Demonic Po*nstar System

Chapter 940: Guild Leader Privileges

”Was. Guild leader privileges.”

”You don’t know where anything is.”

”I have the card. The card has diagrams.”

She sat there, red-eyed and clutching the counter’s edge, and watched the Paragon of Sin squint at her batter instructions like an ancient text.

He measured the flour twice. He cracked the first egg competently and the second one vengefully, and picked shell out of the bowl while pretending she couldn’t see him do it. When he poured the batter, he poured with conviction, and the fill line could file a complaint.

The iron hissed in protest. Batter breached the edges and dripped onto the counter in slow, doomed ribbons.

”You drowned it,” Alice whispered.

”I committed to a generous pour.”

”The line exists, big brother. Agatha’s cooks get expelled for less.”

”I’m her boss. Let’s see her try expelling me.”

”That doesn’t mean you can make mistakes... The card says level, big brother. Level. Revision twelve exists because of the fill line...”

The first waffle emerged as two nations, one pale and undercooked, the other char-adjacent, joined by a border of perfect golden brown approximately a centimeter wide. Kaiden held it up.

Alice clapped a hand over her mouth. What escaped around it was a giggle, small and wet and completely unguarded, then another one. Then she was laughing properly, hiccups and all, pointing at the disaster in his hand with tears still drying on her cheeks.

She watched him fumble her sacred craft with zero tribunal in her, delighted, glowing, at five in the morning, over burnt batter, because it was him holding it.

”The second one will be better,” he informed her.

”The second one can only be better, big brother.”

”...What a tough customer.”

”Hehe!”

The second one was better. Honest-to-goodness edible, even, and he plated it under her direction, sift the sugar, no, sift it, that’s dumping, and set it in front of her with a flourish.

Alice looked at the waffle. Then she slid off the stool, retrieved her clipboard from the tile, wiped it on her pajama sleeve, and wrote something with great ceremony before turning it around for him to see.

A minus, crossed out. A plus written next to it.

”For heart,” she said.

They ate side by side on the stools, shoulders touching, working through one catastrophic waffle and one acceptable one while the palace stayed dark and unhurried around them and the hour crept toward the first alarm going off somewhere down the corridor. Alice’s head found his arm and stayed there, and the sniffles spaced themselves out until they were only punctuation.

”Verdict?” he asked.

She chewed, considered, and delivered it with her eyes closed and her cheek against his shoulder.

”The worst waffle ever produced at this station.” A pause. ”But the best I ever had...”

Later, between bites, Alice’s eyes went distant for a moment, fixed on the empty air where the report lived, and her fingers made one decisive flick through it. ”Archived,” she reported to nobody in particular, brisk and final, shelving it somewhere between the expired coupons and the warranty notices. Filed under things that technically existed and nobody needed.

Overhead, the pipes announced the first shower of the morning.

Neither of them moved to hurry. They sat shoulder to shoulder and split the last acceptable waffle between them while the first one cooled at the end of the counter as a monument.

”They’re going to come down,” she said.

”They are.”

”And then it stops being ours.”

Kaiden looked at her, puffy-eyed and sugar-dusted, guarding the last quiet minute of the morning like a dragon on a very small hoard, and reached over to tuck a white strand of hair behind her ear.

”Then we don’t tell them,” he said. ”I need less sleep these days, and if I work them hard in the evening, we should have a few hours like this every once in a while.” He tipped his head down to look at her. ”Family secret?”

Alice’s whole face lit from the inside. ”Family secret,” she repeated, solemn as a vow, and if some of the shine in her eyes was fresh, neither of them mentioned that either.

Luna arrived first, barefoot, mid-yawn, hair unbrushed, moving just gingerly enough that anyone who commented on it would die. She made it two steps into the kitchen before her brain processed the scene and rejected it.

”...Why are you wearing a bib?”

”It’s an apron.”

”There’s a strawberry on it.”

”Isn’t it cute?” Alice snickered. ”He should wear it more.”

”Sure.” Kaiden shrugged. If it made her so happy, why not.

Luna’s hand was already up before he finished turning around, and she made sure the shutter sound played at full volume. ”It really is cute. Congratulations, you’re my new contact photo, you absolute housewife,” she said, and went for the coffee.

The rest filtered in behind her and reacted according to their natures, which meant commentary, applause, one loud demand for seconds, and a proposal to license the image for the guild’s merchandise line. Kaiden weathered all of it from behind the waffle iron and kept pouring.

Alexandra was last down, already tying her own apron, and took the kitchen in with one pass: the batter massacre on the counter, the strawberry apron stretched across her guild leader, Alice’s red-rimmed eyes, the two stools pushed close enough to share a shadow.

Whatever arithmetic she ran on all that, she kept the total to herself. She started the coffee for the second wave, and on her way past Alice’s stool she rested one hand briefly on top of the girl’s head, then went to work as if she hadn’t.

...

By seven, the gravel lot in front of the main building had stopped being a construction yard and started being a first day.

Doug had a folding table, the master roster, and the expression of deep professional contentment he reserved for paperwork that was going well.

The contracts were already done, signed and countersigned back in the tent, so his table dealt in what came after: check-in, and with check-in, a squad.

Every recruit walked away from him holding a slip with four to five other names on it and the same line at the bottom, first training session, two o’clock, evaluators unannounced.

Ms. Rook had a second table, a faster line, and no expression at all. Hers dispensed room assignments and training schedules at a pace that suggested small talk was a billable offense.

The signed walked up the drive in nervous clusters, gear bags over shoulders, some of them in armor that had been polished within an inch of its life for the occasion, all of them trying very hard to look like people who belonged on the other side of the fence they’d been watching on streams for months.

Every intake stumbled at the same spot on the drive, where the shadow under the scaffolding turned out to be breathing.

One amber eye would slide open, consider the newcomers with lazy interest, and slide shut again, and the veterans of the previous five minutes would coach the new arrivals through it with the confidence of the recently converted. Don’t run. Running is how you fail the hidden exam.

Vanessa Sloan had arrived before either table was set up.

Monday had been the plan, but with her agent fired there had been nobody left to drag out the negotiations, her contract had cleared in a single afternoon, and she’d had no intention of sitting at home with it.

She reported crisp, checked in fast, and wore her guilt squared away and visible, same as her gear.

When a refreshment table appeared mid-morning, self-serve, its sweating pitchers unmistakably from Alexandra’s kitchen, Vanessa crossed to it and poured her own lemonade. She lifted the cup an inch toward the main building before she drank, to the maid who had knelt in the dirt to put her back together, and she owed that woman a debt no amount of paperwork was going to clear.

For the rest of the morning Vanessa herded nervous youngsters through Rook’s line, doing her penance through competence.

Eugene Wexler arrived at a dead sprint at seven-thirty, skidded to a halt in the middle of the gravel, and bellowed at the main building on the assumption that his boss was somewhere inside it.

”EUGENE WEXLER, REPORTING! I WILL NOT WASTE THIS!”

Something enormous under the scaffolding lifted its head. Two recruits in the check-in line took an involuntary step backward. Eugene snapped a salute at the building and held it until his arm shook, both halves of a torn hundred-dollar bill taped back together and pinned inside a plastic sleeve over his heart.

Yuna Park slipped into the gap between two clusters and was through Doug’s line with a nod to him before the cluster behind her realized the line had moved. Nobody noticed her arrival at all, which was, in fairness, her entire skill set.

The guild itself moved through the morning in glimpses.

Kaiden walked the lot, stopping at random to ask a name or check a squad slip, and every recruit he spoke to walked away half an inch taller.

Aria watched the intake from the scaffolding’s second level with her arms crossed, quietly sorting the newcomers into threats, non-threats, and one unfortunate woman whose skimpy armor seemed to offend her personally.

Luna had claimed a lawn chair by the refreshment table and was narrating the squad postings to her stream like a sports draft, complete with odds.

By ten the lot hummed. The squad lists went up, taped to the scaffolding where clusters formed around them like students at exam results, and the arguments about which evaluator they’d draw at two o’clock, conducted entirely on rumor, started before the tape was smoothed flat.

The twins’ cameras drifted overhead collecting first-day footage, and the compound was louder than it had ever been, full of strangers who had chosen this and couldn’t stop grinning about it.

It was almost eleven when the sedan turned up the drive.

Gray, clean, forgettable, it threaded between two flatbeds and parked dead center of a space nobody had marked. The man who got out wore a suit the same color as the car and was in no hurry whatsoever. He took a clipboard from the passenger seat, tucked it under his arm, and walked toward Doug’s table past a line of recruits without looking at a single one of them. The not-looking made several of them go quiet anyway.

He presented a single page and recited it while Doug read, the words worn smooth by repetition, aimed at a lot that had never once been glad to hear them.

”By order of the Federal Bureau of Awakened Affairs, the guild Eclipse is scheduled for a comprehensive compliance inspection. Premises, personnel, contracts, and all registered assets.” He paused, the first pause he’d taken. ”Effective immediately. I will be conducting the preliminary walkthrough now.”