Several minutes of riding later, Slaughter managed to get seated in the saddle. That had certainly been degrading, and he was tempted to slip into a depressed fugue for a few hours, simply crawling into a dark hole and sleeping for a while instead of pretending to be some sort of semi-heroic figure. But, no. He had to let someone know there was a maniac on the loose, and that it was an alternate reality version of himself. There was still going to be a good chance someone was going to try and shoot him in the face to solve the problem through Paradox, but at the very least he could get some of his saner peers to not make the attempt.


    His first order of business was to make his way into the dark hole he used for all his sleeping and storage purposes to use his radio. It was a beautiful device, lacquered wood over electronic components, able to produce some sort of esertoic signal, far beyond his understanding, to reproduce anything he said into the receiver. Any of the similar devices up to miles away would hear his words. Sure, there had been individual devices that served the function produced by both sides of the secret wars by talented genii, but this had been made entirely by modern science. It was a shining example of why Slaughter couldn''t just give up and sink into despair when everything continued to go exactly as he anticipated. Sometimes, something would go right. Sometimes, a hint of brilliance untouched by the insanity of everyone around him would fall into the light of day, and not be rejected. Swinging off the horse, Slaughter ties the animal to a post and lifts a door set into stone next to a public building. So far, it had served as security by obscurity, with people working in the building not having any reason to investigate what they assumed was a cellar, and people similarly assuming that investigation on their part would be trespassing.


    Rather, the door opened to a space carved out entirely for one man, squatting illegally under a courthouse. It wasn''t the best, but William found it hard to care about his accommodations at the best of times. Most of the time, he wasn''t even able to care about himself. Still, he had an obligation to humanity. Turning dials on the radio box, Slaughter tunes the device to the frequency used for the kind of broadcasts, and delivers his message.


    “Calling for an assemblage of peers at the Watershed Down, in regards to a potential Beyond-Confederate threat. Codename Grimfang to all available non-hostile catalyzed.”


    With that on the airwaves, word would get around somehow. William would go over to the meeting place momentarily.


    Any minute now.


    Well, that had probably been enough waffling around. He gets up from the cot and straps the iron plate back onto his chest. Sliding the rest of his gear on as he walks and bringing the radio in a small bag around his hip, William pushes open the door of his sanctuary and comes out into the day fully in the persona of ''Grimfang’.


    It was a way to go to get to the speakeasy, so Slaughter mounts the horse once more. He had a key to get down to the underground establishment, solely for this specific type of meeting. The location was neutral ground, and all agenda were to be put aside while within the grounds of the alcohol serving establishment. While he could see the usefulness of the existence of such an established locale, Slaughter considered the entire illegal enterprise to be a potential liability. For some reason, his efforts to deter the traffic of prohibited materials had gotten him primarily ire, not only from the expected avenues of those who would have otherwise profited from the sale of drink and the consumers of the product, but also from the very members of society that had come to join the ranks of elite through their platforms based upon harsher punishments for those that would disregard the Constitution. It was getting to the point that he was starting to suspect the politicians might have some sort of connection to the organized underground trade.


    Regardless, the main members of society to make most of the profit from rumrunning and the like would be the ones hiding in the shadows controlling everything, and that would mean Lemuria. If he could ever get a few peers to join him in following the trail up the ladder, they could cut off a significant revenue stream from the Bahrims that kept a stranglehold on humanity. That was higher tier planning than he needed right now, as what Slaughter was using this speakeasy for right now was far simpler. To destroy himself, he would need a posse. Here, he ties the horse to a post away from the street, so as to not have the animal spooked from a passing automobile, and walks into the bookstore.


    Nodding to the bookkeeper at a desk aft of the door, he produces a pewter key and places the object on the wood. While the man went into the back to test the validity of his entry token, Slaughter began reading the spines of the books for sale. It was rare that he had an occasion to take advantage of this locale''s distractions, so most of the tomes on offer showed to be new to him. There were all the standard schlock novels, adventure stories glamorizing the lawlessness of the west for a few cents per copy, but if one dug deep enough they could find something truly interesting in this particular shop. As befitting a place of neutrality for enlightened citizens, the local would also serve as a repository for schematics, blueprints, and occasionally books of useful information regarding what schemes of Lemuria they had managed to uncover. No such luck today though. Slaughter picked out a schematic for some sort of electrically powered death ray written by ‘N.T.’ to read over when he had time, and headed through the opening that had swung open while he was browsing the stacks.


    Behind a bookshelf full of tax law, an unobtrusive door hid the passage down to the Watershed Down. Most speakeasies would only require a passphrase, but this was a somewhat more secure dispensary of liquids. Once the key was given to the bookkeeper, the man on duty would use it to unlock the mechanism that allowed the bookshelf to swing out, at which point they would drop the key down a chute to a secure storage area under the establishment, by the coat check. Walking down the stone steps to retrieve his key, Slaughter hears the bookshelf swing back into place and lock with a click. He would have to go through with it now, and go out through the actual exit.


    Slaughter handed his duster to the checkman, getting a slip of paper in return. He smiled a bit as the guy nearly dropped the leather coat, not expecting the iron plate sewn into the back. Discretion was the better part of valor, so it paid to armor one’s backside. Past the coat check, the room opened up into a smoke filled bar, with booths to the right and drinks on the left. If he were to continue onward, Slaughter could get to the exit across the room, but no. There was at least the first person he would have to talk to in the second booth.


    “You better make it quick Slaughter, there’s a picture showing tonight that I want to see. ‘Giant Monster’. Apparently there’s a monster, and it’s giant.”


    That was James McGraw, or Jim to people who liked him. Thin, irish, short, and angry, the man tended to be abrasive, especially towards the workers of the post office. He at least limited his anti government employee rampages to when someone uncovered an actual plot by Lemuria, at which point he would ‘volunteer’ to make sure their communications were ‘disrupted’. Slaughter figured there was a story in there somewhere, but would rather not be on the receiving end of firepower that would render his personal armor little more effective than a plank of wood against ordinary bullets.


    As he approached the booth, another familiar face came into view. Across from James was Heather Davenport, who has caused a bit of a stir to the east when the Confederate Federation Intelligence Agency had their plot to infest Savannah''s people with intelligence sapping parasites through tainted grain stopped by her, when after sneaking through their site, terrorizing some of the agents for intelligence and proof, followed by turning the individuals against each other with her subtle whispers inciting them into rage against their fellows, she confronted the agent in charge and eventually picked up the silo and smashed him with it.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Slaughter made a mental note not to get on her bad side, and went right into it.


    “I followed the trail from that shark and giant monster from earlier today-”


    “You''re telling me there was an actual giant monster today, and I missed it!?” interjected McGraw.


    “Calm down sweetie,” purred Davenport, “it didn''t even rate a radio call, it probably wasn''t even that interesting.”


    Slaughter cleared his throat.


    “Ahem. In any matter, the creature had glassed a trail leading up to the new Air Force base, where I found something worse than the Lumarian agents I was expecting. Apparently the culprit is an alternate reality version of me.”


    Sitting up straight from his relaxed lean against the booth''s cushion, McGraw picks up his empty shot glass and waves it in the general direction of the bar. The bartender lifts a thumb without turning toward the booths, steadfastly wiping a single mug with a rag while facing away from all the patrons. James looks toward Slaughter, giving him an appraising look.


    “You don''t look so tough. I could take ya.”


    “Probably,” Slaughter acquiesced, “but the alternate me seems to be far more advanced than I. He claims to be from the future, and at the very least the fact he has a minion who isn’t incompetent speaks to that.”


    Davenport glances over from her whiskey to Slaughter.


    “Someone competent, here? In Georgia? Surely you jest sirrah.”


    “I''m going to draw attention to your insult to everyone here by pointing out my lack of response to it.”


    She rolled her eyes.


    “Present company excluded of course, which should go without saying amongst company this allegedly intelligent.”


    Great. He had managed to narrow down the insult to only himself. Why did he even bother? This always went the same way. A waitress slid her way past Slaughter to pour a dark liquid into McGraw''s glass, glancing at him unsmiling. She looked familiar, but he couldn''t place her. Probably just someone he had interacted with at some point and alienated, like he did. Maybe from his anti speakeasy stance, or from talking about his hobbies, or just his personality. Casually making people dislike him was a William specialty.


    McGraw took a sip of the black liquid, coughed, and continued on with the conversation.


    “Auwk, but that stings. Good stuff. You want a sip ‘a this before I set yer clone or whatever on fire?”


    “Thank you, but I''m afraid I must decline. I don''t drink alcohol. Might I ask for patience while I at least let you know what wonders my future self brought back with him?”


    Eyes narrowing, Heather jumps on Slaughter''s statement.


    “If one weren''t fluent in the vernacular, one might guess you are singing your own praises in the form of a threat greatly related to yourself. Does this man actually exist, or are you seeking to build up your reputation more, Grimfang?”


    From the bag around his waist, and from the general seating of his two associates, Slaughter is assailed by questioning from the radios themselves.


    “I''ll have to second the question. If an alternate self of yours was behind this most recent destruction, was coherent enough to allow you to come to understand his culpability and the capability of his beholden, while allowing you to gain knowledge of his creations, how then were you able to make your way back to town with your information if he were simply more powerful than you? It is not outside the bounds of reason that this new threat is not sourced from you, and following your supposed leads would allow for the true culprits to escape while we hunt snipes.”


    “I''ll have you know I caught that pest. I just don''t have any evidence because snipes are flammable,” said McGraw.


    Ben Grimes, Slaughter figured. He was an expert in communications technology, endlessly fascinated by anything moving through the airways. If no one else, he was the one that would have noticed the transmission he had sent out. Apparently it hadn''t warranted coming out in person, but tapping into the radio frequencies to listen in was almost as good. Slaughter was going to have to remember to speak all his arguments clearly, without relying on gestures or other methods of nonverbal communication.


    “It was only through application of every bit of equipment I had at my disposal that I''m sitting here today. If I hadn''t left it at the check, I would show you the bullet holes in my coat. As it is, I am drastically short on material with which to operate my secret weapon, and haven''t finished resetting my escape devices,” Slaughter supplied as vaguely as possible. There was deflection of suspicion, and then there was giving away trade secrets of the sort that might save his life when the collaboration inevitably fell apart. He was banking on that taking at least a few minutes though. Admitting he was currently almost completely defenseless was quite off-putting, and he would need to put in the effort soon to correct the flaws he had uncovered, possibly stealing designs from the future. Now that he thought of it, “I would also appreciate a first claim on items appropriated from a version of myself, particularly when said devices would overlap with my current designs. You surely understand the potential liability of having copies of one''s designs spread out without any control over the distribution, particularly regarding the potential for crimes not of one’s own being committed with evidence leading to the inventor’s door.”


    McGraw nodded.


    “That was enough to convince me at least. Far as I''m aware, Grimfang here isn''t known for planning things out far in advance, and it takes a bit of effort to shoot yourself in the back.”


    Davidson lightly slaps at the man, retorting, “You haven''t even seen the evidence yet!”


    “Aye, but it''d be right stupid to order up something so easily disproven while suggesting a team up that would have the statement tested immediately and several times further over the course of the collaboration.”


    “I suppose you have a point.”


    “If I may,” Grimes spoke through the radios, “worrying about a criminal tarnishing one''s good name using technology associated with the person in question is a fairly ridiculous thing to bring up in conversation, barring a Klagen worrying about every possible thing going wrong, which would imply the person in question regards the threat to be real enough to think about in such a manner.”


    Stood to reason that a person obsessed with communications would read deeply into every aspect of a conversation. At least this time it had worked in Slaughter''s favor.


    “Supposing that this man is real, and is dangerous,” followed Davenport, “What logic if there in making an enemy of him?”


    William frowned. This kind of social engagement was never his forte. How exactly was he supposed to say that the man was already an enemy of his, and then convince the other people to take on the same dangers with no real tangible benefits? Oh right, the Confederate threat.


    “I haven''t had a chance to go into it yet, what with all the suspicion flying around, but the man is a maniac. He spoke of raising the world''s crime rate by percentages linked to the degree of action, and believed what he was saying like it was properly reviewed science. The CFIA may not have been bankrolling this one particular attack, but if this copy combines forces with the intelligent agency we could have an entire region of Lemuria knowing everything I know and would ever have learned about every rogue fighting against them. Also, he had his minion shoot me.”


    “Fine,” acquiesced Heather, inviting similar muttered affirmations of ‘collaborate’ from James and Benjamin. With the general question of whether action was going to happen answered, the group sat back with drinks, though only presumably on the part of Grimes.