Eli bought two pens on the way to the meeting. He left one at the clinic and kept the other in his pocket, where its weight felt absurdly small beside Rook’s card.
The Aegis community office occupied the ground floor of a renovated bank. Its front windows were clear, with no guild banners blocking the view. A receptionist sat behind a desk near the entrance. A notice on the wall listed public meeting hours, emergency numbers and the location of the nearest shelter. People came in to ask about aid applications and left carrying forms.
Eli checked the time and sent Tessa a message: At reception. Meeting starts at nine. Check-in at nine-thirty.
She replied with a single word: Understood.
A woman in a gray jacket met him at the desk. “Mr. Voss? I’m Anika. I’m here to explain the contract if you have questions.”
“Will I get a copy?”
“Yes.”
“Before I sign anything?”
She gave him a measured look. “Of course.”
He followed her into a meeting room with a window facing the street. Rook was already there, reading a page. He stood when Eli entered and offered coffee or water. Eli chose water. Anika set a folder on the table and sat where she could see both of them.
Rook opened with a map of the district. Colored pins marked registered gates, emergency facilities and guild depots. Several gates were beyond Eli’s current access level. Aegis had teams authorized to enter them, vehicles to move injured workers and agreements with medical providers.
“An independent hunter can be capable and still lack infrastructure,” Rook said. “We can offer a supervised place on a team, training time, equipment and insurance.”
“Is it employment?”
“An initial contract for assignments. You remain registered in your own name.”
“Exclusive?”
“During the term, work involving gate recovery would be coordinated through Aegis. There are exceptions for emergency response.”
Eli looked at the map. A clinic volunteer could call for a vehicle instead of searching for a driver. A porter with a crushed hand might reach a hospital before the injury became permanent. A scout could practice with proper equipment instead of borrowing markers for an hour. The offer was designed around needs Eli had seen, not imaginary comforts.
“What is the guaranteed assignment fee?” he asked.
Anika named the daily amount and pointed to the conditions under which it applied. It exceeded what Eli had earned carrying deliveries, although preparation time was paid only when specifically required.
“How much training?” he asked.
Anika opened the folder. “A minimum number of supervised sessions per month, subject to scheduling. The hours are listed on page three.”
“Are they paid?”
“The first course is unpaid. Required training after an assignment begins is paid.”
“What about the equipment?”
“Standard equipment is supplied for assigned work. Personal equipment can be purchased through the guild, but there’s no obligation.”
Eli read the relevant paragraphs. The conditions were more specific than the registry recruiter’s promise, and the deductions were listed. He marked the equipment return clause with a pencil, not because it was necessarily unfair but because he wanted to ask Nora, the patient advocate who had helped the clinic, whether the deposit could be withheld for normal wear.
Rook watched him read. “You don’t have to finish today.”
“I won’t.”
“Good. People who sign without reading create problems for both sides.”
Eli remembered a different table in a different life, his own hand on a pen, the relief of accepting a guild’s protection. That contract had not been this one. He could not condemn its words on the strength of a memory. He could examine them.
“The insurance,” he said. “When an injured porter comes out of a gate, how quickly do they receive care?”
“Emergency treatment begins with the team’s medic,” Rook replied. “If transport is required, our dispatch sends a vehicle or calls the public service, depending on severity and location.”
“Does the worker pay before treatment?”
“Not for covered emergency treatment.”
“What makes it covered?”
Anika turned to the policy summary. Injuries sustained during an authorized assignment were covered, subject to exclusions for unauthorized activity and failure to follow safety procedures. Eli read the exclusions twice.
“Who decides whether an activity was unauthorized?”
“Claims staff review the incident report,” Anika said. “The worker can submit their own account.”
“Can they see the report before submitting?”
“They receive the relevant information used in the decision.”
“Before the decision?”
“Not necessarily. The claim needs to be assessed first.”
“And if the report says they weren’t on the team?”
“Registration records should establish that.”
“Should?”
Anika closed the policy summary. “If a record is wrong, there’s an appeal process.”
Eli remembered Leon, the porter whose injury report had been contradicted by a guild roster. Eli had carried his bag out, but his own account had not appeared in the copy Leon received. He did not know whether this policy would lead to the same result. He wanted the contract to say what happened before a dispute became an appeal.
“Can the worker keep a copy of the roster before entry?” he asked.
“That isn’t prohibited,” Anika said.
“Can it be required?”
“We can note the request for review.”
Rook leaned back. “You have a specific concern.”
“I’ve seen what an unclear record can cost someone.”
“Under a previous employer?”
The answer was yes in a life that had not happened. Eli could not offer a name and date in this timeline without inventing a history. “I’m asking about the policy in front of me.”
Rook held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded. “A written roster is sensible. I can’t promise a change to the policy here, but Anika can include the question in the review.”
She wrote it down. Eli checked his watch. Nine eighteen. He had twelve minutes before his check-in. He turned to the section on recovered materials.
The contract offered a percentage share after documented expenses. The fee for certain assignments was guaranteed even if no material was recovered. Those terms were clearer than several offers he had seen. Then he reached the definition of recovery.
It covered objects, samples, recordings, maps and information obtained during an assignment. Aegis controlled their custody, use and disclosure. A later clause required the worker to provide related notes created during or after the assignment.
“Does this include my personal records?” he asked.
“Work records,” Anika said.
“It says notes related to the assignment. If I write down that a support was damaged, is that yours?”
“Operational information is held by the guild so it can be assessed and shared with the appropriate authorities.”
“If I write that a supervisor ignored the damage?”
“The incident reporting policy applies.”
“Can I keep a copy?”
“You can request access to relevant records.”
“Can I give a copy to an advocate?”
Anika looked at Rook. “Confidentiality restrictions apply, subject to legal reporting obligations.”
“That isn’t a yes.”
“It depends on the information and the purpose.”
Eli placed his pencil across the page. He had seen what a copied manifest could mean. In his first life, he and Tessa had recorded the medical supplies and team names because the official account might change. At the end, Bram had taken Eli’s pack and the manifest had fallen into the fight. Eli still did not know who had recovered it. He would not agree to a clause that made every independent record dependent on the guild’s permission.
“Can you exclude personal notes and evidence of misconduct from the custody clause?”
“The clause is standard,” Anika said. “It protects sensitive gate information and the privacy of workers.”
“Then write a privacy restriction that doesn’t give Aegis control over a worker’s complaint.”
“We can’t revise the contract at this meeting.”
“Will you take the request back?”
“I can take it back. I can’t promise it will be accepted.”
Rook folded his hands. “You think we’d suppress evidence.”
“I think the clause lets you control information I may need to report independently.”
“Information can endanger people if it’s released without context. A map of an unstable gate, a patient’s identity, a weak point in a containment line.”
“Then protect those things specifically. Don’t claim every note.”
“A narrow clause can miss a danger the writer didn’t anticipate.”
“So can a broad one.”
For the first time, Rook smiled without warmth. It was not a threat. It was the expression of a man who had met resistance he considered worth examining.
“Do you believe a small independent team can manage every risk by keeping copies?” he asked.
“No. I believe the person who sees a problem needs a way to report it when the organization responsible has an interest in ignoring it.”
“And if the organization is the one equipped to investigate?”
“Then it can investigate. The worker should still have a copy.”
Rook looked at the contract. “You would give up training, access and insurance over this?”
“If the clause stays as written, yes.”
The answer cost more than Eli expected. He thought of the clinic’s transport fund, Kellan’s brother and Sera asking for a training room. A guaranteed wage could make an immediate difference. It could also bind the records from their next job to the institution whose leader he feared.
Anika slid a clean copy toward him. “Take this. The offer remains open while we review your questions.”
Eli checked his watch. Nine twenty-seven. He took out his phone and sent Tessa the agreed message: Still in the meeting. Safe. Reading terms. Will leave shortly.
Rook glanced at the phone but did not comment. “Would you consider a shorter trial term?”
“If the same custody clause applies, the length doesn’t change my answer.”
“And if we make the roster requirement explicit?”
“That answers one question. The records clause remains.”
“Fair.” Rook stood. “Keep the contract. If we revise it, we’ll send the new wording.”
Eli gathered the pages. Anika gave him her contact details and a written list of the questions she had agreed to take back: roster copies, equipment deposits, and the scope of recovery records. She did not promise a favorable answer.
At the door, Rook said, “You know, most people ask first how much the share will pay.”
“I asked about the fee.”
“After asking about exclusivity.”
“They matter.”
“I agree.” Rook opened the door for him. “That is why I offer them.”
In reception, Eli signed out and checked his phone. Tessa had replied: I’ll be at the clinic. Kellan has the address until you leave. He sent another message confirming that he was outside. The sunlight on the pavement was bright enough to make him squint.
He walked two blocks before stopping at a bench. His hands were trembling. The conversation had stayed civil, the door had remained open, and he had left with the contract. His body had prepared for the moment the blade entered him again and had not yet accepted that he was standing on a public street.
He sat until the shaking eased. A tram passed, its windows full of commuters. A child dropped a glove and a stranger ran after the family to return it. None of them knew that Eli had just spoken with the man he believed would sacrifice a raid team. The world did not arrange itself around his recognition.
At the clinic, Tessa waited until the last patient had gone into the examination room before asking about the meeting. Leah and Kellan joined them at the counter. Eli put the contract down and described the offer in order: supervised training, equipment, registered gate access, a guaranteed fee on some assignments and insurance subject to exclusions.
“That’s better than the contracts I’ve seen,” Leah said.
“In some ways,” Eli agreed. “They’d review my question about giving workers a copy of the roster. They wouldn’t narrow the records clause at the meeting.”
He showed them the definition of recovery. Kellan read it with his finger under the lines.
“Would this cover the pump ledger photograph?” he asked.
“If it were taken during an Aegis assignment, it might. Anika wouldn’t give a clear answer about sharing a copy with an advocate.”
“And the worker’s medical information?” Tessa asked.
“Anika said privacy was one reason for the clause. It doesn’t state a separate exception for reporting misconduct.”
Leah looked at the training hours. “The clinic could use transport and supplies. Refusing this has a cost.”
“Yes,” Eli said. “I don’t want you to think I turned down an empty promise. Some of it was useful. I turned it down because I couldn’t accept the control over records.”
Kellan closed the folder. “Send Nora a copy. She can tell us whether we’re reading it correctly.”
Eli photographed the pages and sent them to the advocate with his notes, including the parts he considered beneficial. He did not ask her to find a reason to reject the offer. He asked what the terms meant and whether the suggested changes would protect independent reporting.
The clinic phone rang. Leah answered, listened, and passed the receiver to Tessa.
“Aegis community office,” she said. “They want to speak to you.”
Tessa took the call. A representative invited her to visit the guild’s supply office and discuss a possible clinic partnership. The caller also offered to show her how donations were procured, including the replacement medicine now on its way.
Eli watched her listen. She asked for the address, the names of the people attending and whether accepting the earlier delivery required a meeting. The caller said it did not.
“I’ll consider it,” Tessa said. “Please send the invitation and proposed agenda in writing.”
She ended the call and set the receiver down. Eli had just refused a contract. This invitation was hers. He could tell her what he had seen in the meeting and what he feared; he could not make the choice for her by treating every offer as already answered.
“Let’s read the agenda when it comes,” he said.
“We will.” Tessa looked at the contract on the counter. “And we’ll ask what the clinic would gain, what it would owe, and who gets to decide.”
Leah carried the replacement pen to the appointment book. Kellan picked up the contract for one more look. Outside, a delivery van slowed at the curb, and a worker brought in a smaller cooler with a fresh temperature record attached. Tessa checked it before opening the lid.