The officer squinted at him from across the desk, his uniform neat and pressed, a stark contrast to his own sorry state. His clothes, wrinkled and grimy, reeked of days without a wash. His stomach grumbled softly, a subtle reminder of how long it had been since he'd had a proper meal and wash. But if the officer noticed or cared he didn't show it. His face wore the kind of detached patience that suggested he was just another item on a long list of problems he had to deal with.
"Rus Wilson," He said, answering the officer's question. His voice cracked slightly, not from nerves but from sheer exhaustion.
The officer's eyebrows twitched, though his expression remained otherwise unreadable. "Mr. Wilson," he said, dragging out the syllables in a way that made Rus feel like a schoolkid called into the principal's office. "I take it you understand that it's illegal to enter Libertalia without proper papers."
Oh, he understood. He really did. He wasn't an idiot. He meant it's not like he wanted to be here. Back home, if he could even call it that anymore, at least he had a house. Not much of one, sure, but it was a roof over his head. A tiny apartment with a sometimes leaky faucet and neighbors who argued at all hours of the night. But it was his. Food wasn't always plentiful, but he'd never gone to bed as hungry as he was now.
Rus wanted to explain all that, but how does he even begin?
"I had no choice, sir," Rus muttered, forcing himself to meet the officer's gaze.
Rus's voice was steadier this time, but the words still felt hollow. Excuses weren't going to help him, and neither was the truth, not the whole truth, anyway.
Because who would believe it? That he wasn't from this world, that he'd been ripped out of everything he knew and dropped into this bizarre reality? The compass floating at the top top of vision marked the officer in gray, helpfully letting him know he was "neutral." But even if he didn't look ready to throw him in a cell just yet, Rus doubted he'd take kindly to him rambling about alternate dimensions.
"It's a crime," the officer said bluntly. "Honestly, we'd have a mind to deport you. But after a background check..." He paused, glancing at the file in front of him. "Well, we couldn't find anything. It's like you just appeared in Libertalia out of thin air. Why is that, Mr. Wilson?"
Rus swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I don't know," He said truthfully. "When I woke up, I was in an alley. That's all I remember."
"We searched the address you gave us," he continued, his tone bordering on accusatory. "Contacted every authority that might have a record of it. But it doesn't exist."
Of course, it doesn't exist. Not here. But saying that wouldn't help. He forced a shrug and tried to look as clueless as possible. "I honestly don't know, sir."
He didn't look convinced. Not that Rus could blame him. His eyes flicked back to the papers in his hand, scanning them as if the answers he wanted might magically appear.
The "interview" had been thorough, to say the least. They'd poked and prodded Rus, scanned him for diseases with names he'd never heard of, and ran tests that he couldn't begin to understand. It had been humiliating and invasive, but at least they'd confirmed one thing. He was human. No riftborne diseases, no suspicious anomalies — aside from the glaring fact that he had no history, no records, and no explanation for how He'd ended up here.
The officer sighed, closing the file and setting it aside. "I'll be honest with you, Mr. Wilson. Your situation doesn't look good. Based on what we can piece together, you were likely involved in some kind of... incident that brought you here. Now, we could assume it was an accident, but we also have reason to suspect it might have been arranged."
Arranged? That was news to him. Rus stared at him, trying to keep his face neutral.
"Arranged by who?"
"That's the problem," he admitted, leaning back in his chair. "We have no leads. No evidence. Nothing. You're a ghost, Mr. Wilson."
A ghost. Great. As if he didn't already feel invisible enough.
The officer pushed a tablet across the desk toward Rus. "After much discussion, we've come to a decision. This," he said, tapping the screen, "is your best option."
Rus glanced down at the tablet. The screen displayed a contract, the details written in small, official-looking text. At the top, in bold letters, were the words: Counter Registration Agreement.
"What's a Counter?" Rus asked, though the word sounded vaguely familiar. He'd overheard it a few times in the streets, mentioned in hushed tones by people who gave him wide berths.
The officer's lips tightened. "Counters are individuals who handle dangerous tasks of guarding rift zones, eliminating threats, and protecting the city from... unforeseen incidents. It's not easy work, but it's important."
"And if I agree to this?" Rus asked cautiously.
"You'll be granted provisional citizenship. After four years of service, full citizenship. Until then, you'll be under strict supervision." His gaze hardened. "If you refuse, deportation is the only alternative."
Deportation. The word sent a chill down Rus's spine. Where would they even send him? Back to the alley where he woke up? Back to whatever had torn him out of his world in the first place? Or maybe just tossed out into the wilds beyond the city walls, left to fend for himself against creatures he'd only caught glimpses of from afar.
It wasn't really a choice. The officer knew it, and so did he.
Rus stared at the contract for a long moment. His reflection looked back faintly on the screen, a face he barely recognized anymore. This body… his body wasn't quite the same as it had been. Stronger, more resilient. The tests they'd run had confirmed that much. He'd noticed it himself, too: scrapes that healed in minutes, bruises that faded almost instantly. Whatever had brought him here hadn't just plucked him out of his old life, it had changed him.
"Do I have a choice?" Rus muttered under his breath, more to himself than to the officer.
"No," he said simply.
With a resigned sigh, Rus picked up the stylus and scrawled his name across the bottom of the screen.
The moment he handed the tablet back, the officer's demeanor shifted. He stood, smoothing the front of his uniform, and offered a curt nod. "Report to Counter Headquarters tomorrow morning at 0800. They'll handle your training and assignment."
Rus nodded wordlessly, too drained to muster a proper response. As the officer led Rus out of the office, the weight of what he'd just agreed to settled heavily on his shoulders.
Four years. Four years of being a Counter. Whatever that entailed, it couldn't be good. But it was better than the alternative.
The air outside was sharp and cold, the kind of chill that cuts right through you. The streets of Libertalia stretched out before him, bustling with people and vehicles. Above, signs were posted, advertising everything from food to weapons to things he couldn't even begin to comprehend.
Rus shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking, letting the noise of the city wash over him. The compass in his vision flickers slightly, the gray dot marker for the officer disappearing as he puts distance between him. Other markers popped up instead, most of them were safe. But every now and then, a red dot would appear, lurking in the shadows. Danger.
Rus tried not to think about what might be waiting for him tomorrow. Training. Assignments. Whatever it meant to be a Counter, Rus had a feeling it wasn't going to be pretty. But for now, he had bigger problems. Like finding a place to sleep.