Rose from the River cups her drink in both hands, legs folded, impossible to read. Even the fact that she’s still wearing the collar (it has resisted repeated attempts at removal, and may in fact have been jammed in all the chaos) doesn’t seem to phase her. She has much the same gravitas as a statue of one of the nameless saints, which is why Cyanis is leaning on her for support.

Dear little fox! The night outside looms with existential horrors that cannot be tricked or pleaded with, things without hearts to appeal to. Things that aren’t so much dead as never were alive. Things with gleaming eyes and cold hands. Rose is a comforting pillar of stability in the darkness, because what’s the good of being arrested by a monk if they won’t even protect you.

“Yes, poor Jian,” Rose says, lifting her eyes from the inky dark of her drink. They glitter like the eyes of a ghost. “There are all [i]sorts[/i] of dangers like that in the world, children of the new age. I think they are more frightening to me than the punishments of Hell, for at least those can be understood, even if they are unfair. It is possible, sometimes, to come out the other side.”

Cyanis heaves a shaky sigh of relief under her breath. That’s a comforting thought, at least. That’s when Rose goes in for the kill. “Though when I met the Principle of Hidden Promise in the deep places of the world, she told me that her darling Klarissa was racking up more debt faster than she could pay it off, as demerits for misbehavior and low quality work ramped up. And this, too, I recognized. It is the nature of the world that was to impoverish its victims, then set traps for them to keep them in their place, desperate and willing to work. So now there is only the [i]choice[/i] for the Countess.”

Here, Rose takes a sip of her drink and settles back into silence until Cyanis pipes up: “The choice?”

“Well,” Rose says, very seriously, “there are... opt-ins. A veritable [i]menu[/i] of toys and humiliations and extra services, designed by the demoness herself. Every one signed for, every one a permanent addition to her routine. What do three inches of skirt matter if they bring you closer to freedom? Or three inches of your height, for that matter? And since you’re so busy anyway, surely you don’t need the right to relieve yourself without permission, or to be able to talk whenever you want, and what’s the harm of the kitty-ear headphones constantly playing a... [i]curated[/i] playlist? There is a way out of Hell, yes, but it narrows as you climb, and eventually you are likely to find yourself... stuck.”

She examines her audience, all the more shaken by her simple, ostensibly factual account, and manages not to smile. Who is to say whether this is true or not? Have [i]they[/i] climbed down into the ancient burrows and dallied with technodevils? (And let little Chen remember that Rose herself was once one.) Surely, after all, a simple monk could not be drawing this scenario out of her own fantasy.

“I met the Scales of Meaning some time after that. She informed me that the sophont once known as Countess Klarissa (whose new name I will not share in such innocent company) had accepted, at that time, one hundred and eighty-seven amendments to her original contract, that she would be free within one thousand and seven days barring further demerits or amendments, and that the chances of her choosing to leave her service by the end of that period were seven to three thousand and two.”

Cyanis is a wide-eyed bundle of floof as Rose’s voice becomes low and gravelly. “But at least for her there was that seven. A possibility that she could save herself from her fate of endless humiliated toil. The ghosts of this world... they are not as sophisticated. They do not play games. And they do not give chances, even chances designed to make you even more theirs. So, companions... I pray that the devils find you first.”

And then, the killing blow, the line that makes Cyanis fling herself into Yue’s arms in a trembling bundle, the sepulchral hiss of ancient stagnant water and molding cubicle labyrinths that sounds horribly wrong coming out of Rose from the River’s throat: [i]”After all, we have a special place prepared for every one of you.”[/i]

After holding it a beat, she clears her throat, hocks up something phlegmy into the shadows, and takes a long drink. “I hope you appreciated the voice,” she croaks. “I don’t really do it anymore.”