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Chapter Two Hundred Thirty-Seven: 'O, lost comrade...'

"Y'know, I've often heard that having an overly dark sense of humor can be a sign of dementia or brain damage, but personally, I think that's just a bunch of anti-psychopath propaganda, bought and paid for by Big Pharma and the normies who run it."

As he listened to the wild-haired man on stage from an empty table in the back row of the outdoor theater, he began to wonder--and not for the first time--what he was doing here.

The rest of crowd seemed to be enjoying themselves, though they also seemed pretty thoroughly sauced by this point.

"They're always trying to scaremonger and devalue our contributions to society, trying to convince people in various ways that we're the ones who are abnormal, not them. As if there was anything strange about us in the face of this ridiculous world we live in!"

As far as he could tell, the only other ones not drunkenly laughing or cheering were all sharing a table together a few meters away. And a couple were looking right at him.

He knew who they were. Members of the Freeman Fellowship.

He found himself paying more and more attention to them, lately. Their numbers seemed to have been growing, and if the expressions on their faces right now was an indicator, they were hoping to keep that trend going.

But of course, that wasn't really up to him, was it? He was just a servant, after all.

His reaper was right there next to him, being a silent enigma as always. Rezolo never laughed or cracked wise like most other reapers. It was rare to see him react with anything other than calm observance.

He doubted they would be able to convince Rezolo to join their faction, but who knows? Even after nearly five years with the reaper, he still didn't feel like he knew him very well at all.