Ushering the other two out, Sonnie got to work on her security system while I continued to take in the massive collection of stuff.

“Nothing in that man’s offering qualified?” I frowned, moving over to a shelf full of instruments. Measuring tools. Scopes. Glasses, magnifying glasses. Time pieces.

“No. They-, they were just leaves, broken glass, splintered wood, bolts and hinges,” Sonnie continued, coming to observe me from the other side of the open-faced shelf. “I know from a look – short radius, like three or four arm lengths – if it’ll fit the bill. Everything here is something that could work but, as you can see, could be useful if they were fixed.”

“What does your Diagnose tell you?”

“Basic things. What it’s called, if there’s a status,” Sonnie shrugged, “the overwhelmingly unhelpful ‘this is broken, hurdy-hurr’ and ‘you wanna Hotfix with the bang-bang?’”

“Alright. Here, let me try looking at-,“ I offered, taking interest in the collection of examination tools. Things used for looking, appraising, inspecting. I picked up a shoddy spyglass and focused.

+Diagnose activated. Target is a Common Tier Survey-glass. Allows user to see Level and Race of a target within effective range. Warning! This item is damaged. Your Arcanotechnician can repair this with Scrap material. Would you like to use Skill: Hotfix?+

That would always be helpful, even if other specifics were not available. Perhaps more advanced versions, magical, could provide more information. EMF must have disabled it because it had a vaguely offensive utility.

There was a monocle as well as a few choices of magnifying glasses. Picking up the former and the crudest example of the latter, I was in my own little world without a care. Just me and a problem I could probably solve. Unlike…

+Diagnose activated. Target is an Uncommon Tier silver Single-glass. Allows user to inspect properties of a target within effective range, but does not provide information on Medical Status. Warning! This item is damaged. Your Arcanotechnician can repair this with Scrap material. Would you like to use Skill: Hotfix?+

Frowning, the monocle was called a Single-glass. The System must have been struggling to change everything according to how Recursion was supposed to affect it. Not the first instance of strange entries, no doubt not the last.

+Diagnose activated. Target is a Common Tier Handle-glass. Allows user to inspect basic properties of a material within effective range. Warning! This item is damaged. Your Arcanotechnician can repair this with Scrap material. Would you like to use Skill: Hotfix?+

Grinning ear to ear, there were four of these magnifying glasses. Looking behind me, the heap of Scrap metal was promising for trial and error.

“Did you find something out? You look like a cat that ate the canary,” Sonnie asked with raised eyebrow, minding misc articles towards the solitary reception window.

“I-, what? What does that mean?” Gingerly setting the items back down, save the basic Handle-glass, I waved her to come with me to the giant piles she’d assembled.

“Eh? Oh, right, Otherworlder idiom. Stands for, ‘you look like you did something no one else knows about,’ usually devious. Don’t tell me you don’t know what a cat is,” Sonnie explained, standing with her hands on her waist.

“Of course I do. In any case, is it safe to use this?” I scoffed before waving at the collected nondescript ingot-looking things.

“Yep, it’s what it’s there for. Apparently I’m not good enough to do anything except Hotfix any of that crap,” Sonnie sighed, curious as to what I was about to do. “They all came from broken durability things. Saw a gun that’d been snapped in half one of those wolf guys brought in – whew, boy, that was hard peeling him away from knocking down my door, that enhanced senses Feature throwing him in for a loop or something. Kinda cute though, shame about my Race…”

As she realized I affixed her with a strange expression, mainly due to a whimsical smile teasing at the edges of her mouth, her cheeks turned red and she quickly moved to look at a different shelf. That tail of hers waved back and forth rapidly, barely avoiding colliding with anything.

“Right, uhm, but it’s all Common. Common Scrap from Common items, far as I understand, but I got nary an idea of if it can meld together into something better,” Sonnie informed me. She’d partially hidden behind a shelf of small boxes marked with something that seemed familiar, just out of the corner of my eye. “All I’ll say is maybe start with one in your hand if you try repairing? Super, super extremely small chance, but maybe it’d accidentally suck all of those hard-earned Scraps into creating an especially shiny crap item.”

“Good idea. Starting with this… well, the System said ‘Hand-glass,’ but it can inspect material properties,” I notified, taking one of the ingots.

“That would-,” Sonnie said, straining. She set something down heavily, lots of metal clinking and clanking, as she pushed it over towards me. “-would be extremely helpful!”

I held the magnifier and Scrap together, willing the thing back into working condition. My hands grew uncomfortably warm.

Almost as soon as it started, it was over.

“Here,” I said, handing it off. I would be lying if I wasn’t nervous over what might happen, especially after Sonnie pulled out an assortment of odd-looking tiles. They weren’t clay or regular stone reserved for masonry. Smudged letters of some sort.

“Runetech fragments,” she relayed, the Hand-glass glowing a soft blue across its rim and handle. “Oh, this is good. Real, really good. We can actually start building ourselves an economy now! Except…”

She sighed, frowned, looked at the stacks of Food Rations.

“What?”

“Currency. Gold, silver, copper, all of it. Useless.”

“What?” I replied, as if it would help.

“Listen. Alright, listen, you ever play a post-apocalypse, survival, nuclear fallout games?” she sighed, eyes closed while her hoof tapped on the ground nervously.

“No,” I started. Fingers twitched, I had to wrap my other hand around it. “I was born here, in this World, but every so often someone mentioned the genre’s existence.”

“Oh.”

Sonnie stiffened, unsure what to do with my matter-of-fact reply.

“It’s nothing to worry over,” I smiled, trying to ease her mind. “Please, explain. Everything helps.”

“O-okay. Well, um, you Admin types have a bunch of encounters with people that say this World’s like a game, right? Well, in a hunky-dory perfect roleplaying game, everything runs on money, easy,” she lectured, waving her hands around to help paint the picture. “Things can be generated outta thin air, money sinks for repairs and supplies, kill bad guys and loot pops out like a pinata.

“We’re in a survival game now. Money means bunk.”

She pointed at the Rations and then the ammunition boxes stacked neatly towards the front.

“Those are the only things that matter now,” she sighed, hooking a thumb at the empty ‘food’ half of the walled piles, then itching between her horns. “Parts to make food, parts to make things that kill the food.”

“And making sure you can protect against people that want to kill you and yours,” I whispered.

We shared a moment of silence. The small victory we’d achieved seemed hollow.

“Making items is not a closed system, so to speak,” Sonnie whispered. “You can always attempt to go mining or scavenging whatever’s left after… after the Terrans did what they did. The dead can’t use what they can’t use. It’s food that I’m worried about.”

The Succubus clasped her hands over one another, wings flaring outwards before wrapping around her body. Only her head peeked out of the sanctuary, tail nervously twitching and coiling around a leg.

“So far we’ve been lucky that there’s plenty of it from homes, markets, some of the docked trading ships without owners. But-, but we haven’t seen any animals. No monsters, no one adventuring. And, and I’m afraid…”

She was obviously forcing herself to confide. Letting her take time, all I could do was fold my hands.

“I’m afraid of what might happen if I Disassemble a sentient’s body. Someone like us, something artificial but enough like us, doesn’t matter. Walks, talks, quacks like us. I haven’t told anyone about this, but the durability of a dead person doesn’t change. They feel more like a resource when I Diagnose, an empty husk that’s waiting for-… for-…”

Sonnie chanced looking for my reaction. Winced. I may have been giving full attention, but it must have been a blank stare.

“Don’t even wanna try on a dead Terran. Almost want to make any new Fab swear on pain of, I don’t know, imprisonment with a key tossed away, to not try either.” She shuddered with the thought, releasing herself from the feathery cocoon. “God, that feels good to say out loud.”

“Ana – well, Koliastrazana,” I began, voice hoarse while I processed, “the Draco with Reclamation left today to try and see if the monster zones are working like they used to. Even if they aren’t, we can find a way before it gets to that point.”

“She’s the spunky chick that melts things with acid fog, right? Black scales, gets big when angry?” Sonnie queried innocently.

“Uhm, I can confirm she is a female with black scales. Somewhat on the fog,” I replied, raising an eyebrow. “The getting big part?”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Lancer Stance. Rather, it was part of Lancer, rage mode that lasts a minute or something,” she nodded back with a smile. “The day they found me, Terrans were trying to extort me for food. Unfortunately for the three men, the bastards were having a hard time deciding who was going to do me the honor of putting a gun to their head first for the affection of their lovely winged goddess. Which, odd enough, I get credit for a kill.”

“Oh, wow. Those Racial Features, I’m assuming?” I coughed politely. “Acting like cr-crow-cha-ar-Mind Control?”

“Yep. Next thing I know, that big purple one with horns who could palm a star football player’s head used her BFG to take down two in one shot, then your Ana-kolia-whoever beat the ever-living tar out of the third while all of their equipment melted,” the Succubus beamed. “Color me surprised when she shrank halfway, but that smell clings worse than dog shite on a carpet. Won’t forget it.”

An odd blend of sulfur and dead fish.

“Although,” she grimaced, “since then I’ve been in here except the odd rooftop visit. Not how I expected my, I dunno, third life to go.”

“At this point, no one could have expected exactly how Recursion went,” I said quietly, staring at the pile of Scrap, Common Tier.

“That’s the honest truth.”

We shared a look. Laughed. Cast our gaze outward to the various trinkets present.

“I’d better get started. Here, maybe?” I said while cracking my knuckle, stretching arms, rolling shoulders.

“Actually, I had a thought. How about starting with the Rares and such first then find their lower grade and make a list over which Tier grants what? I have some paper around here somewhere, if I didn’t accidentally Disassemble all of it…”

///

Sonnie’s organizational skills as well as excellent memory proved invaluable, regardless of her role as the only quartermaster in the city. I found a kindred spirit while we methodically investigated the tools available to us, fixing the lower Tier ones, promising to coordinate with Lyissa to put together scavenging teams to shore up the stores. I’d suggested moving her operation to the Rook but she flatly refused, citing a bad image for public relations if the only Faction around looked like they were hoarding resources.

I could agree with the logic. She also appreciated the fact I overlooked her unique circumstances, invited me back whenever time allowed.

An hour later, latches and locks replaced, I rounded the staircase up to the third floor.

Cordo and Lyissa were embroiled in talks with what looked to be a caravan driver from the back.

No, an owner of a caravan. A large-framed one at that. The finery accentuating his trade’s traditional garb gave away his station despite being ragged, a few bullet holes through the coat, worn over the past two weeks. He had an odd style of high and wide-brimmed hat much more suited for a warmer climate than the temperate north we lived in.

The Elf flicked her eyes toward me briefly, said something to the driver – a swarthy man with grayed braids spilling down his head where the hat didn’t cover his neck, jutting up and outward – and bowed. Cordo did the same after seemingly ending the conversation, the three making their way toward the stairs.

I decided to be aloof and look over the railing, spying a group of people entering the building. Immediately going toward Sonnie’s domain. They actually looked like they had likely candidates for Scrap.

However, their tight formation seemed to obscure a youth holding a box of foodstuffs. The words of the Otherworlder-turned-Succubus echoed once more. It was naïve to believe that knowledge was limited to us, the people attempting to put society back together.

Maybe the race was now against time. Fear. Fighting the Terrans is a welcome distraction from the fact that the entire World was now having to discover how to live. Not everyone was as fortunate as us.

How far had the one electromagical flux missile reached? How many people that relied on magic for quality of life or their livelihood?

“Excuse me, lad. Are you pr’haps lookin’ for work?”

“Hmm?” I slowly turned my head, seeing the gentleman stopping before the stairs. “Oh, no, not at the moment.”

“Shame. Nice rifle, nicer little six-shooter there, seems like you might know your way ‘round it if it’s got that pretty little scar,” he politely drawled, nodding with a wide grin. “Person don’t go for a man’s gun in this World if he ain’t giving ‘em a reason to.”

He tipped his gaze upward, revealing the visage of a Minotaur. Definitely bullish features, no traditional set of nose and ear piercings, only the striking features of a man that radiated martial prowess. More than a few scars, one even directly down the brow and cheek that must have been much too close for comfort near the eyeball. Coarse umber fur adorned his hide while his mouth shifted what looked to be a thick roll of some kind of dried herb, usually for lighting to inhale for concentration bonuses.

“Keen eye.” Looking at my holstered Lamia, I felt oddly self-conscious about its state of disrepair. All I could do was smirk appreciatively. “Yes, something like that. It’s almost like missing part of me.”

“Feeling I know all too familiar. Well, you ever find yourself needing a place to lay your head under a roof that don’t leak on the usual, I’m always in need of confident hands with quick fingers,” he said while readjusting his coat. The brief billowing revealed two revolvers of some sort on his belt, a different style of barrels thinner than my handcannon’s large bore. However, they seemed properly proportioned much like how Maekita wielded the Arcanotech Winterfield. Another Firearm, this one the make of a long rifle but had two barrels sawn down, rested snugly in a large holster stitched into the coat. “Call on Bailey’s Trickwheel Express and simply ask for the owner, young man. Maybe we can see about fixing that little beauty too. Good day.”

He tipped his hat with his fingers before starting down toward the stairs. I almost didn’t notice another bulging weapon at the small of his back, maybe a knife or axe in a sheath.

“Likewise,” I replied, waiting a few moments before intercepting Cordo and Lyissa.

What an odd individual. No matter, if he was talking calmly and quietly with the others, he must be a friend.

“Right. Should we sequester ourselves or-?” I opened, looking between my friends. The third floor was all offices and records rooms, boring administrative spaces marginally worse than riding the desk at an Administratum. “By the way, are you going to fill me in on who that was?”

“Later. Before we handle our other business,” Lyissa whispered, guiding us towards a side hall away from where our voices would echo down the spiral stairs, “I must caution you to keep your temper from flaring.”

Walking in silence, we approached one of the corner rooms. Wondering what in the Reaper’s shroud that meant, she rapped her knuckle softly on the door. Specific. Pattern.

Three sets of locks came undone, door opened to a dim room that we quickly piled into.

Someone, humanoid stature, sat down with their rifle against the wall and resumed what I think was wood whittling. A solitary candle lit the interior, flickering softly. Strange room. Then I saw the bars. Heavy blocks.

No, a cell.

“Well, well, well, haven’t seen you in a while.”

Save for the bench she sat cross-legged against and a chamber pot in the corner, a certain Terran woman flashed a toothy smirk. The one who said she was from Mars.

///

“Tanya, wasn’t it?” I said, coming up close to the iron bars with arms crossed.

“Oh, good, you remembered. It’s nice to be remembered and between, y’know,” the Terran agent began before snarling, “being pigeonholed into this tiny fucking box and expected to live off of chalky MREs and sips of water!”

“Your need for hunger and thirst is sated. You haven’t met the fate of your betters. I would advise you to keep those in mind,” Lyissa reminded coolly.

“Sated for however goddamn long I’ve been here, in the dark, out of the know, watched over by god knows who, that can snuff that candle WHENEVER THEY WANT!” she screamed back, lip quivering. “No windows, no light, no windy breeze, not even a sound from the outside!”

With shaky, halting movements, Tanya attempted to shoot up to her feet and nearly failed. Falling forward, hands grasping the bars, she banged her forehead trying to get close enough to get me within arm’s reach. Stretching her arm toward me, just out of reach as I slid an inch to the side.

Not, not get close to me.

There was a fire in her eyes. The tiniest ember. Not a burning desire to kill or be killed, not that survival instinct when we’d first encountered her. The iron to resist and scheme even after I knocked out most of her teeth, put them back together.

She was trying to get to the candle, all her willpower channeled in front of us into this one act of futility.

“Please, god, just let me see outside for a second. Only a second. It could even be night, I don’t give a damn, put me on th-, the fucking roof and sic your wolves on me under the moon,” she continued, straining even further. Looked at me. Begging. Pleading. “Just let me see something brighter. Please. Please…”

Tanya’s legs gave out, buckling slowly. Her fingers wrapped around the bars, metal squealing silently as she tried to slow her descent.

“I thought I told you to stop doing that,” Lyissa sharply hissed at whoever the guard was.

“It isn’t me! Clk-clk,” a male voice responded with a curious noise. I, being the second Human, couldn’t make out all the features in the room. “Lifegiver’s grace, I almost always have to bring a new stick and matches on my shift because the rest are gone!”

“Why is she still here?”

Tanya was curled up in a ball, dead to the world. The others turned to me.

“I would have thought that Mae would have gotten rid of her after getting what we needed,” I stated. What used to be anger became pity for this pale shade of a Terran.

“She almost did. Perez advised against it. Strongly,” Cordo replied, observing the creature within its cage that had shifted to stare at the light. “He invoked some kind of Otherworlder spell that compelled her to not drop Tanya from the top floor and see what happened. For science. Once he had come to terms with what happened that night, he cited ‘cruel and unusual punishment’ for his reasoning. Jee-knee-vah or something close to it. They are still avoiding each other since that argument.”

“Whatever threshold he needed to be in almost complete control must have been achieved that night,” Lyissa interjected with a flutter in her voice. “You-, you didn’t see how he reacted once the Lycanthropy wore off. The condition he was in. Which, ahem, might suggest the important of Levels has greater weight somehow. Maybe the upper limit is reduced.”

“The SysTablets aren’t helping?” I queried, kneeling down next to Tanya as she began mouthing the same few words over and over. “You said they worked for whoever held them. And they have the WIKI.”

“Yes and no,” she sighed, rubbing stress from her temples before quietly clapping her hands together. “We get information on what we have, what’s in front of us, and what the System has designated finished components. Nothing about future Levels, not even a maximum, and no comprehensive list of where to find raw materials or craft.”

“The only Prestige for Support are Fabricator, Arcanotechnician, and Surgeon. Professions if I ever would have labeled them.” I supplied, patting my broken Lamia thoughtfully. “Many of my Skills do not strictly relate to fighting or inflicting damage. My Mana can be channeled any number of ways but the only offensive one is empowering an Element cartridge.”

“As far as we can tell, the other three Classes have the inverse,” Cordo grumbled, leaning against the door. “There are no other Classes either, amongst the dozens of beings we have encountered. No means of choosing a trade like pre-Recursion. It is almost as if the only reliable profession is that of dealing death.”

“Has no one hit Level 10 yet?” I asked, looking between all assembled. “Tanya, what about you?”

A pin could drop.

“Wh-what?”

“Your ears still work. The Terrans had the first move,” I continued softly, shifting to a more comfortable stance and kneeling next to her. “You had so many guns at your disposal, machineguns on wagons, basic training to use them. If any stood to gain experience the fastest, it would have been you.”

“What do Levels have anything to do with it?” she replied, shaking her head. “They don’t do anything except make a number get bigger! They kept promising we’d get a word, maybe two, if we kept shooting!”

“But you were a-, you have a Class, right?” I pressed, leaning in closer. “I could have sworn that I used Diagnose on you.”

Her confusion mirrored mine, no shade of recognition.

“Give me your hand,” I asked firmly. “You’ll get it back, don’t worry.”

“Why the fuck would you up and casually say something like that?” Tanya marveled, hesitant, sitting up. Massaging her wrist, I had turned into a ravenous cat with the offhand comment. The ones with stripes and crushing jaws. That was a house cat, wasn’t it? Maybe Sonnie was right after all…

“I apologize. It’s a, well, running joke between me and my partner,” I sighed, shaking my head. “Usually. She’s Dragonkin but can look like you, keeps a lot of her Attributes in that form.”

“Not that I believe it will assuage your fears, it’s true,” Cordo chimed in with a brief chuckle. “This Human knows no fear from the number of times he has purposefully yanked that Draco’s figurative tail, tempting the natural fate of a small animal that annoys such a predator. For our amusement, of course.”

“Wow. And she puts up with it?” Tanya shook her head, glimmer in her eye.

“Three years,” I nodded, waggling all ten fingers for her to see. My left fingers stiffened, taking ever so slightly longer to clench.

Extending my right hand, I patiently waited.

Holding her breath, the Terran woman timidly met my grasp with her own.

+Diagnose activated. Target is Tanya Jikaren, level 11 Human. Status: Shellshock. Affiliation: Terran Arcanocracy, Recruit Conscript. Warning! Target not in proximity of an Overseer.+

I fell backwards, veins turning to ice, eyes wide. Bile started to rise.

How?