter VII. However, there’s time enough to adjust on the walk over to our destination, such that I look at least reasonably comfortable by the time that we arrive.


    Rather than eschew the design sensibilities of the surrounding buildings entirely, the Stygian more or less mirrors them, with one crucial difference- it’s hewn from black stone, rather than white, making it stand out like a dark mirror compared to the other high-end restaurants surrounding it. The material isn’t native to Akademos, meaning it had to be imported, a cost that was easily borne for the sake of creating an establishment of this quality.


    Sander and I made sure to arrive a few minutes early, but when we get there, a few of our fellow Gazelles are outside, chatting. Grant appears to be holding court, with Valent and Mars listening carefully. They wave and nod in our direction as we approach, but don’t fall silent, which seems to me a good sign.


    “—really more about pushing the limits of the medium, when you think about it. Switching between so many distinct perspectives is deliberately meant to disorient the viewer, and make it harder for you to pick up on what Janssen’s character is doing.”


    Based on that, I can infer that Grant is talking about a mem he’s seen recently, most likely some obscure piece I’ve never even heard of. They’re the primary form of entertainment in the Imperium, the name derived from ‘memory,’ as they’re a series of fictional events you can witness through the eyes of a principal character, just as though you were seeing that person’s memories. Ordinary films and television do still exist, mainly because they’re significantly cheaper to produce, but the difference is immeasurably vast, like that of a small pond and the whole of an ocean.


    “Evening, gentlemen,” I say by way of greeting. All three of them are dressed appropriately for the venue, Valent with a striking red flower on his lapel, and Mars in a smoky charcoal ensemble with a gun conspicuously strapped to his hip. More of a fashion statement than anything, I suspect, but one I approve of.


    “And to you, Commander,” Valent replies, with a respectful bow of his head. “Looking lovely tonight, I might add.”


    Mars snickers at the overly formal compliment, prompting Valent to playfully smack him on the shoulder. I grin, glad to see the members of my unit getting along so well.


    “Well, we’d best head in now. Our table may be reserved, but this seems like the kind of place that places an emphasis on punctuality.”


    “I wouldn’t have expected you to know about such things, being from such an… unsophisticated background,” Mars says, voice dripping with so much sarcasm that I’m sure not even Sander could miss it.


    Laughing along with the boys, I push open the doors to enter the Stygian. What greets us is a stark contrast to the stately, classical design of the building’s exterior. Dark ambient lighting and harsh gray metal surfaces, befitting the ‘neo-plutonian’ theme of the restaurant. It was designed to represent a modern interpretation of the Greek underworld, one of the many ancient human superstitions that still provide a point of cultural fascination.


    The man with the thin mustache at the front desk inclines his head as we enter.


    “Ah, Miss Izanami. Party of... fifteen, yes?”


    “That’s right.”


    “Very good. Please, follow me.”


    Hands held stiffly behind his back, he steps out from behind the desk and steps through the doorway into the restaurant proper. The main room is almost entirely empty, illuminated by flickering torches on the walls, lit with actual flame. Among the various empty tables, I spot one that’s occupied- by none other than the Heir himself. He’s in a corner booth, sitting with someone who seems to be a Citadel professor, based on her uniform, and they’re clearly quite wrapped up in their conversation, as neither of them even turns to look as we pass through the room. Whatever they’re saying is inaudible to us, thanks to the privacy filter around the booth, a basic service offered by most establishments of this caliber.


    Our guide leads us down a short hallway, where the walls are narrow enough I can feel the heat of the torches on my skin, and into a room at the very end. Inside is what I can only describe as a banquet table, large enough to comfortably fit a group twice the size of our unit. It’s got fifteen place settings, with a healthy amount of space between each one, though not a single morsel of food has yet been set out for us.


    “Please, sit,” he says, sweeping out an arm to gesture us to the table. “Your journey will begin as soon as the rest of your party has arrived.”


    After he’s left the room and we’ve all taken our seats, Mars looks at me with a raised eyebrow.


    “Journey, huh?”


    “Oh yeah, I paid for the whole package here. They’ll explain everything, I’m sure.”


    He nods, satisfied with that answer for now, and we fall into silence for a few moments, the distance between us and the emptiness of the room making casual conversation feel impossible. On the wall, the flames flicker and cast odd shadows. The table itself is metal, but carved in intricate patterns to make it resemble wood grain, while the silverware is engraved with delicate tracery. There’s clearly some unifying symbology between it all, but what really stands out is how much effort has been made to make it all look expensive. That’s consistent with my understanding of what other restaurants like this do, to say nothing of luxury hotels, resorts, and the like. The main objective is to make you feel like the experience is worth all the money you spent.


    If you spent your entire life paying that much money to come to places like this, I can see how it would become tiresome, but as someone who’s only experienced it vicariously until now, I have to say I’m enjoying myself.


    A minute or two later, the receptionist returns, with a few more members of our unit in tow. Katrina, Amalia, and Tai come in together, with Bret following a few paces behind them- my guess is that he didn’t want to come in by himself, so he waited outside the building until another group showed up, and then followed them in. He takes a seat as far away from me as possible. The other three fill in seats along the midsection of the table, chatting amongst each other, which does wonders to lighten the mood. A few snippets of their conversation indicates to me that it’s nothing of interest to me, so I tune it out and turn my attention back to the ones I entered with.


    “Tell me, how did you three spend your day off? Nothing too strenuous, after all that I put you through, I’m sure.”


    “Certainly not,” Valent responds, with an ironic twinkle in his eye. “I was conducting some... shall we say, research, into our assorted malefactors. Beyond that, I’m afraid there’s little I can say, though rest assured Mademoiselle Lang will have my full report in due time.”


    The more I hear Valent speak, the more certain I am that his French accent is an affect. It’s not that the accent itself isn’t still around in some places, but he places a little too much emphasis on the few actual words of the language he slips into his speech. That being said, I can’t help but find it somewhat charming.


    “Glad to hear it. You two?”


    Grant scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably. It feels a little like he doesn’t know how to act around me, after I called him out on his little ‘smooth operator’ act the first time we spoke. To his credit, he hasn’t slipped back into it, and seems to have taken my words to heart, but without a script to stick to, he’s a little lost.


    “Stayed in, mostly. Doing some of that stuff you asked me about. Called my parents. Boring shit, you know the drill.”


    I make a sympathetic noise and turn away from him, which makes him relax a bit.


    “Got into a bit of a scuffle,” Mars says, a hint of pride in his voice. “One of the Peregrines. Avis, her name was. Scrappy type. Said she was looking for a fight, I said I’d give her one. We both got a few good hits in, decided to call it a draw before it went too far.”


    A better outcome than my ill-fated bout with Hector, then. Fortunately, Sander is about the last person I’d expect to tell anybody about that encounter, so my secret is safe for now.


    “You get her number?” I ask, with a laugh.


    “Nah, didn’t try. She didn’t seem like she’d be interested. Told her to look me up if she wanted a rematch, though.”


    Sleeping with the enemy is generally considered bad practice, but there are also potential advantages if you play your cards right, so I’m not going to forswear it completely. It’s good to know Mars has some restraint, though.


    “Sounds like a good time. Maybe you can introduce me.”


    Mars chuckles.


    “Yeah, you seem more her speed. And her weight class, for that matter.”


    While we’ve been chatting, a few more Gazelles have come in. Sofie and Ada walk in together, the former wearing a silver gown that’s rather more revealing than mine, while the latter has a navy-blue suit with a yellow tie, matching her two-toned hair. After then is Nikitha, alone and seemingly glad to be that way.


    Almost the entire unit is here, though there’s one absence that does concern me slightly. Ibrahim might be planning to skip the dinner entirely, to display his dissatisfaction with my leadership- though that would be a more compelling statement if anybody joined him, while it currently seems like nobody will be. And the other two who are yet to arrive, Colleen and Niko, are among the last I’d expect to display such a sentiment so openly, or at all.


    Sure enough, the two of them come in a few minutes later, animatedly discussing the technical differences between two varieties of sword. Colleen seems to have loosened up a little, which I’m glad to see, and it speaks well to Niko’s potential as an officer that he was able to make that happen.


    Rather than turn around and head back to the front desk, the receptionist glances at the sole remaining empty seat, then to me, asking silently if we’re ready to begin or not. It’s a few minutes past our designated start time, and the whole process does take a while, so we can’t wait forever. I consider my options for a few seconds, trying to figure out what choice is the least likely to make me look like an asshole.


    Give it a minute, I decide eventually. He nods and heads out, while the rest of the group continues chatting. I swish my tail back and forth impatiently, like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, wondering if I made the wrong choice. If we end up waiting forever and Ibrahim never shows, I look weak for not just moving on without him, but if I make a big show of moving on and then he walks in, I look like a jerk for not just being patient.


    Fortunately for me, the situation resolved itself just a few moments later, when Ibrahim strides through the doorway, wearing a suit with a multicolored floral print, a clear reference to his Noble heritage.


    “Commander. Apologies for my lateness,” he says with a bow, nothing in his tone indicating he means that even slightly seriously.


    There’s really nothing to be gained from replying, so I just nod in response and gesture for him to sit. The last seat remaining is on the far end of the table, away from me, right next to Bret. If that’s where Ibrahim wants to be, it’s his prerogative, but I wouldn’t make that choice if I was in his position- especially not with the way Bret’s face lights up when he sees he won’t be alone for the evening. Bret’s the sort of person to assume that anybody who even exists in his general proximity wants to be friends, unless they make an effort to convince him otherwise- and Ibrahim, with a politician’s instincts, will be hesitant to alienate him. But after an evening sitting next to Bret, and realizing that he’s the only person who would be particularly interested in making some kind of play against me, he might begin to reconsider whether his attempted mutiny is a good idea after all.


    “Delightful, you’re all here,” the concierge says dryly. “Your journey will begin forthwith, but for those of you unfamiliar with what we do here at the Stygian, allow me to explain. The meal you’re about to be served consists of nine courses, five liquid, four solid, representing the five rivers and four realms of the underworld. You will pass through the lands of purgatory, punishment, and finally, paradise. Are you prepared?”


    Murmurs of assent pass from one end of the table to the other, and he nods to us, before turning to leave. The moment he’s passed through the doorway, three servers enter, two men and a woman, all wearing the same uniform. They each carry a tray of drinks, all of which appear identical- the first of the liquid courses. We remain silent as the servers place one glass in front of each of us. They’re shot glasses, each holding barely a thimbleful of what appears to be plain, ordinary water- yet the servers hold each of them with such care that I’d forgive someone for assuming the glasses themselves were somehow priceless, despite the contents appearing to be so mundane.


    “Acheron,” the concierge’s voice intones, from some hidden speaker that makes his words reverberate around the room, while the servers quietly make their exit. “In Ancient Greece, a real river was believed to be the entrance to the underworld. A bridge between reality and myth. As such, we have imported genuine Earth water, taken from that same river, preserved and purified, for your first course. Even a single drop is priceless, so be careful not to spill any.”


    Several of my Gazelles inhale sharply in surprise, while others silently regard the glass in front of them with renewed interest. A few, Ibrahim among them, make a show of being unimpressed. Though they’re too far away for me to hear, I can see Bret lean over and whisper something in his ear, prompting Ibrahim to make a forced attempt at laughter. He’s placed himself in an unenviable situation, having to tolerate Bret’s attempts at humor for the rest of the evening.


    Trying to hide my smirk, I raise the glass to my lips and drink. Naturally, it tastes the same as any other glass of water might. Knowing it came from the world where humanity originated doesn’t actually imbue it with any special flavor or weight. Maybe if it hadn’t been treated to remove whatever pollutants were there originally, it would taste special, but not in a good way.


    Swiftly, the rest of the unit follows suit, each of them cautious not to let the glass slip from their hand, lest they waste a drop. When all fifteen glasses have been emptied, the servers swiftly re-enter the room and collect them. As soon as that’s done, another set of servers enters, this time wearing masks, which I vaguely recognize as being associated with Greek theater, one half of them smiling, the other half sporting a frown. They’re carrying a number of individual plates, each with a metal lid hiding the contents. One is placed in front of each of us, while we watch in silence.


    Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bret, impatient, try to remove the lid, only to find it attached to the plate via a magnetic strip. He glances around guiltily, and I pretend like I saw nothing. From what I can tell by observing the rest of the unit, the theatrics are still somewhat perplexing to them or perhaps just an annoyance for now. Hopefully that’ll change soon, else this entire enterprise, which wasn’t inexpensive, will have been a waste of time.


    After the masked servers have all left the room, the magnetic locks on our plates deactivate, and everybody reaches to remove the lid obscuring their next course. Underneath my plate is a replica of my own face, expression neutral, eyes obscured by a pair of coins. Drachmae, if I’m not mistaken, the currency the Greeks used in antiquity. There are gasps, even a few sounds of disgust, though I hear others chuckling as though this is a prank. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    “Erebus,” the concierge intones. “The realm through which all the dead pass through before dying. You see before you a reminder of your own mortality, coins placed over your eyes to pay your way down the River Styx.”


    Picking up one of the coins, I find the eye socket beneath sunken and hollow, but the coin itself surprisingly soft. Closer inspection reveals the metal to be foil, which I peel back to find chocolate beneath. After flashing it to the rest of the table, I take a bite, savoring the rich, sweet taste. After I’ve set the other coin aside, I lift the replica face, the flaky surface revealing itself to be some kind of pastry. And when I bite in, the red fluid that gushes out isn’t blood, but raspberry jam. It’s delicious, albeit an unorthodox appetizer for dinner, but I enjoy it just the same.


    Some of the others seem to have some qualms about eating a detailed replica of their own visage, but they all succumb to temptation eventually, especially with the sounds Sofie is making as she eats, scarfing it down like she hasn’t eaten in days. She seems much better, her wounds from the training exercise two days ago almost entirely healed. Still, I probably do owe her a proper apology for that whole affair. Even if I wouldn’t have actually done anything different.


    “This is weird, right? Am I the only one who thinks this is weird?” Bret jokes awkwardly. Nobody laughs- not even Ibrahim can muster a sympathetic chuckle. He glances around uncomfortably, looking for someone to respond favorably, but it doesn’t come. “What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking!”


    The way his voice rises in desperation at the end makes me wish I actually was eating my own face, so I could bite off my own ears and not have to hear another word from him. Fortunately, we all finish our face-pastries quickly enough, prompting the masked servers to return and clear our plates.


    “The second river, Styx, from which we take our name,” narrates the concierge, as the first group of servers returns, carrying yet more drinks. These are proper glasses, filled with some kind of cocktail, glowing an eerie green color. “These drinks each contain a concentrated dose of phencyclidine, said to induce a sensation of invulnerability, much as Achilles was made invulnerable after his mother dipped him in the Styx as a child. The effect should last only minutes, but be warned, it’s quite potent.”


    Mars whistles at that, looking impressed, while Nikitha, our resident chemical warfare expert, only chuckles. For a few moments after we’ve all been served, everybody regards their drink somewhat suspiciously, nobody willing to take the first drink. That means, of course, that it’s got to be me. So I pick up the glass and toss back a mouthful, before my common sense can kick in and remind me why it’s a terrible idea.


    The Styx tastes like liquid death. Then everything goes black.


    When awareness returns, I get the feeling that some stretch of time has passed. Not too much, but enough for me to be concerned about the fact that I can’t remember exactly how long. The second thing I notice is that the rest of the unit looks as shaken-up as I feel. Ties have been loosened, sleeves rolled up, hair let down. But precisely what happened to precipitate any of that, I can’t recall.


    “You have all passed through the third river, Lethe. The river of memory. It contained an amnesiac, enough to completely erase your memories of what you did over the past several minutes, including anything you might have done under the influence of the previous drink. During the period you forgot, we encouraged you, with your inhibitions lowered, to share secrets you might not otherwise have told anyone, in the spirit of forgetting. Rest assured, any confessions you may have made were not recorded, nor heard by myself or any of our staff.”


    That explanation provokes some uncomfortable mutterings from around the table. I don’t really feel the same discontent as the others do, even though I’ve got secrets more significant than any of them. The reason why is simple- I trust myself enough to know I wouldn’t have spilled the beans about anything important, even if I was completely certain we weren’t being overheard by the staff here. My only regret is that I didn’t think to bring a listening device and surreptitiously activate it, to record the confessions of the rest of my unit.


    “Well, if anybody wanted to confess their love to me, uh, I wouldn’t be upset if you did it again now,” Bret says, then laughs a little too hard at his own joke. Ibrahim exhales in a way that could be interpreted as a laugh, if you were feeling very, very generous, but it seems to be enough to bolster Bret’s spirits. He’s looking rather uncomfortable, sweat beading on his forehead. I would imagine the phencyclidine didn’t agree with him- giving someone with so much unearned self-confidence a drug like that would definitely not be healthy.


    “And now,” the concierge says calmly, unconcerned by the unit’s obvious discomfort, “comes Asphodel. Purgatory.”


    Once more the masked servers make an appearance, carrying several largely identical platters, which reveal themselves to be charcuterie boards, each with a white asphodel flower resting in the center. At some point, plates appeared in front of each of us, presumably placed while we were under the amnesiac’s influence. A neat parlor trick, I suppose. This is also the first real food we’ve received since we got here, which is a relief to me, and clearly many of the others, judging by how quickly they start to dig in.


    When it becomes obvious that we aren’t going to be interrupted by the concierge again for the next little while, conversation begins to start up around the table.


    “So, Izzy,” Sofie calls from a few places down the table, picking up a grape with two fingers and popping it in her mouth. “What’s the plan for next week? Gonna release a pack of rats into our dorms and see who gets eaten?”


    A roar of laughter erupts from her side of the table, and I can feel the tension draining from the room. It’s good to know she isn’t nursing a grudge, and displaying that openly will take the wind out of the sails of Ibrahim’s attempted coup, since his main argument more or less hinged on the fact that I allowed her to get seriously injured during a training exercise.


    “Rabid ferrets, actually,” I call back, spearing a pair of olives with a toothpick. “But close enough!”


    She laughs back, and blows me a kiss, which makes me blush, unexpectedly. Not for the first time, I notice that she’s rather pretty, and while that’s not exactly special in a society where everybody can choose their own appearance, the fact that her captivating charms are paired with such an appealing body and face certainly doesn’t hurt.


    It’s probably just the last vestiges of the drugs in my system lowering my inhibitions, but thinking of that only makes me wonder what I might have said to her, or to certain other people at the table, while the influence of the drugs was at their peak, and I knew none of them would remember my words after imbibing the amnesiac. I wouldn’t have spilled any important secrets, but it’s not inconceivable that I might have admitted something that even now, I can’t quite articulate inside of my own head, just to get it off my chest.


    With surprising speed, the charcuterie boards are cleared off. I suppose the unit was hungrier than I thought- or maybe the drug cocktails we all imbibed did something to increase our appetites. Still, I don’t regret drinking mine. After all, the restaurant has no incentive to put anything legitimately dangerous in those drinks, not if they want repeat customers.


    Once the last remnants of this course- the fourth overall, I’m pretty sure -have been eaten, the servers return to clear the boards away, and make room for the next set of drinks.


    “Cocytus,” the concierge says grimly, as a server places a glass full of a silver-gray, almost sickly fluid in front of me. “The wailing river. Said to dwell in the lowest circle of the abyss, it was thought to be ice-cold, the final punishment of betrayers to be frozen in its depths. This cocktail is meant to simulate the sensation of that same icy pit, with a generous helping of liquor to keep you warm through it.”


    As his voice fades, I glance around the table, looking at a room full of people who don’t seem thrilled at the prospect of drinking anything like what he just described.


    “Yeah, it doesn’t sound thrilling to me either. But we were promised paradise at the end of all this, and I did pay up front, so... bottoms up!”


    With as cheerful a wink as I can muster, I down half the glass in one gulp, feeling a freezing chill run through my veins almost immediately. It’s got some vague similarity to the sensation of taking Midnight, but without any of the clarity the combat drug provides. Fortunately, the warmth of the liquor comes right after, leaving me with a strange feeling in my bones. It’s not entirely unpleasant, but certainly not something I’d want to drink on a regular basis. Still, once the initial discomfort passes, I have no problem finishing my drink, nor does most of the rest of the unit.


    Bret appears to be having some trouble with his, though when he realizes the rest of the unit is well on their way to finishing, he gulps down too much, too fast, and coughs some of it up onto his sleeve, before turning away to hide his face. I almost feel sympathy for him, before he turns to Ibrahim and quips “Well, looks like somebody was a little too eager, huh?”


    My would-be replacement glances around, uncertain as to who Bret is referring to, before realizing he was talking about himself, and disguising an exasperated sigh as a cough of his own, and mumbling something that sounds vaguely like an agreement.


    “I wouldn’t go so far as to say I feel like wailing,” Valent remarks to me, “but the feeling this concoction evokes is certainly strange.”


    Nodding, I down the last of my glass and shiver, already anticipating the rush of warmth that comes after. Without any sleeves on my gown, it’s got to be a bit worse for me than those who wore something more practical for the evening. Still, I don’t regret it entirely, if only for the glances some of the members of the unit have been shooting my way all evening. A few were to be expected, like Mars, who made his interest in me clear right from the beginning, but I hadn’t anticipated Nikitha, of all people, to be looking at me like that. She creeps me out just enough that I’ve avoided returning her gaze, but it’s nice to be appreciated in that sense.


    When the silvery substance has worked its way through my system, I notice my stomach feeling emptier than it rightly should, considering I ate a decent amount off of the charcuterie board not too long ago. The reason why that’s a good thing clicks for me a moment later, when I see the masked servers entering the room with our next course, concurrent with our empty glasses being removed. It’s a veritable feast, with nearly half a dozen full platters, covered by the same magnetically-fastened lids, that look large enough to be a whole meal unto themselves.


    “Tartarus, the land of punishment. We won’t be subjecting you to its torments tonight, but rather a series of dishes that represent the various… creative forms of torture the Greeks imagined their worst sinners suffering.”


    The first lid is removed, revealing a heaping plate of spaghetti and meatballs, with one large meatball positioned atop the mound. Something twinges in the back of my head, the allusion nearly clicking, but the concierge explains it before I can remember fully.


    “A meatball atop a mountain of spaghetti, representing Sisyphus, condemned to spent eternity pushing a rock up a hill and never reaching the summit.”


    Next comes a platter of smoked fish, startlingly pink, resting on a dish of what looks like pure gold. It’s a striking display, but the significance escapes me.


    “Smoked salmon, on a bed of pyrite, or fool’s gold, representing King Salmoneus, damned to Tartarus for disguising himself as Zeus, the King of the Gods.”


    At that, I can’t help but roll my eyes. It seems like a bit of a stretch, not to mention there was no mention of a punishment there at all… but I suppose there are only so many stories about the residents of Tartarus that lend themselves well to being turned into meals.


    Third is a platter of… something I don’t recognize. It’s meat for sure, but what kind, I can’t say.


    “King Tantalus served the gods themselves the flesh of his son, earning himself an eternity of hunger without sustenance. Which is why we present to you the flesh of man. Ethically sourced, of course.”


    More than a few members of the unit blanch at that. Tai, who the platter is closest to, actually pushes it away from him a little. But I see a couple others looking curious- and I’m certainly among them. It’s not like anybody had to actually die for this, same as all our other meat, which is cloned rather than harvested from live animals, so there isn’t any real ethical issue in play.


    “And finally,” he concludes, as the last dish is uncovered, “steak tartare.”


    Almost everybody breathes a sigh of relief, as the final dish is revealed to be nothing more than a cheap pun. A few people even laugh. Personally, I’d rather have cooked human meat than raw animal meat, but apparently not everyone shares that opinion.


    As the masked servers leave the room, we dig in. Nobody wants to be the first person to ask for the human meat, so it inevitably falls to me to break that seal. Mars passes the tray over to me with a raised eyebrow, as if daring me to actually eat it. Maintaining eye contact with him, I take a piece from off the platter, move it to my plate, and cut off a small chunk, then pop it in my mouth.


    “Verdict?” he asks, after a moment.


    “Pretty good,” I conclude. “Tastes like pork. You should try some.”


    Mars scratches his chin, looking uncertain, but eventually gives in and takes a slice of meat off the platter for himself. His willingness to give it a try seems to give some of the others permission to do so as well- and for those still unwilling, there’s plenty of other food as well.


    Scanning the table, I look for somebody who isn’t currently engaged in conversation, and land on Niko, currently carving up a piece of salmon on his plate. He’s too far down the table for us to speak aloud without shouting, so instead I open a private brainband channel to him. He glances in my direction, gives a half-nod to let me know he sees me, and returns to his food.


    How’d you spend your day off, hm? Preparing for the War Council, I hope...


    Niko laughs silently, the only outward hint of his amusement a small smile on his face as he sticks a slice of salmon in his mouth.


    Please, Iza, who do you take me for? I spent the day at a bar, taking bets on fieldball games, while my copyclan did all the real work.


    Picking a bit of flesh from between my teeth, I chuckle back at that.


    And taking a commission on those bets, surely?


    Well, of course, he replies with a sardonic smirk that’s only visible in my mind’s eye. Body language cues are crucial for communication, so it’s sometimes necessary to transmit them over the brainband when speaking silently, so you can pick up on nonverbal cues even when you can’t actually see the other person’s face.


    Good to hear. We might need to have a talk about cash-flow soon. Spending like we’ve been doing won’t be sustainable if we don’t start bringing money in fast. And I’ve got no issue using more... illicit methods, so long as we don’t get caught.


    That might seem more like something I should be asking Sofie about, and I’m certainly not averse to that idea, but Niko is the only member of the unit I’d expect to have actual criminal contacts of any kind. His Noble line’s reputation has been in the gutter for generations, which has led to them seeking their fortunes through less legitimate means, much as their Founder did. If anybody will know how to start filling our coffers quickly and with minimal effort, it’s probably him.


    Sure, he replies, then terminates the connection. Best to speak no more about it for now, I suppose.


    Unsurprisingly, this course lasts longer than all the ones that came before. Still, with only four dishes between the fifteen of us, we polish it all off within a reasonable amount of time. By my reckoning, that only leaves two of our nine courses left. After the masked servers have returned, silent as ever, to clear our plates and remove the scoured platters, our next course is served swiftly, in the form of more drinks. Hopefully this round will be slightly less disconcerting than the last set of cocktails they brought out.


    “Phlegethon. The river of flame. Your final trial.”


    We’re silent for a moment, waiting for further elaboration, but none comes. I suppose I can’t fault the concierge for being a little sick of narrating our meals to us, after the past seven courses or so. Fittingly, the drink in front of me is a fiery orange-red, swirling like the inside of a lava lamp. Since it’s not literally on fire, nobody seems to have an issue getting started with theirs... save, that is, for Kat, who regards hers with a mixture of suspicion and concern.


    Doing okay? I ask her, already bracing myself to see her flinch at the mere fact of somebody speaking to her. Surprisingly, she manages to react more calmly, though she shoots me a look that would make it very obvious to anyone who cared to watch that we’re communicating silently.


    Y-yeah, I’m fine, she replies. That last drink just... didn’t really sit right with me.


    Well, judging by the way everybody else is reacting, I get the sense this is gonna be pretty much the exact opposite of the last one. But you don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to. They’re not gonna kick you out because you skipped a course. And if they try, I’ll have Sander rough ‘em up a little for you, ‘kay?


    Kat lets out a laugh at that, making Amalia, who’s sitting next to her, look around for the source of her amusement, before putting together what’s going on.


    No, uh, that’s okay, really. Thank you, though.


    Course. What kind of commander would I be if I didn’t stick up for my people?


    Kat nods, picks up the glass, and tosses back a mouthful, maybe more than I’d advice for an unknown cocktail that’s supposed to be representative of a hellish river of flame. Predictably, she makes a face, momentarily shocked by the sensation, but swiftly adjusts and swallows, gingerly placing the glass back down.


    Not terrible?


    No, but it burns. Like, a lot. And then it fades pretty quickly, which is nice.


    Good to know. Thanks.


    Giving Kat a grateful nod, I pick up my own glass, and take a more conservative sip. As she said, burns on the way down, but fades out swiftly, leaving behind nothing more than a pleasant tingle on my tongue.


    Before any of us have even finished our drinks, the masked servers appear again, with another set of oversized platters, their contents hidden under metal lids.


    “And now, the hero’s reward... Elysium.”


    The covers come off, revealing each platter to contain a multi-tiered tower of desserts, ranging from sweet tarts and miniature chocolate cakes to caramel candies and sour lemon drops. The array of options is almost dizzying- I can see why someone with a sweet tooth would call it paradise.


    Without a hint of hesitation, the Gazelles tear into the treats like they’ve been starved for weeks, despite having been fed quite well rather recently. I suppose everybody is capable of making a little extra room for dessert, and it wouldn’t shock me if the last liquid course was designed in part to help speed along the process of digestion, in order to ensure the final course doesn’t go to waste.


    As I’m reaching for a tart, I feel the indistinct tug at my awareness that signals an incoming brainband connection request- from Ibrahim, as it happens, who’s making eye contact with me from all the way across the table. Raising an eyebrow, I accept the request, keeping my gaze locked on him while I bite down and feel the sweet jelly gush out of the pastry like blood from an open wound.


    Commander, he begins stiffly. Allow me to begin by thanking you for taking us all here. It’s been a truly unique experience.


    ‘Course, I reply casually, giving no indication that I’m aware why he’s saying all this to me. Of course, he knows that I know, but the position I’m in now allows me to mess with him a little, without him being able to complain. There something else you wanted to talk about?


    I, ah, wished to ensure there were no misunderstandings between us, regarding my conduct during our training exercise two days ago. You must understand I meant no disrespect, and acted only in the best interests of the unit, as I’m sure you would have in my situation.


    Reading the subtext a little there, he’s basically saying ‘sure, I was trying to further my own ambitions at your expense, but you’d have done the same if you were me.’ Which, to be honest, isn’t entirely untrue. And if I’d caved and allowed him to undermine my position, he wouldn’t be apologizing right now. But I maneuvered around him, and now he’s realized that he can’t handle the prospect of having Bret as his only ally against me.


    Right. No misunderstandings here. Just don’t do it again.


    There’s a distinct pause, as he stands at the edge of capitulation, wondering whether this is really worth his pride. Then Bret makes a joke, a little too loud, speech slurred by the liquor, and he cracks.


    Of course.


    Good.


    I terminate the connection, and get back to dessert. It tastes sweeter now- like victory.


    Slowly, we work through the dessert trays as a unit. I discover I don’t much like the sour lemon drops, but Valent can’t get enough- I spot him tucking some into his pocket for later, and he gives me a playful wink. Sander doesn’t indulge much in the confectionaries, but I prod him into having some chocolate cake, and he even takes seconds.


    The bill is already paid, so once everybody’s had their fill, people start to peel away from the group and leave, usually in pairs or groups of three. Bret notices this, and- no doubt emboldened by his intoxication -asks the nearest woman, who happens to be Ada, if she’d like to leave with him. After getting turned down, more politely than I would have done it, he turns to Ibrahim and asks him the same, though without the implied request for sex, and gets flatly denied.


    Once again, I start to feel some sympathy for him, until he turns to the rest of the group and quips “Well, I guess it’s just not my night,” before leaving alone. It’s not quite bad enough for everybody to groan simultaneously, but the mood does perceptibly lighten once he’s gone.


    A few minutes later, Mars shoots me a look, implicitly asking a similar question- one I’d be inclined to answer positively, if I didn’t already have plans for tonight. I shake my head with an apologetic frown, doing my best to convey that it’s not him, it’s me. He nods, unpreturbed, and gets up to leave, tapping Colleen on the shoulder as he passes by. She gets up, grabbing her sword from off the back of her chair, and follows him. Whether they’re going to fight or fuck, I’m not sure, but I hope they have a good time.


    Once they’re gone, that leaves just me, Grant, Sander, Sofie, and Niko. It doesn’t escape my notice that my ultra-exclusive War Council consists of an even third of the unit’s total membership, but that’s an unfortunate consequence of only having a relatively limited number of people to work with.


    The four of them adjust their seating slightly to come closer to me- and to the tray with the most sweets remaining. Having eaten as much as they did, the Gazelles weren’t able to polish off the platters completely, meaning we’ll have something to snack on if the meeting runs long enough for us to get hungry again.


    “Okay. Let’s get down to business.”