I WAS Humanity's HOPE-Chapter 37: Tea and Whiskey

Meredith appeared at Richard’s elbow once the stretchers had vanished into the infirmary tents. Her robe was soaked; curls clung to her temples, but her expression had returned to sister‑mode.

"You always find the grandest messes," she said, low enough that only he could hear.

"Family trait," he replied, smirking despite the ache tugging his muscles. "Or haven’t you seen Dad reverse‑park?"

She snorted, then sobered. "I’ve lodged the casualty report. Vance will want statements tomorrow. I can maybe delay it, until like, tomorrow evening."

"Can’t a man talk in his own time?" he asked, and sighed, prompting Meredith to raise a brow.

"With two bunches of traumatised students and one SS‑Rank sniffing round? Dream on. Why does he want to talk with you specifically anyway?"

Richard glanced towards his sister and shook his head. "Ah, dense sister of mine. He knows my rank."

Meredith’s brow furrowed. "What d’you mean, he knows your rank? He read the class docket—says you’re E‑Class."

Richard tipped his head, rainwater streaming from his fringe. "No, Mer. He didn’t read my rank somewhere, he felt it. You’re an S-Rank yourself, Mer. You can feel other people’s power through your senses."

She stared, mouth ajar. "You’re saying he knows you are—"

"An S‑Rank, yes."

The colour leached from her face. "For pity’s sake, Richard, that’s—"

Meredith sucked a shaky breath that hitched halfway down and came back up as a squeak.

Richard caught her elbows and steered her under a tent, out of the steady patter.

"Oi. In for a penny, remember? I’m alive, no one else knows, and if Vance meant to unmask me he’d have barked it across the whole net by now."

Meredith pressed knuckles to her lips, eyes darting to the small room they found themselves in. "But... He knows! Richard, he knows!"

Richard shook his head and sighed, gazing at his sister with a mix of fondness and concern.

"I know, sis."

I wonder if I can ask her about James.

...

The snug behind the Dogs & Meat was warmer than any healer’s tent—too warm, really—but nobody felt like complaining.

Rain lashed the leaded windows, rattling the panes every few seconds, and the single hearth crackled with the smell of peat and spilt ale.

Richard slouched in the corner settle, shoulders pressed to the oak panelling.

A half‑finished pint of bitter sweated on the table in front of him; he had already abandoned it for a pot of strong tea, from which steam coiled lazily against the pub’s tobacco‑heavy air.

Across from him Trevor nursed a ginger beer like it was life‑saving medicine. His hands kept skittering round the glass, as though afraid it might jump at him.

Oren sat next to him, white‑knuckled on a chipped mug of cocoa. Anne had squeezed herself into the window seat next to Trevor, rain‑blotted light silvering the tear‑tracks she would not admit to.

Nadia, a hooded cardigan pulled over her blouse, perched on the arm of Richard’s bench, ankle brushing his calf in silent reassurance.

For a minute or so no one spoke; the fire popped, the door went THUD‑thud as country folk came and went, and somewhere behind them a dart struck a board to a chorus of muttered cheers.

Trevor cleared his throat. "Do you reckon they’ll let us back in class tomorrow? Because frankly, guys, I’d rather sit an exam stark naked than see another bloody mirror."

"Seconded," Oren muttered into his cocoa. A smudge of froth clung to his upper lip; he didn’t bother wiping it.

Richard rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I doubt any of us are sitting lessons for a fortnight. The Guild will be in paperwork‑mode until someone remembers students are meant to learn things."

Anne hugged her knees on the seat, voice small. "Elaine’s parents arrived while I was changing. I heard one of the clerics telling them which tent... her mother was crying so quietly." She bit her lip hard, then shook her head as though to dislodge the memory. "I didn’t know her but—"

She couldn’t finish that thought and fresh silence rolled over the table.

At the bar two middle‑aged hunters—old leathers, stiff knees—were talking just loudly enough for the snug to hear.

"...poor lad’s still in the surgery ward. Healer reckons he’ll mend, but the mind’s another kettle. Suggested a mind‑mender from the Association."

"Dungeon shock?"

"That, and a monster poking about in his memories apparently. Nasty way to get rattled, that. I’ve not heard about anything like it before."

Richard’s brow creased. He leaned closer to the hearth’s glow. "They mean James," he said quietly.

Oren’s mug arrested halfway to his mouth. "Is it that bad?"

"They wouldn’t talk about the association’s specialists for shits and giggles," Richard replied with a scoff before his voice softened. "But he’s alive. That counts."

"Alive but... broken," Trevor murmured. "He was muttering on the stretcher. Kept saying he’d failed again. D’you know what he meant?"

Richard exhaled through his teeth. "You’ve not heard it from me but his parents died in a breach when he was twelve. He was there—couldn’t help them. The boss must have dredged that up."

His fingers drummed once, twice on the table top. "He’ll need time. And decent therapists."

Nadia set her teacup down with a soft clink. "We’ll visit when the healers let us." She looked round at each of them. "That’s non‑negotiable."

A chorus of sombre nods circled the bench, even one from Richard.

Trevor ran a hand through his hair—still streaked with soot despite having taken a shower. He must be really scrambled if he can’t clean himself properly.

"I can’t stop seeing that mirror‑me. All teeth and smoke. When I close my eyes it’s just... there."

Anne’s voice was barely above a whisper. "Mine kept asking if I was proud of how little I really do for other people. It laughed when I hesitated."

"You did plenty today," Richard finally said, tone firmer than before. "All of you. The monster lied—it showed you the bits you fear most." He reached for his tea, took a steady swallow.

Oren tried a smile. It looked like soggy paper but it was something. "Easy for you to say; your reflection lost."

"No," Richard corrected, "I won. That’s different."

Trevor snorted, not quite amusement, not quite disbelief. "Semantics from the bloke who cut a—what was it? A-Rank? S‑Rank? You cut that damn nightmare in half."

"Low S," Richard replied slowly. "Barely."

Nadia rolled her eyes. "And the moon’s barely cheese. Stop pretending. When are you going to tell us what’s going on with you?"

"Fine." Richard let his head tip back against the panelling, eyelids drooping. "I’ll tell you all this weekend. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Trevor said dryly. Then, softer, "Seriously though—thanks, mate. We walked out because you walked in."

The hearth crackled. Richard shrugged one shoulder, too tired for false modesty. "It’s all right," he conceded. "You’re welcome."

Another hush, but looser at the seams now, as though someone had eased the laces on a too‑tight boot.

A skittish barmaid slipped into the snug, cheeks pink from the fire. "Kitchen’s doing doorstep toast if anyone’s hungry."

Oren’s stomach answered with an audible growl; Trevor’s followed suit a heartbeat later. Richard dug a handful of bank notes from his belt‑pouch. "Toast for the table," he told her, "and more tea."

"And a short whisky for the lady," Nadia added, nodding at Anne, who stared wide‑eyed.

The barmaid bobbed. "Right away."

When she’d gone, Anne gave Nadia a fragile smile. "I don’t even like whisky."

"Good," Nadia said. "You’ll taste it and remember today’s over whenever you smell it again. That helped my cousin after the Seward breach."

"Is that medical advice?" Trevor asked.

"Family advice."

Richard watched them shuffle mugs aside to make room for imaginary trays, and something in his chest unclenched one silent notch. Outside, rain hammered the pub sign, but inside chairs scraped, fire popped, and the world felt—if not right—at least intact.

"Tomorrow," he said quietly, lifting his refilled cup in salute, "we check on James. The day after, we write letters to Elaine’s folks. After that... I’ll tell you guys truth."

Anne raised her whisky, hands still trembling. "To James."

Oren clinked cocoa against glass. "To Elaine."

Trevor touched ginger beer. "To mirrors breaking."

Nadia’s tea chimed softly. "To Richard."

Richard knocked his cup to each in turn. "To all of it—because we’re still breathing to remember."

They drank. The peat crackled. And, for the first evening in a long while, nobody mentioned rankings, portals, or the shadow that still echoed at the edges of their dreams. They just sat—scarred, shaky, but stubbornly alive—while outside, the storm spent itself against the dark.

Somewhere beyond the snug, the city clock tolled midnight, each gong muffled by rain. Richard breathed in peat smoke and hop‑bitten warmth, letting the sound settle his frayed nerves. For one quiet heartbeat he believed the future might be survivable, so long as they kept choosing one another every day.

I hope Jame’s alright.