The call comes in at two AM, a panic on the line. Some velvet-coated sorcerer who thought himself divine. He tried to claim a pawnshop as his personal throne. Now the summoning’s a mess, and he’s weeping on the phone. I grab my kit: neutral salts, a binding writ in hand. Remind him gods don’t take permits from any city’s hand. He pouts about his destiny, I quote the civic code. Then send him home with paperwork to lighten up his load. I’m not the shield, I’m not the sword. I’m the whispered clause, the quiet accord. The fine print in the truce you sign, The reason that the stars align… And stay on schedule in their lane tonight. A ping from the industrial zone, a Hunter on the ground. He’s found goblins scrubbing tanks and wants to run them down. Calls them “vermin,” says they “taint” the factory’s damn floor. He don't see they’re on the clock, with safety gear and more. They clean the big and dirty vats and earn their overtime. To get their kids home-schooled, yeah, they’re doing just fine. I show the invoices, permits, the union rep’s card too. He grunts “pure humanity.” I say, “Their pay is due.” “Their shift ends right at four, your fight’s a public suit.” He slinks off to his pick-up truck, defeated and mute. I’m not the shield, I’m not the sword. I’m the whispered clause, the quiet accord. The fine print in the truce you sign, The reason that the stars align… And stay on schedule in their lane tonight. Next stop, the public library, where whispers stain the air. A cult in cheap business suits is handing out despair. Their pamphlets sport tentacle logos, slick and grand, Preaching “cosmic consciousness” to those who’ll make a stand. That’s littering and soliciting, a public nuisance charge. I threaten by-law fines and make their limits large. Their “great dreamer” won’t pay a parade permit fee. They pack their table quiet and leave immediately. Another world’s end halted by a warning slip. I'll file their forms at the end of my business trip. My back’s a knotted railroad track, my eyes are full of sand. Last stop’s a place that tends to both the holy and the damned. Succubus Mara works the kinks out of my spine. Her hands know pressure points for mortal and divine. It’s not temptation, it's deep-tissue repair. A chance to brace myself for morning’s heavy air. She works in silence, takes my card, I slowly breathe. And step back out into the city’s phosphorescent sheen. The gods are simply worst of all: all ego, noise, and talk. Ares tried a fight club in a boxing gym for sport. Aphrodite caused a crisis in a Writer's Agency. I settled tempests in their teacups, quietly. I slump into a stool at The Dull Lamplight Café. Thoth, behind the counter, his hair streaked with grey, Pours my cup and rolls his eyes so deep they see the past. “Another one who thinks their legend’s meant to last?” He scribbles on my napkin, shorthand, sharp and neat. “The surge will pass. Mundanity can never be beat.” The dawn comes up and washes all the neon shame away. No headlines scream, no humans saw a thing today. The goblins clock out tired, the cultists catch the train. The sorcerer studies Municipal Code again. I walk into the grey light, only one who knows, The cost of calm, the price we pay for quiet’s deep repose. The city dreams in ignorance above the hidden gears. I walk alone… the only one who hears.
