A fist studded with rings slammed against Mischa’s face, snapping his head sideways. His jaw cracked, shooting a tooth out of his mouth. Pain exploded and blood streamed down his chin.
The DJ cut the jazzy house music. Screams from the club's patrons replaced the bass while the dance lights continued to flash. One chorus ago, everyone had been having the time of their lives. Now they scattered in panic, finally realizing the place was being robbed.
Not worth the pay to get beat up. Of course it’s me who has to fight the giant, Mischa somehow registered through his panic.
Raising scarred, spindly arms to block, Mischa braced for another hit. No luck–the large thief in the black suit delivered a brutal punch to his temple. His vision blurred, and right after a heavy knee connected with his gut. Doubled over from the pain, he gasped for air.
“Should’ve let us take the money. It’s not even yours. You’re just the barback,” the thug sneered.
Behind a nearby door, Mischa heard his boss yell and plead with another thief for his life.
Where the fuck is Security?
A deafening gunshot sounded next to their fight from behind the door. Glass bottles shattered, followed by a heavy thump. His boss's begging stopped.
They’re going to fucking kill me!
The crowd down the hall pressed each other desperately through the front door into the icy night. If Mischa could just get past the giant man kicking his ass, he could make it.
Primal fear for his life made him think of something, anything, to fight back with.
“Oh, fuck.” the brute said, glancing at the door. The closed office door remained silent as Mischa shakily reached into his pocket for the corkscrew he always carried while working.
No one ever ordered wine at the club. They came for the vodka bottles frozen in blocks of ice, plush red couches hidden in dark corners, and the burlesque show that ran until the early morning hours. Still, his boss had insisted he keep a corkscrew on hand, just in case.
Mischa fumbled with the cutter on the corkscrew. Too slow.
“What do you think you’re doing?” The man said in an annoyed tone.
Mischa’s head was ripped upwards as the man yanked his long, messy black hair.
Another crunch, this time his nose. Pain erupted and his eyes watered as he was shoved hard. He stumbled backwards, crashed into the bathroom door and landed hard onto the wet, cold ground.
Piss. I’m going to die covered in piss.
“What did you do?!” the brute yelled at his accomplice, who had just come out of the office with a giant bag stuffed with cash.
“He pulled a gun! It’s fine. Got the money. Security still out front?” Mischa recognized the voice that answered back at the giant from the hallway. The small man had trained Mischa on his first day two months ago.
Ron. I hate that prick.
“You idiot, look,” the brute said, throwing the swinging bathroom door open. Ron’s mousy face paled at seeing Mischa, bloodied and beaten on the floor.
Mischa crab-walked backward until he hit the stall. The club’s lights still flashed, casting their faces in darkness every other second in the hallway.
“Mischa? Shit! SHIT! He knows me. Knows your face, too!” Ron yelled, voice cracking as he glanced frantically towards the back door that led to the alley.
“Deal with it. We have to go. Now.” The large man said with finality.
Ron hesitated for a moment, then walked into the bathroom.
“Ron, no. Please, don’t do this,” Mischa begged, tears streaking his bloodied face as he pressed himself further back. Nowhere left to go.
“Sorry, Mischa, it’s business.” Ron said flatly as he aimed the gun at Mischa’s head.
Mischa threw his hands in front of his body, desperate to shield himself.
“Don’t! Please! I’ll do anythi-”
A flash of light, followed by another deafening pop of the gun. Mischa felt sudden pain between his eyes, and then, nothing.
Like many before him, he died powerless.
Endless, comfortable darkness swallowed Mischa. He felt the Abyss take him as it swallowed everything. His pain, his fear, even his thoughts. Yet, something lingered.
A weight. A burden.
Anything? An ancient voice whispered from the void. Mischa faded away.
----------------------------------------
“Mitch! Mitch! Wake up! Three hours till open! Limes, don’t forget the limes this time! And the espresso sludge! Four bottles!” A fist banged on the thin door, rattling the frame, and a gruff voice shouted for someone named Mitch.
Micha’s back ached from the thin mattress beneath him, but at least it was warm.
Adrenaline replaced grogginess and he leapt out of bed. His head smacked the low, slanted ceiling. Pain flared.
Shit!
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Heart racing, Mischa looked around the small room like a trapped animal. It was barely the size of a broom closet.
A bed was wedged in the corner, taking up most of the space. The small side table held an earpiece. A greasy window let in a trickle of light. One wall slanted sharply, connecting with the corner of the other. A pile of clothes sat on the floor.
What is going on? I was just shot in the head. Why am I in an attic?
“Mitch? You good? You were making some right weird noises last night. Lot of…thumping about. Were you cryin’? I know yer alone in there, what’re ye doin’?” the same voice asked again, this time concerned.
Mischa’s head snapped to the short wooden door, nerves still flared. Gulping, he spoke.
“Yeah, all good. Smacked my head is all. Stupid damned wall, gets in the way all the time,” he answered, startling himself. A deep bass trembled out of his throat; a voice much lower than he was used to. Looking down at his hands, his eyes widened.
Rather than the sleek, feminine hands he was ashamed of, they were massive. Thick, calloused things. Turning them over, he stared at the knuckles, bulging and laced with fresh scars. When he clenched them, he felt strength surge through his arms.
What the…?
The voice outside laughed. A booming, warm laugh. “Again? You gotta stop doing that, big guy. Let’s go, we’ve got to set up. And Robin’s in one of his moods again!” Short, heavy footsteps tramped down the hallway, creaking the stairs as they descended.
Hathgar. The name popped into Mischa’s head, along with an image: a stocky dwarf with a wild grin and a fiery red beard that overwhelmed a round face. He was a fellow barback at Club Mythos, working while traveling the world. Very loud. They were friends. Hathgar owed him several rounds of drinks.
As his mind raced, vague memories floated to the surface, like opening small drawers in his brain. It felt like rifling through someone else’s things, familiar, yet alien.
Shaking off confusion, Mischa glanced down at his body, noticing for the first time he was completely naked. The chest he was staring down at was huge. Freakishly muscular and covered in countless scars.
Jesus, I’m massive. What are those scars from?
During his childhood, he had been underfed by his drunk of a father. His previous small frame had been the result of years of malnutrition, and had left him with spindly limbs and short stature. Now, he felt like he was an oversized, amateur bodybuilder.
Carefully, so as not to smack his head, he rummaged through clothes that felt too large in his hands. Black t-shirts and black pants. Ripe from dried sweat.
Holy shit! I’ve been reborn into another barback!
Mischa felt great. He could feel the strong muscles coiled under his skin. His breath came clearer than ever before as he took deep breaths from clean lungs. Slipping on the least smelly set of clothes, he took stock of his situation.
Ok…not sitting in piss, covered in blood, definitely not dead. Ok, breathe. Roll with it.
The pants were snug but comfortable against his trim waist. He didn’t want to tug the t-shirt, which sat flush against his body. Usually, he would pull at it, slowly stretching it out through the day, hoping to hide his small frame that still held a paunch.
Am I tall now? Is this Mitch guy a giant?
He couldn’t help himself, and flexed his arm muscles as he laced up the leather boots he found stashed under his mattress. Forearm muscles bulged, thick veins running across them like loose cables.
Just how strong am I?
As he finished his mental question, a window of text popped up in his mind.
Mitchell Quarlette
Age: 25 years♾️
Race: ½ Unknown, ½ Human
Quests (Burdens)💀
Credits
Skills (Afflictions)
Titles
Afflictions? Burdens? Oh, that’s fantastic. 25 years infinity? One half unknown? What am I?
Mitch could feel that with a thought, he could easily dive deeper into any part of his Status Screen.
Let’s see what we’re dealing with here. What’s familiar? Money. Money is familiar. Titles? What are Titles? Your name is Mitch. One step at a time. Breathe. Don’t even think about that flashing Quest screen that’s called Burdens and has a skull next to it. Nope. Afflictions? No thank you.
Mitch selected Titles first.
Empty. Hmmm.
He tentatively selected the Credits option with his mind.
Credits
Debts: -1,000,666*
Assets: 27 Credits, 0 Souls*, 0 Flesh*Interest: -666/day
Cashflow: 100/day (Barback Salary)
Oh no! Crapload of debt! What is this place? Souls…? This is bad. This is very bad. It’s got to be that Quest notification.
His heart dropped as the earpiece on the table buzzed. A high-pitched voice screeched through, filling the small room with potent energy.
“Mitch! Bloody hell man, get your ass downstairs. Limes! Espresso, make it six bottles. Prep all the beluga vodka. All reso's are canceled. We’ve got a buyout tonight. Crae's Agency. Bigguns. Oh yes, you and Hathgar circle the couches like last time.” Robin’s nasally voice departed just as quickly as it spoke.
Robin.
Again, a name filled his mind. Robin was the eccentric owner of Club Mythos. A ghost with unusual Skills that made all parties he attended legendary. He rarely showed up before the guests arrived but always ensured everyone had the best time once he did. A good enough boss, though a bit unhinged.
He does let me stay here for free. Decent guy.
Another buzz.
“Oh, and I need you to grab a package. Mathilda’s, one hour. Bring it to my office when you’re back. Chop, chop!”
Mathilda. She’s nice. She’s also a vampire. Dread Alley, first red door.
The knowledge came immediately to him at mention of her name. Mitch sighed and walked to his small door.
Feeling in his pockets, he pulled out a worn corkscrew and a slip of folded paper. He stared at the corkscrew, and then unfolded the handwritten note.
I’m sorry. The last guy left me a note as well. This body is now yours. So is the debt. The Abyss gives you power, but they will come for payment. He always collects what’s owed. If you want to give up, you can. Or you can try to last longer than I did. Twelve years.
His stomach clenched. He could feel it. A pull from the depths, like invisible hands tightening their grip.
Twelve years? And you still failed? Why were you still a barback? What happened to you?
Trembling, he opened the quest.
Burden: Pay the Abyssal Debt
The Abyss accepts all forms of payment.
Status: IncompleteActive Debt: -1,000,666
Interest: 666/dayCurrency: Souls, Flesh, Credits
Do you give up?
He felt that he could say yes to the final question of the burden. One moment of weakness, and he would die.
Oh. This is bad. This is really bad.
But Mitch wasn’t ready to just give in. Not that easily. He had already overcome so much in his life. Forged his persistence.
Mathilda’s.
She must know something. Vampires always did, especially in this city. She’d been here in Shadowreach for centuries. Maybe longer. The weird memories that filled his head said so.
Mitch opened the small door. He had limes to cut, couches to move, and an appointment with a vampire.