A Necromancer's Guide to Clearing a Game Like Tower

Chapter 202: Chapter 202 — The Price of Team Zero II

”The licence is my problem,” he said. ”Say we sign. The Spire spends three years building campaigns, products, the whole shopfront, around our name. Then we leave. We get the trademark back — grand — and their approved material keeps earning through the run-out period, off a name they no longer represent. We’d be renting them our future and paying to move out.”

”The Spire can’t build infrastructure for free.” Marcus’s voice stayed level. ”Lawyers bill hours. Security teams require salaries. Analysts don’t work for exposure. The percentage is how the machine gets paid.”

”Then charge us for those services,” James said.

”Direct fees for that machine would be brutal, and you’d be paying full price for something the Spire has no stake in.” Marcus met his eyes. ”The percentage means we win when you win. If Team Zero’s value multiplies after we invest in it, the guild that financed the growth shares in the growth. That’s not a trick. That’s the only reason any guild builds anything.”

”I understand it,” James said. ”I’m questioning what it costs. Cheaper today, paid for in control later. We’ve spent two months learning what our name is worth to people we’ve never met. I’m not signing away pieces of it because the first year is expensive.”

He turned to the screen. ”Ms. Kavanagh. If we did it alone — what does alone need?”

”Everything on the Spire’s list, hired separately.” She didn’t soften it. ”A legal firm on retainer. An accountant. A security contractor. A commercial agent. Administrative staff. Floor analysts on retainers — they exist, they’re dear. Facilities, rented or bought.” A beat. ”The upfront capital requirement is a multiple of what affiliation would cost you. What you keep is ownership. Identity, income, decisions. All of it.”

James looked around the table.

”Positions. One each. Not a debate — where you stand.”

”I want the protection,” Ronan said. ”Genuinely. Not at the price of handing over the wheel. So — no, as written.”

”The licence is too wide,” Cillian said. ”No.”

”Representation, information sharing, and post-termination, as drafted — no,” Maeve said. ”The rest is negotiable, but those three are structural.”

Finn was last before James, and everyone braced slightly.

”Clause nine takes a cut of work we source ourselves if their office so much as administers it,” Finn said. ”The loot percentage triggers on ’material support,’ which their own analysts get to define. And the exit cost compounds the longer we stay.” He looked at Marcus. ”No. On the terms.”

Something crossed Marcus’s face and was gone. It might have been the closest thing to pride he’d shown all night, and it had nothing to do with being refused.

James closed the folder and slid it back across the table.

”We’re not accepting these terms.”

Marcus looked at the folder. He didn’t reach for better percentages, and he didn’t look at Finn, and he didn’t raise his voice.

”Then understand what you just bought,” he said. ”Independence isn’t a flag. It’s an invoice. The lawyers, the security on your families, the analysts, the equipment staff, the facilities — none of it appears because you’re famous. It appears because someone pays for it, every month, forever. That someone is now you.”

”Then we pay,” James said.

Marcus held his eyes a moment. Then he picked up the folder, squared it against the table once, and stood.

”The offer stays open longer than you’d expect,” he said, to the room. ”Guilds are patient. It’s the one thing we’re actually good at.”

He left. The door closed without slamming, which was somehow worse than slamming.

Nobody spoke for a while.

Rejecting the folder hadn’t solved a single problem the folder had named. The inbox still had a six-figure inquiry in it. The families still had no security. The machine still didn’t exist, and now they’d formally declined the only one on offer.

Finn watched the door his father had gone through.

Then he turned back to the table.

”We create our own guild.”

Nobody laughed.

That was the first thing James noticed — five people heard the sentence, and nobody treated it as one.

”Do you know what that involves?” James asked. ”Actually. Registering one. Running one.”

”No,” Finn said. ”Neither did whoever founded the Spire, once.” He leaned forward. ”Look at the maths we just did against my father. You have more capital than most guild founders start with. Maeve knows the commercial side cold. And the attention most guilds bleed for years to earn — we woke up with it. We keep listing our leverage and then wondering who we should hand it to.”

”A guild of our own means the name gets registered and protected properly,” Maeve said slowly, thinking it through the way she read contracts. ”One legal body that signs everything. Staff we hire and control. Collective security for members and families. We could licence the Team Zero identity without ever selling ownership of it — and nobody could run a ’Team Zero campaign’ with three members again, because we’d control the name at the source. Shared costs. Transparent money.”

”And it needs saying out loud that this feels amazing tonight because we just told Marcus no.” Ronan’s voice was the flat one he used on bad terrain. ”That’s exactly why we shouldn’t decide it tonight. Registration, capital, staffing, insurance, regulations, liability — we know none of it. We investigate first.”

”Agreed. Investigate, nothing final.” Cillian nodded, then held up one finger. ”One condition. Finn doesn’t design the uniforms.”

Finn looked at him. ”What’s wrong with my clothes?”

Cillian gestured around them — at the strategy room, and by extension the entire Hale estate, its slate and iron and museum lighting.

”You dress like a wealthy funeral.”

Maeve snorted, which she would deny later. Even Ronan’s mouth moved.

James let the laugh go around the table once, because they needed it, and then he turned back to the screen, where Kavanagh had watched the whole thing without expression.

”Don’t approve anything yet,” James said. ”But I’d like a brief. Independent guild formation — everything Ronan just listed. Registration requirements, ownership shares and voting control, starting capital, insurance, staffing, member and family security, tax, Challenger regulations, trademark registration.” He paused. ”And the ugly page. Legal exposure if a guild member dies, or causes public damage.”

”That page is always the longest,” Kavanagh said, writing. ”I’ll have it inside two weeks.”

The guild stayed a proposal.

But it went home with all five of them that night, and it had stopped being a joke somewhere between the door closing and the uniforms.

The sportswear company’s full campaign brief arrived four days later, after Team Zero expressed preliminary interest through Kavanagh’s office.

It was professional. Campaign concept, proposed product line, expected participants, deliverables, a compensation range, a timeline. Nothing in it pretended interest meant acceptance.

The meeting was set for a Thursday morning in a glass building on the docks.

Maeve, James, and Finn went, with Kavanagh. Ronan and Cillian stayed out — the invitation had named the three survivors, and the team had decided not to fight that battle at the door.

They’d fight it at the table instead. All five had agreed the terms of the war in Finn’s strategy room: nobody licences the Team Zero name without all five signing off. Nobody.

In the lift, Maeve briefed the other two like a raid.

”Rules. You verbally accept nothing — not a concept, not a date, not lunch. No informal photos, no ’just a quick test shot,’ that’s how they get free assets. Private skills don’t exist in that room. When they say a number first, it’s a number designed to fill your head — don’t let it. Contract questions go to Roisin, every time, even if you know the answer.”

”And?” Finn said, because her tone said there was one more.

”And don’t say anything in there you’d object to reading on the side of a bus.” The lift opened. ”Because that’s where it’ll be.”