Double-Blind: A Modern LITRPG

Chapter 286

There were worse possibilities for this unfortunately impaired moment in time. An incursion from a rival region with multiple casualties, or a sudden announcement from the Ordinator that they’d changed their minds and the transposition started now.

Miles' presence was more like a distant third.

If I was lucid, it wouldn't even rank in the top ten. But I wasn't. Even ignoring the impromptu carpentry workshop and subsequent green-lighting of the dog tree, the fuck-up with Talia served as evidence of that. It hadn't even occurred to me that she shouldn't be speaking aloud before she gave Julien and Charlotte an existential crisis. And unlike Julian and Charlotte, Miles was a far more serious threat.

Because he was the real deal. I'd watched him pick a man apart during an interrogation, guess his age, pre-system vocation, and the exact combination of suggestions and threats necessary to break him open like a walnut, all completely cold. Perceptive, intelligent, and borderline unreadable. On a good day, locked in and focused with the proper title equipped, engaging with Miles was still dangerous. None of my subtler abilities could touch him, implying a special class he'd kept painstakingly close to the vest.

To make matters worse, the voices in my head had been uncharacteristically quiet ever since the accidental dose. A relief, but one I felt far less strongly now that I explicitly needed them.

It's fine. He's just here because I never messaged him back, or to give his regards, or because mom is incapable of keeping anything to herself. The only reason he'll have to be suspicious is if I act guilty.

Internally, I did a double-take. Because that was my own inner voice, completely unfiltered for the first time in what felt like forever. More confirmation that I was flying blind. I stepped away from the peephole and pitched my voice low, speaking to Kinsley. It threw me off for a second because she'd moved, taking cover behind the counter and peeking out, her pupils blown. "Go in the dogs' room with the others. Turn the music down and tell everyone to sit tight."

"The dogs have an entire room now?" Kinsley hissed.

"It's not like anyone's–that really what we want to focus on at the moment?"

"Relax. It's Miles. He won't stay long."

Unhappily, Kinsley crouch-walked from cover to cover, making her way to the hallway and sneaking down it.

"Kinsley," I called after her. "Other way."

Kinsley swore, surveyed her surroundings, then for some undefinable reason, flipped me the bird.

"What are you going to tell them?" I asked, trying to remind her.

She thought for what felt like a long time. "To sit down and turn the music tight."

"Great. Perfect."

Once she was gone and I'd shot a message to Charlotte telling her and Sae to lay low, I braced myself and opened the door. "Miles."

"Happy gettin-old-day slugger." Miles grinned crookedly. There was a dark green bottle beneath his arm with golden foil over the top. An open-navy blazer revealed an old Metallica t-shirt tucked into a worn pair of jeans. In a way, it was odd how normal he looked, when he wasn't clad head-to-toe in system attire or business casual.

"Thanks. All quiet on the western front?"

"Mostly." Miles confirmed. Then the smile faded, as he looked past me into the dark living room. "Looks like the party died. Everything alright?"

There goes any chance of a quick visit.

"Yeah. Just moved to the back, we've been working on a couple side projects. Come in." I waved him inside and flicked on the light, going to the kitchen and rifling through the fridge. "Uh. Someone made a giant pitcher of lemonade, there's beer–the cheap shit Nick likes, not-coke, and coffee."

"Not to mention tacos and dessert." Miles picked up one of the now cold brownies up to his nose and breathed deeply. A second later, his brow furrowed, and he looked at me quizzically. "Damn. If I knew you were cutting loose, I would have brought something other than sparkling grape juice."

Briefly, because I wasn't confident in my ability to hold things together without creating the sort of suspicion more likely to make Miles look closer, I gave him the rundown on the oil mixup. In the old world, this was perhaps the stupidest thing I could have done. A cop would see it as an admission of guilt, and a fed would consider it a point of leverage. To a lesser extent the latter was still true, but with the psychopaths and necromancers running around, I figured it was better than just letting him wonder. He'd grill me for info either way. That part of his job was hard baked into his DNA.

What was less predictable, was the way he laughed until his eyes were red. "And here I thought the surprise party was destined for spectacular failure."

"It's been a spectacular something," I muttered, as Miles screwed the cap off his beer and took a long pull, trying not to chuckle.

"For the record," Miles pointed the top of his bottle at me. "I told her it was a terrible idea. I think everyone did. She was–privately, of course–bemoaning how 'uncooperative' your friends were."

I rubbed my face in annoyance. "Yeah. Generally it doesn't matter. Once mom gets an idea in her head, no one gets through, and everyone who challenges her isn't being open-minded enough. At least until it all goes wrong, and she runs away with her tail between her legs."

"Brutal. But I guess I can see it. That happen tonight?" Miles asked.

"After we started working on the side-projects, she made some comments that it wasn't what she’d imagined, got antagonistic, and left when no one was looking. Hasn't answered her messages since." I stopped myself suddenly, realizing I was effectively dragging my mother to the man she was dating. "Not trying to be harsh. It's not a big deal, really. Just part of recovery. Pink-clouding and whatnot."

"Guess I can stop composing this break-up message." Miles rolled his eyes. "You're not usually this transparent."

"Yeah, yeah."

Even without the snipe at the end his comment was an obvious joke, but it landed a little too close to a constant source of anxiety. Same as most addicts, my mother had a pattern. She'd get clean, commit to the process, really go all in. With every passing day, she'd grow more confident, and her productivity would rise. Then almost inevitably, something would knock her down–a failed relationship, a decline email from an interview–and she'd spiral, eventually landing back at square one.

There was an awkward silence, and we both shifted uncomfortably in the lull. We were both great communicators in a crisis, far less so when there was no obvious problem to solve. Part of me was kicking myself for not asking Kinsley to pass a message to Tara, asking her to insert herself into the conversation to smooth the tension between me and Miles.

As if my thoughts were somehow manifesting reality, the dog's door cracked wide enough for me to see Kinsley's horrified expression as Tara slipped out. She'd tidied her hair before making the appearance and she flashed us both a smile as she raided the cupboard, lifting a bag of pistachios.

"Can I grab you boys anything?" She asked.

"I'm fine," I said.

"Ate on the way, but thanks," Miles answered simultaneously.

"Babe," Tara said, drawing immediate side-eye from Miles. It was the same word from earlier, but a simple alteration of inflection changed so much. Instead of sarcastic, it sounded confident and familiar. It took me a second to realize she was performing, flexing a little. She waved the bag at us. "Need to coat your stomach with something. You'll thank me later."

"Listen to the woman." Miles agreed seriously. "He who parties without eating will not enjoy the party for long, nor the day that follows."

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"Confucius?"

"More like de Sade." Tara quipped.

Miles barked a laugh. "Now there's a deep cut."

Tara gave me a withering glance. "Since you're not explicitly saying no, I'm gonna take your silence as consent–"

"–Totally not problematic at all–" I interjected.

"–and fix up a plate." She gave Miles a meaningful look. "Make sure he doesn't just stare at it and actually eats?"

"Scout's honor," Miles nodded, agreeing easily. It imparted some small measure of relief that Tara didn't immediately ping Miles' radar. More like the opposite. If anything, he seemed more comfortable than he'd been before, and continued to make polite conversation until the plate of leftovers was delivered and Tara returned to the dog's room, winking at me over her shoulder.

As soon as the door closed, Miles turned to me and waggled his eyebrows, absolutely radiating smugness. "Well I gotta say, kid, you really suck at introductions. How long has that been going on?"

voice echoed somewhere in my subconscious, dissecting Miles' sentence. I focused inward for a moment, tuning in long enough to identify the pithy quality it adopted often when it was bored and offering commentary purely to stir the pot, then tuned out.

"Sorry. Her name's Tara. And it's new," I returned neutrally. "We're still figuring it out."

"Well, figure it out quickly. I dated a few waitresses in my day, but none like that. She seems great."

"How?" I asked the air in frustration. "How the hell do you pick her out as a waitress with less than two minutes to draw from?"

"Well..." Miles shifted his head from side to side. "Could say it's the posture, the way she held the plate from the bottom and didn't struggle with the balance for a second... but I'd be lying my ass off. I've had a few work lunches downstairs."

"Right."

Suddenly, I felt foolish. And more than ready to change the subject. "Enough about me. How's everything with you and mom?"

"It's been good." Miles said, putting a little too much emphasis on 'been.' He grimaced sheepishly. "After getting out from under some trouble, I got a little too ambitious for my own good, started talking about making things official... and uh... she was enthusiastically in favor."

It took a second to parse what he meant. They were exclusive, as far as I knew, so that meant... "Official, as in marriage?"

"Yeah." Miles put the beer to his lips and tipped it upward.

"Three wives wasn't enough?"

He coughed, almost choking as he wiped his mouth, glaring at me distastefully. "The timing had to be intentional."

"I mean, I'd be worried. Four wives is basically a harem."

"They're exes. You're not usually this funny, either," Miles complained. He cocked his head, considering something. "Would you?"

"Hm?"

"Be worried, if we took the next step? You've been chill until now. But I wouldn't hold it against you, given our history." Miles said, quietly waiting for my response.

It was strange to think about. Purely because of how well we knew each other, and how tenuous that relationship had been. Across the collective experiences of both my identities, I'd seen Miles at his most savage, willing to say or do almost anything to accomplish his goals. On the surface, he was controlled, careful, and calculated. The only time he'd completely lost his cool was when I–through Myrddin–threatened his colleagues. Yet, when given the opportunity and a thorough dose of reasonable doubt, he'd made peace. He was socially savvy, a terrible public speaker, and a fantastic mentor. Whatever else he was, I got the sense that, more than anything, he was a protector at heart.

We've had our problems, but you've always been fair. Really, I should hate you on principle, but in a way I look up to you. It's weird to say that. My generation, most of our heroes are either fictional or dead, so really, that's not nothing. You always have your eye on the ball. Do the necessary thing even when it's hard. But you're not all rough edges. If you're wrong, you cop to it. If someone's suffering, you try to help. You're a natural leader, and the people who follow you do so out of trust. Of course I approve.

"Jesus Christ." Miles leaned all the way back in the chair until it creaked. Almost defensively, he tossed a small black box onto the table. "Was just gonna check in, drop these off, and be on my way, but, uh, you wanna get some air?"

What? Why the sudden change of...

Slowly, I put a hand to my face. "How much of that did I say out loud?"

Miles looked up thoughtfully. "From, 'we've had our problems' onward."

"It's the weed talking."

Miles grinned. "Well, let the weed know that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in years."

"Eat shit."

"Aaaand he's back."

/////

A wind current cut the humidity of the midsummer air. The roof of the building, despite the bar, swimming pool, and swathe of waterproof furniture that surrounded us, it was entirely abandoned. Miles' gift was a pair of aged Cuban cigars, the "real deal" I was told, repeatedly, as he cut and lit them. His second, more concerning present was a small portion of spiced rum, which I eyed with distaste.

"Relax, Mocktail. You don't have to finish it. Just sip enough to get the flavor profile. Authentic experience and all." Miles set his glass down and vaulted back over the bar, putting a hand on the small of his back and stretching before he picked it up again. We walked over to a bench near the railing that encircled the rooftop and took in the skyline. Miles tapped his glass against mine, resonating 'ting' lost in the sound of ambient wind as he raised it and drank. "Puff, then sip," he told me.

Cautiously, I did so.

The result was complex, a blanket of layered richness that was difficult to pin down–vanilla, nutmeg and cinnamon all warred for prominence, the underlying cloying taste the only point of relative consistency.

"That is way, way sweeter than I expected it to be," I said, staring down at the rum.

"Pretty good, right?" Miles pointed a finger at me, waiting for–confirmation.

It was. Too rich and extravagant to enjoy more than once in a blue moon, but it really, really was. I raised my glass, letting the honeyed liquid coat my tongue.

"Did you know I'm impotent?" Miles asked.

I choked and coughed, unable to stop myself from spritzing rum all over the pavement below. "Beyond the obvious payback, that's relevant to this conversation, how?"

"Everything still works. But yeah, I'm shooting blanks. Have been for thirty years. Went back a few times, and the result's always the same. Nada. Zilch."

"Still waiting for the relevance, Miles," I said again. Instead of responding, he waited for me to do the mental math. "Hold on. Are your kids adopted?"

"Some were," Miles nodded.

"So the rest..."

"'Were miracle children, god's grace, a literal one-in-a-million shot. Providence.'" He chuckled ruefully. "Ashamed to admit I actually believed my first wife, when she fed me that line. The second... not so much."

"Damn."

"I had it coming," Miles worked his jaw. "Too many hours at work, too many weeks without date nights, way too many weekends spent doing nothing but vegging in front of the TV because I was too burned out to function. All the cliche cop shit. But it's a cliche for a reason."

"Not sure anyone has that coming."

"You're very supportive, under the influence." Miles eyed me, leaning out over the railing. "But save the pity. They're all my kids and I wouldn't trade them for anything. My name's on their birth certificates. Legally, that's all that matters."

"Why wouldn't you order a paternity test?"

"Oh I did," he snorted. "More than one. Couldn't believe she'd lie to my face like that. Spent a lot of time at the gym–and in the ring–working the anger out. Took some time. After the anger was gone... guess I realized a few things. The first was that I needed to file for divorce, ASAP. The second was that I wanted to be a father. Probably most important, there was a reason it was me in the OR, not the other guy."

"You stepped up," I realized.

"Why not? By any reasonable standard, I was stable, accomplished, and motivated. Not saying it's been perfect. My eldest... reconnected with his biological father, decided he was a better fit. Calls me Miles, now. Hard pill to swallow. Hard as hell, but it wasn't up to me. Just like I chose him, it was his right to choose someone else." He made a dismissive notion. "This has all been a very roundabout way of conveying that I have a lot of flexibility when it comes to acting as a parent. You don't have to worry about me elbowing in on what you've got going with Iris and Ellison." He stared out at the city blankly, breathing out cigar smoke. "You've taken care of them for a long time. And frankly, from the sound of it, done a better job than most."

I took another sip of my rum. For a moment, the skyline seemed to spin, and closed my eyes, blinking until the nausea faded. "My... history doesn't put you off?"

"The details that came out at the panel?" Miles asked, guilt creeping into his expression.

"Yeah."

"That deadbeat," Miles said, disgust leaking into his voice, "Beat his woman until she was black and blue and shot a cop. Dipshit was doomed any way you spin it. If nobody stabbed him, he would have offed himself. In the likely scenario he lacked either the wisdom or courage to off himself, he would have 'offed himself.' If somehow he didn't bite the bullet either way, the judge would have punched a one-way ticket to the needle express faster than you can say capital punishment."

"So you would have done the same?" I challenged, not entirely sure if I believed him.

"It'd be wrong to say that without being there." Miles' brow furrowed. "But I sure as hell would have looked the other way."

It's not like it was. At the beginning, he was an unknown quantity. It got worse and for a while, he was an enemy. But it's not like that anymore. We're on friendly terms with and without the mask. Myrddin helped him clear the bounty and they've been working together behind the scenes, which makes us at least a valuable asset. Maybe it's time to finally level with him.

"Close call at the tower today bothering you?" Miles asked. Like he genuinely wanted to know. Like he cared.

"Not really." My throat felt tight. Constricted.

"So, talk to me," Miles scratched his head. "Because you look miserable. Like something's eating you from the inside out. If there's anything you want to share, I'm a good listener." He scowled and puffed his cigar. "And no, this isn't fishing for intel. Believe it or not, I genuinely, authentically give a shit."

It was a perfect opening.

I'm Myrddin.