📖 IADIL Chapter 3: The Cost of the Muffin (The Debt Trap)
[Ben | Lawyer]
Part 1: The Neighborhood Acknowledgment & The System Retaliation
Ben was still processing the courtroom victory and the absurd power of Ken's spontaneous baking when the quiet was shattered.
"Ken! We saw the news!" one neighbor cried.
"The Kimbowlcut case! Your luck must be changing! We knew you had it in you!".
Alistair, sensing Ben's internal overload, placed a calm, soothing hand on Ben's back, silently grounding him.
"It was pure luck, folks," Alistair said smoothly, gently steering Ben back inside. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, warm murmur meant only for Ben's ears. "I mean, technically, it was a hyper-competent legal maneuver delivered via an artisanal baked good, but you're too intimidating when you're good, darling. He needs to rest before the next round".
Part 2: The Debt Trap & The Slow Progression
Ben collapsed onto the bed, his mind calculating the fallout. The Kimbowlcut victory had instantly reset his Citizen Rating (CR) to A-Class, granting him eligibility based entirely on birthright.
Ben sat up, ever the pragmatist. "A-Class status means better systemic access. Alistair, can you assist me in locating an affordable, quality roommate who understands the gravity of my current Tier 4 Asset classification and the eternal liability of my existence?"
Alistair's face lit up, seizing the unintentional opening. "You're A-Class now, Ben. That means you can move in with me. It's not illegal anymore. And honestly, your neighbors are going to bother you constantly now," he added with a playful wink.
Ben swallowed, the class disparity of the proposal hitting him hard. I'm C-Class in reality, wearing his frayed polyester suit, and he lives in a world of gold trim and high-quality wine. I shouldn't be rooming with someone of his caliber. Ken's body is soft and slight, not the kind of strength Alistair—or I, for that matter—admire. It's unsettlingly fragile.
That evening, Alistair took Ben out for dinner. Before they left, Ben took a long shower and noticed the complete absence of body hair. It was unnatural, even for this soft physique. He found Alistair adjusting his coat in the mirror.
"Wait, why am I completely smooth everywhere but my head? I didn't find any razor in the bathroom," Ben asked, genuinely perplexed, touching his forearm. "And you don't have shaving cream or tools in your bathroom either."
Alistair smirked, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. "Ah, that. Ken didn't shave. Ken got an extensive, strategically placed tattoo that allows him to maintain a completely smooth canvas. That's why there's no stubble. He paid a significant amount of SI to ensure no hair would grow there ever again." Alistair paused, then added casually, "The tattoo itself is subtle—just a long strand of hair with curly cues artfully spreading from the strand—and it's located right on the back of his thigh near the butt cheek fold. The permanent hair removal covers his whole chest and torso to ensure the canvas is perfect. You'll figure out why he did it eventually."
Ben stared at Alistair, a hot, unfamiliar surge of jealousy hitting him. A tattoo? Extensive? SI paid to ensure permanence? And Alistair knows the intimate details of Ken's naked torso and the motivation behind the placement?
"You know about the tattoo?" Ben asked, the question tight with suppressed possessiveness he didn't realize he possessed.
Alistair looked at Ben, his smirk softening into something deep and serious. "Of course, Ben. I know about it. Because I have the same one. Ken and I got them done together. It's a common mark for A-Class families on their thirteenth birthday—a symbolic commitment to maintaining class standing, especially since you don't get job assigned until the age of majority. My father made sure I got mine." Alistair leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur. "Nobody has ever seen mine, except the artist. But you can. You should see why it's so important."
Alistair then added, his professional side taking over. "It’s permanent because we used a Master Level Tattooist. Their job class gives them access to specialized magical inks—in this case, an ink that exchanges body hair growth for a small, perpetual SI maintenance fee. The hair removal effect is permanent, but it only remains active if it's fed unicorn hair annually. The Tattooist job class can also augment tattoos for hair color."
Alistair paused, gently running a hand through his own thick, auburn waves, his expression hardening slightly into a social mask. "You'll notice mine—it's auburn. It's my natural color, and it was never modded. The point is to reduce the equivalent requirements, not add them."
"Other ways to get tattoos are from equipping Titles. Those Title Tattoos are system-locked and can only be modified by Grandmaster AA-level Tattooists, and only with incredibly rare augments to reduce the equivalent requirements—meaning, to reduce the drawbacks."
Ben pushed the rising emotional temperature down. He dismissed Alistair's comment, instead walking to the full-length mirror and pulling on his simple black slacks and a form-fitting tank top, the fabric hugging the lines of Ken's body. He stood, inhaling deeply and striking a few familiar poses—a subtle check of the small but definite firmness Ken's physique had gained from Ben's few days of subconscious muscle work.
Alistair stepped behind him, watching Ben's reflection. "Looking good, Ben. That body is already starting to firm up, just from a little activity. See? You're a natural."
Alistair lifted the bottom edge of his jacket and casually patted the back of his own thigh, right near the crease of his tailored slacks. "It's right here on the back of the thigh. Now you know where to look."
The sudden, intimate gesture and the direct reference to the tattoo's secret location completely derailed Ben's concentration. He was overwhelmed by a potent wave of sudden embarrassment, coupled with the realization that Alistair smelled incredible—like high-end sandalwood and spice.
"Wait a minute," Ben blurted out, stepping away from the mirror. "You smell... yummy. Why doesn't Ken have any cologne or deodorant? I couldn't find anything in his drawers."
Alistair gave a genuine, warm laugh at the compliment, stepping closer to Ben. "Thank you, that's kind. And Ken doesn't need them. Neither do I. My great-aunt is a Master Perfumer—she creates custom scent patches for the family. These aren't like cheap sprays; they're small, consumable stickers we place somewhere discreet, usually where the natural scent gathers, to enhance and strengthen our own unique fragrance. They negate the need for destructive, low-class toiletries like deodorant or cheap cologne. Ken prefers the one that smells faintly of cinnamon bread, but mine is sandalwood. You noticed the difference, I see."
They secured a private booth in a pricey-looking restaurant...
The setting was one of luxurious, deliberate comfort: candlelight shimmered over tables draped in soft, tasseled tablecloths.
Alistair, completely at ease, waved away the first waiter who approached their table. He smiled charmingly at the attendant and said, "Thanks, but we'll wait for Finnian. He already knows what we want." The waiter didn't object, simply nodding to Alistair before melting back into the background.
A few moments later, a different attendant, Finnian, arrived with a familiar bottle of expensive, high-quality wine and two glasses. Finnian’s focus was entirely on Alistair, his gaze lingering a fraction too long on Alistair's neck as he set down the bottle, a clear sign of professional admiration masking a personal interest. The name 'Finnian' was written in elegant script on his gold enamel name tag. Finnian placed a menu in Ben's hand, then only addressed Alistair. "The usual, Mr. Montague?" Alistair nodded, glancing briefly at Ben. "Just the usual, Finnian. And please ensure the cushions remain plump—my guest appreciates comfort." The waiter offered a subtle bow and departed, clearly accustomed to Alistair’s precise demands.
They sat in upholstered dining chairs with plush cushions, and the whole space hummed with quiet wealth. The tableware was gold-rimmed, the glasses delicate, and the porcelain dishes matched the intricate leaf and rosette carvings of the light fixtures.
Ben's fingers, which were resting near the edge of the table, restlessly began to worry the tasseled tablecloth, picking at a small, fraying thread until it started to unravel.
Alistair watched the small, destructive act for a moment. With a subtle gesture of his hand beneath the table, the ambient restaurant music immediately softened and shifted. Soothing violins began playing a calming symphony reminiscent of ice cream truck music.
"Hey," Alistair said softly, putting his own hand gently on the fabric to stop Ben's action. "Stop picking at that. It's not like you—you usually channel that focus into something heavy, like shredding muscle, not shredding luxury fabric. You look unsettled, Ben. What's wrong?"
Alistair initiated the first physical touch, gently placing his hand on Ben's arm, searching his face. Ben startled at the unexpected contact, but quickly let his body relax into the steady warmth of Alistair’s grip. "Are these touches okay with you?" Alistair asked, his voice soft. Ben found himself nodding.
Later, Alistair confided the trauma his brother endured with the gang. Ben, moved by Alistair's pain and the trust given, reached out, placing his hand over Alistair's, initiating comfort.
A few moments later, Finnian returned to the table, sensing the lull in conversation. He preemptively assumed Alistair was finished.
"Mr. Montague, I'll have your check sent over whenever you'd like," Finnian said, addressing Alistair only.
Alistair smiled and shook his head slightly. "I'm not sure. We should ask my guest." He looked directly at Ben. "Ben, are you interested in dessert?"
Finnian, slightly thrown, shifted his attention to Ben, a forced professional neutrality replacing his usual smooth deference. "Sir, we have a curated dessert menu. Would you care to hear it?"
"Yes," Ben replied, his voice firming up. "What are your chocolate options?"
Finnian's facade cracked slightly, a genuine, private enthusiasm momentarily shining through. "Ah! The Chocolate Oblivion Cake is sublime. It's my personal favorite, though it's heavy."
"Perfect," Ben stated. "We'll take two Chocolate Oblivion Cakes."
Alistair finally brought up the core issue: "You still need better armor. That polyester won't survive the next trial. The Widows and Orphans Fund case hasn't been assigned yet, but when it hits, you’ll need a Tier 1 Asset to command the courtroom".
Ben, now fully committed to the man beside him, agreed. The cost for a Tier 1 Asset would be astronomical, easily requiring more than my entire personal savings from Earthia. If I am to function in this absurd world, I need System Influence as capital, not just legal training. I recall seeing the specific procedure for accessing the family SI—the Writ of Familial Exchange—on Ken's tablet this morning. Itetailed the terms of the maximum acceptable loan. I must take the loan to command the courtroom, and I must take the maximum available to secure my future utility.
He pressed the call button, initiating the Writ of Familial Exchange to access his wealthy Universe B family. Administrator Vellum confirmed the brutal terms:
Ben interrupted, his pragmatic lawyer's voice cutting in: "I will demand the maximum SI payout for the Debt of Compliance. Who knows when I'll get another chance?".
Vellum's voice confirmed the maximum SI transfer—a sum far larger than the suit required, securing Ben's financial future—but with the corresponding maximum [Debt of Compliance] (Accountability for the Universe B Praymail Integration Project).
Ben accepted the cosmic debt: "Transfer complete. Payment expected upon successful completion of the Praymail Integration project".
Part 3: The Tailor and The Trade
Alistair took Ben via air blimp to the Outcast Castle shopping center. They found the tailor, Flounder Finn (the man declared a "fish").
As they approached the shop, Alistair leaned close. "About Flounder Finn, Ben. Don't be too surprised. His story is why he's the best".
Alistair explained that Flounder had married a mermaid princess, and amidst the ensuing legal battles over her royal fish loyalty benefits, one of the lawyers famously declared, "It would all be much easier if Flounder were just a fish!" Flounder, seizing the legal loophole, formally changed his name and was declared a royal fish by marriage. "He understands systemic identity fraud better than anyone, Ben. He paid his own price to legally belong with the one he loved."
Ben took in the absurd logic. His mind understood. This was the only place to get proper legal armor.
Ben traded his deepest secret—the story of the Writ of Familial Exchange and the Non-Resident Consciousness—for the armor he needed. He narrated the full, brutal truth of the swap and the cosmic debt to Flounder in his most pragmatic, lawyerly tone.
Ben began his story: "So there I was, a stranger in a strangely familiar land, getting bombarded by flashing lights and alarming voices with alarmingly dire messages. My pants immediately filled with the piss scared out of me". He continued, detailing the CUCPS system failure, the debt trap, and the ultimate compromise of his autonomy.
Flounder Finn listened intently, his scaled skin shimmering with professional excitement. "Payment accepted! That is a masterpiece of systemic exploitation!". Flounder squeaked, rubbing his hands together.
He grabbed a small, velvet box from under the counter. The weight of the box in his hands already felt like a massive psychological defense, shoring up Ben's confidence. "The Llama Tree Fur blend will serve you well, Mr. Farrier. But every Tier 1 Asset needs punctuation. I shall include matching Llama Tree Tie Clips and Cuff Links designed and manufactured through my father-in-law's jeweler. They are Tier 2 Assets, providing a passive +3 to Social Subterfuge".
Flounder’s excitement was not sated. He pulled out one final, glittering item. "And for a tale so tragically and bravely told..." He presented a single, intricately carved button. "A bonus accessory: The [Compassion Button]".
Flounder tucked the accessories back into the box. "I will contact you upon the completion of the helmet pattern. The full suit requires a headpiece for the ultimate Set Bonus. We must maximize your defense".
🔥 The Bonfire of the Bureaucratic Vanities
"Now, for the last step," Alistair murmured, gently taking Ben's elbow and steering him toward a side door.
"What's that?" Ben asked, still admiring the new accessories.
"A proper send-off for your old uniform," Alistair said with a smile. "Finnian often has a small, controlled bonfire in the back. Something about purging old, low-Tier energy."
They stepped out onto a small stone patio. Finnian was indeed standing beside a clean, contained fire pit, tending a modest, crackling fire used for incinerating unsalvageable scraps. Alistair handed Ben a pair of surgical gloves.
"Put that polyester suit to rest, Ben," Alistair said, his voice soft. "You won't be needing that threadbare symbol of C-Class poverty anymore."
Ben took off the worn, cheap synthetic suit, the physical manifestation of Ken's financial struggles and his own initial humiliation. He held the suit over the fire, feeling an enormous weight lift as the polyester caught instantly, curling and melting with a chemical snap. He watched, transfixed, as the frayed, uncomfortable material vanished into smoke.
Alistair stepped closer, resting his hand on the back of Ben's neck, giving a brief, warm squeeze. "Welcome to the good life, lawyer," he whispered, the firelight catching the shimmer of his auburn hair and the obsidian metallic paint of his Tier 2 vehicle. The warmth of the fire, the competence of the new armor in his hands, and Alistair's steady touch combined into a profound, grounding reassurance Ben hadn't felt since landing in this insane world.
