"So you're saying this Sasrir guy is a demon?" Sunny raised an eyebrow, trying—and failing—to keep the skepticism out of his voice. His Flaw compelled him to voice exactly what he thought. "I think you've had too much to drink."
The man in front of him, who had only barely graduated from boyhood, glowered and hugged his bottle of cloudy moonshine to his chest like a treasure. "I'm tellin' ya!" he slurred, teetering somewhere between drunk and barely coherent. "That thing ain't no normal man! He dodgesh and ducksh, an' can turn inta pure darknahs! No Sleeper's got that many Aspects, I know it!"
"Uh huh." Sunny rubbed his forehead, suppressing a sigh.
This was the sixth person he had spoken to during his circuit of the Outer Settlement, and somehow—despite, or perhaps because of, his inebriation—this one had been the most informative. Gilligan, as he had introduced himself, possessed an endless supply of rumors and grotesque stories about the Bright Castle's inner figures. According to him, Aiko was merely dull and forgettable, Adam was a wolf in sheep's clothing, Seishan was a demoness who bathed in the blood of virgin men to preserve her youth, Harus was not even human but an Echo dredged up from the Dark Sea, and Sasrir was secretly a Fallen Terror that Adam had tamed by feeding it souls.
Utter nonsense, as far as Sunny was concerned.
But it was fascinating nonsense.
"And what about Adam himself?" Sunny pressed, curiosity overcoming his irritation. He wanted to see just how deep the man's imagination ran.
"Him?" Gilligan blanched and took a long, reckless swig of moonshine. "That blondy ain't no saint, let me tell ya. He plays pretend, wraps himshelf in nice white clothesh… but in truth, he'sh jus' ushin' ya. I've seen his eyesh, kid. There ain't noshin' behind 'em. Jus' cold orbs, ish all."
Sunny studied the drunk man sprawled against the wall, fingers tapping absently against his thigh. By all logic, he should dismiss every word Gilligan said as alcohol-soaked paranoia and resentment. And yet… Sunny's instincts, honed by a lifetime of suspicion and survival, refused to let go so easily.
Finally, he decided to push once more.
"You think Adam's a hypocrite?" Sunny asked quietly. "Why? I need something deeper than just the look in his eyes."
For the first time since they had started talking, Gilligan did not answer immediately.
Instead, the drunk Sleeper straightened slightly and fixed Sunny with a look of unsettling clarity. The haze in his watery blue eyes receded, replaced by something sharp and calculating. Sunny felt a prickle run down his spine.
Just as he was about to step back, Gilligan broke into a wide grin, exposing several missing teeth. "Fine," he said. "I'll tell ya, kid. But ya can't go spreadin' rumors, ya hear? Now come closer."
Sunny frowned but complied, his body already tense, a Memory poised to be summoned at the first sign of danger. Gilligan leaned in close, his breath hot and sour against Sunny's ear.
"My Aspect," he whispered, "lets me read souls."
Sunny jerked back, eyes widening.
Gilligan chuckled at his reaction, clearly pleased. "Amazin', ain't I? Don't get ahead of ya shelf, though. It ain't that fancy. I only see a vague color—depends on the kind of person ya are. Good folks got good colors. Bad folks got bad."
He jabbed a finger vaguely in Sunny's direction. "Take you, for egshample. You're a dirty little black bastard… but there'sh still some white left inside. Ain't been scooped out yet."
Sunny felt his blood run cold.
He stared at Gilligan with new, wary eyes. "And Adam?" he asked slowly.
"White," Gilligan replied without hesitation.
Then his grin faded, replaced by a troubled frown. "Only… it ain't always pure. Shometimes it's black. Shometimes it's gold. Shometimes I can't even tell what it ish at all. I've seen him do charity, real charity—and his soul don't change one bit."
Gilligan took another drink, his voice dropping. "For him, doin' good ain't the point. It'sh jus' a meansh to an end. A man's soul ain't meant ta be one color forever, kid."
He looked Sunny straight in the eyes.
"So somethin' ain't right about 'im."
Sunny took in Gilligan's information, turned it over in his mind from several angles, then filed it away for later use. Nephis would need to hear all of it, of course—though whether she would believe it was another matter entirely.
Having exhausted himself with paranoia and alcohol-fueled revelations, Gilligan looked ready to pass out for his afternoon stupor. His eyelids drooped, his grip on the bottle slackened, and his head lolled against the wall. Sunny knew this was his last chance to ask the question that had lodged itself firmly in his mind.
"Sasrir," Sunny said quietly. "What about Sasrir? What color is his soul?"
Gilligan's unfocused gaze drifted toward him, pupils dilating as if staring into something far away. "Soul?" he rasped, lips twitching into something between a grin and a grimace. "Demon bastard… ain't got no soul. There ain't nothin' inside that shell o' his."
With that final declaration, Gilligan let out a rattling snore and slipped fully into sleep.
Sunny straightened slowly and exhaled through his nose. After a moment of hesitation, he reached down and carefully draped the man's threadbare blanket over him. He gently pried the bottle of moonshine from Gilligan's limp fingers and tucked it beneath a nearby crate, hidden but not gone. The man would find it when he woke up.
Then Sunny turned and left.
He checked his internal clock. Half an hour remained before he had to rendezvous with Nephis and Cassie. Not much time—but enough to be useful. If rumors were currency here, then he might as well try to meet someone worth hearing from.
According to Gilligan and several others, the most prominent figures in the Outer Settlement—besides Adam—were a woman named Athena and a man named Kai. Athena, Sunny had been told repeatedly, was impossible to miss. As for Kai, one woman had laughed and simply said, "Tall and handsome. You'll know him when you see him."
Apart from that, Sunny hadn't uncovered much concrete information. Seishan was widely known as a Legacy, one of the daughters of Ki Song herself—adopted, apparently, but no less fearsome for it. The other Lieutenants of the Bright Lord had no hidden origins or dramatic secrets attached to them, at least none that survived repeated retellings. Even Gunlaug, at the center of it all, was described not as a mastermind or chosen hero, but as a violent madman who had been lucky enough to gain power—and ruthless enough to hold onto it.
From everything Sunny had heard, the man sounded like a genuine piece of work. It made him all the more curious how a man who presented himself as holy and pure like Adam could work under him.
Pulling his hood a little lower, Sunny slipped back into the winding lanes of the settlement, eyes sharp and senses alert, determined to make the last minutes count.
He chewed over Gilligan's last words, about how Sasrir had no soul, but decided to ignore it. Maybe the man had a Memory that blocked out such abilities, maybe Gilligan was simply too drunk and tired, or maybe he really was a monster wrapped in human skin. Either way, Sunny had already learnt that he could bleed, and that was enough for him.
If it could bleed, then Sunny could kill it.