The Wrong Kind of Immortality

Orestis was halfway across the plaza when he heard the thump of two bodies colliding.

Normally, he would ignore the sound—but this time it was followed by a familiar voice delivering a line just as familiar: “If these were classified documents, you’d be arrested!”

Orestis stopped and changed direction.

At least he hit someone else this time.

The victim happened to be an unfortunate shop assistant who was picking up a dropped basket with the weary patience of someone accustomed to Orthessa’s traffic. The courier was already gathering his satchel and preparing to resume running.

Orestis reached him just in time to catch him by the shoulder before he took off. “Hold it.”

The courier turned to him and paused. “You again! I didn’t even hit you this time.”

“I noticed.” He reached into his coat and produced a small metal clip, its surface etched with a tight spiral of runes. “This is for you. Attach this to your satchel strap.”

The courier accepted it cautiously and turned it over in his fingers. “What does it do?” he asked, recognising it as an artifact.

“It creates a thin field around your body. If something is about to collide with you, it pushes you aside. A secondary enchantment keeps you balanced so you don’t fall over.”

The courier blinked. “… That’s a thing?”

“The enchantment is adapted from an existing Consortium design,” Orestis said. “So—yes.”

The courier looked up, uncertain whether he was being mocked. “Why would you make me a collision shield?”

“I’m preventing a third instance of collision with you. I’m also removing an inefficiency. Even by conservative estimates, you would lose approximately four minutes per delivery cycle to impacts and recovery. This will eliminate that.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the courier clipped it onto the leather strap that crossed his chest.

Orestis promptly pushed him into the path of an oncoming pedestrian.

The courier’s eyes went wide. “What—”

His voice cut off as his body jerked sideways—pulled by something invisible—and slid past the woman, who also recoiled in surprise. The courier’s body adjusted automatically, shifting his balance so that he remained upright.

The woman walked off, looking deeply offended.

As for the courier, he shifted his weight back and forth, testing his balance, and then broke into a grin. “I—thank you. This is—”

Orestis waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t mention it.”

The courier nodded, still grinning, and took off down the street at his usual reckless pace. Orestis watched as he almost ran into another random man. Almost, because the enchantment prevented it.

The man looked confused. The courier didn’t notice. He was already gone, his voice carrying faintly from the next street over. “This is going to save me so much time!”

Orestis went on his way.

He’ll never know the real reason I built it. And as a side benefit, Orthessa loses one of its more persistent hazards.

***

Over the past week, Orestis had noticed a few small changes.

Reports arrived on his desk earlier than they used to. Analysts checked numbers with him before finalising submissions. Clerks implemented his amendments without requesting confirmation.

His work continued without interruption. His access privileges remained unchanged. But people seemed less inclined to proceed without his input.

None of it was dramatic. Still, the pattern was difficult to ignore.

The recall notice had not resurfaced either. After handing it to Alke, the matter had simply disappeared—meaning that the Consortium handled it. Quietly, completely, and without requiring his involvement.

Which means they consider the matter worth resolving without bothering me.

That is either flattering or concerning. Possibly both.

***

He was walking through the second-floor corridor when he noticed them.

Two people—a man and a woman—stood a short distance ahead, speaking with one of the clerks from the archival office. The conversation appeared brief. The clerk glanced past them, spotted Orestis approaching, and lifted a hand to point in his direction.

They crossed the corridor with the purposeful stride of people who had finally located the person they were looking for.

“You’re Orestis Stathis?” the first one asked. “Systems Continuity?”

“I am.”

“Magical Fauna Research Division. I’m Lira. This is Holt.” She gestured to her companion, who nodded once. “We’re following up on a creature report you filed. The one near the suppression outpost.”

“The lurker,” Holt added.

Orestis nodded.

They exchanged a quick glance before Lira produced a small notebook.

“We’re trying to confirm the exact location,” she said. “Your report mentioned a stretch of forest along the western road, but we’re mapping behavioural patterns and would prefer something more precise.”

Holt held out a clipboard with a map of the aforementioned region. “Can you show us where it was? Roughly?”

“As exact as possible would be preferred,” Lira added.

Orestis tapped a point on the map. “Here. Approximately fifteen paces east of the road. Dense growth. Elevated canopy coverage. The vegetation was noticeably more saturated with mana in that section compared to the surrounding area.”

Holt marked the point. Lira nodded. “Thank you. That’ll help a lot.”

“Yes,” Holt said, glancing at her. “With this, we know where to set the traps.”

Lira’s eyes brightened. “Yes. Soon we’ll have our live specimen.”

Holt nodded. “I hope it’s not too old. It’ll be easier to see how viable our domestication models are.”

Orestis felt compelled to interrupt them at that point.

“You want to domesticate a mana-reactive ambush predator?” he asked, both his expression and tone making it clear what he thought of that idea.

“… Yes?” Holt replied uncertainly.

“That sounds like an excellent idea—if you want to reduce the number of staff in your division,” Orestis said dryly.

A passerby overheard the exchange and called out as he passed: “There’s a reason Fauna Research leads the Consortium in accidental retirements.”

Ah. So it’s an established trend. I should probably leave them to it, then.

The duo shared a look between them.

“We’ll note your assessment,” Lira said, trying to maintain a dignified expression. She closed the notebook.

“We are planning to take suitable safety measures,” Holt added.

Then Lira said, “By the way—your name was listed in the report, but it didn’t include a designation. What exactly do you do here?”

Not feeling inclined to explain his job description—which seemed to have been elevated at some point without his knowledge—Orestis said dismissively, “Nothing important.”

“Ah. I see,” Lira said.

Holt nodded sagely. “He’s in Compliance.”

They thanked him again and left. Orestis watched them go, faintly amused.

At this rate, I will be formally transferred to Compliance before the year ends. And I suspect no one there would question it.

***

The archives were quiet that evening.

The Owl sat at his usual desk near the reference catalogue, spectacles low on his nose as he examined a narrow stack of documents. He did not look up when Orestis approached.

“You’ve been busy,” the Owl said.

Orestis paused beside the desk. “That depends on one’s definition of busy.”

The Owl turned a page.

“I read your submission regarding the Temple capacity review,” the Owl said. “Interesting phrasing.”

Of course he sees it.

“Was it?” Orestis asked.

“Most people place their objections in the conclusions. You chose the terminology.”

“It seemed appropriate.”

“The terminology adjustments were subtle. Consistent. The kind of changes that don’t draw attention until someone tries to describe what went wrong—and discovers the vocabulary has already been written for them.”

He looked at Orestis with something that was not quite admiration and not quite concern. Closer to the expression of a collector who had just identified a particularly unusual specimen.

“That’s very well done,” the Owl said. “Methodical.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t entirely a compliment.” But he was smiling faintly. “I assume you came here to read, not to discuss document strategy.”

“I came to read for relaxation before calling it an evening.”

The Owl nodded and passed a token. Orestis took it and started toward the stairs, then paused.

If there’s an explanation, he would know.

“I was also curious about something else,” Orestis said, turning around.

The Owl tilted his head in a gesture that could have meant continue.

“Over the past week,” Orestis said, “people have become somewhat more cautious about proceeding without my input. I assume you know the reason.”

The Owl folded his hands. “I thought that would have been obvious,” he said mildly. “You have a habit of making recommendations people eventually regret ignoring. They’ve learned not to.”

“That seems like a dramatic interpretation.”

“Not particularly.”

The Owl leaned back slightly in his chair. “Your suggestions have never been wrong. Word travels.”

Orestis considered that. “I see.”

I refuse to be deliberately wrong. But perhaps I can be correct less noticeably.A problem for another day.

The Owl gave a small nod, as if the matter were now resolved.

Which it is, I suppose.

Upstairs, Orestis selected a table near the back and retrieved a volume at random from the nearest shelf. The subject matter was tangential at best—an outdated survey of regional enchantment practices—but it would suffice.

He read for a while without urgency.

It didn’t take long to notice the errors. They were minor ones. Inconsistent terminology, a diagram referenced on the wrong page, a marginal note copied faithfully from an earlier edition despite having been superseded decades ago. Nothing that would confuse a competent reader or prove to be misleading.

His fingers twitched once, then stilled. He kept his hands flat on the page.

Correcting any of it would be simple. A note in the margin. A brief clarification. A cross-reference restored where it belonged. He could do it neatly, unobtrusively, in a way that would improve the text without drawing attention.

That, however, was precisely the problem.

This was not his library. It was not his book. Someone would notice.

Someone other than the Owl, that is. He would probably be pleased, comment on it, then ignore it. It’s the others that would cause trouble.

He exhaled slowly and turned the page.

The irritation did not go away, but it dulled with effort. He read on, forcing himself to treat the text as fixed and immutable, as something to be accepted rather than improved.

It was an unpleasant exercise.

After a time, he closed the book and returned it to the shelf with unnecessary care. The errors remained where they were. The world, as far as the archives were concerned, would continue to function with them intact.

Maybe I should switch to fiction.

Orestis retrieved his satchel and left without lingering.

Some problems, apparently, were not his to correct.