Mike was dead tired, and the whole thing had been a waste of time anyway.
Like everything in my life, he thought, depressed.
He looked down at the short, rusty sword that he had, mostly, stashed in his backpack.
What a stupid inheritance.
Didn't people usually get cars and houses and shit?
Looks like Grandpa's life amounted to pretty much nothing either.
Mike leaned his head against the cold bus window. Rain streaked down the glass in rivulets.
It had rained all the way there. It had rained on him as he attended the brief and perfunctory funeral, and it had rained on him as he ran into the executor’s office. He'd left a puddle on the floor in front of the executor's desk even though they'd all only been there less than five minutes.
“You should have brought an umbrella. Well done, you even managed to half-ass Grandpa’s funeral.” his sister, Lexi, had said spitefully, with tears. As if she cared he was gone. She just liked the drama. So he'd told her where she could shove her umbrella, Mom had told them to grow up, and Dad had lectured them about their lack of respect given the circumstances.
And now it had rained all the way back home again. And his phone battery had gone flat.
Mike never really got to know Grandpa very well. He remembered him being an endless source of outrageous fun and impossible stories from his childhood, but the dementia had taken over soon after Grandma disappeared, and they'd put him in a home. No one ever found out what happened to Grandma. Not even the cops. Mike often wondered whether Grandpa knew what happened to her. If so, he was never able to tell anybody. Eventually they'd just had a funeral for her. Grandpa had just sat still through it, a single tear running down his cheek, and a single bead of saliva running down his chin. And now they'd had one for him too.
Mike used to visit him in the mental home every month. He'd been doing it for years now. He didn't know why he kept the visits up, Grandpa said some weird shit and Mike couldn't ever tell if he even knew he was there or not. But Mike thought if he himself was ever in a place like that, he'd want a visitor. He was pretty sure none of the others ever went. Not even Dad, and it was his own Dad.
Mom and Dad had inherited some cash. Not much, apparently most of it had gone to the home over the years Grandpa had been there.
Lexi got Grandma's locket, which Grandpa had always clung on to.
Mike got a sword.
“Did you say a sword?!” He'd had to ask the executor to repeat himself when he'd read it out.
Sword was a stretch. Mike didn't really know when a blade stopped being a knife and started being something else, but wherever that line was, this sword was only about a hair past it.
The executor had also offered some advice regarding the legality of actually carrying it anywhere; which was that it wasn't at all legal.
Mike had just shrugged and stuffed it in his backpack. What else was he supposed to do with it? Anyway he was pretty sure it would be blunt enough to struggle cutting paper, let alone hurting anyone.
He got drenched again between the bus stop and his apartment. It was late, and it was Sunday. He had an early start in the morning, so he chucked his backpack with the sword poking out into the corner of his room, took an unreasonably long, hot shower and then fell into bed.
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I want to be wielded. I want the air to sing to me as I cut it. I want to bite through steel and leather and flesh. I want to draw blood. Blood. BLOOD.
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Mike sat up with a start. He was sweating profusely. He checked his phone. 2am. He'd only been asleep a short time. Was it a nightmare? He couldn't remember. He lay back down. He had to be up in four hours. But he was wide awake.
Something in the corner of his room drew his attention.
The sword.
That's what his dream had been about… something to do with that stupid sword! He had to admit it had been a big day, and a weird one. That was probably it. His brain was just defragging.
He couldn't sleep though. He got up. He picked the sword up. He hadn't even taken it out of its sheath yet.
He pulled it slowly with a rasp. It wasn't a smooth, sliding rasp, it was a rusty, grating, stuck rasp. Mike couldn't even get it all the way out. It didn't matter, it was far enough that he could tell it was just scrap iron. He had to admit he was disappointed. He'd heard of life changing inheritances, windfalls that came out of the blue and set people up for good.
This didn't feel like that. This felt like a kick in the guts. He would have preferred to get nothing.
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Blood.
The word lingered uncomfortably in his mind.
That was odd, he thought, is that what I dreamt?
Blood.
It seemed like the word was surrounding him, like a whisper on the edge of hearing, from the dim corners of his room.
“I bet you couldn't cut anything if you tried.” he said out loud to the blade scornfully.
To illustrate his point he flicked his finger along the dull rusty edge.
It was deceptively sharp, and slit his finger open easily.
“Ow!” said Mike angrily.
BLOOD!
That wasn’t just a whisper, someone had actually said the word! In a… voiceless voice! He threw the sword on the floor, jumped back into his bed, and flicked his lamp on.
“Creepy fucker!” he yelled at it.
BLOOD!
It was even more audible this time, and red smoke-like tendrils shot out of the blade and wrapped themselves around his arm before he knew what was happening.
“HEY! What the–”
A searing pain cut through the center of his being. It felt like he was being sliced in half. He even looked down at his chest and stomach expecting to see gore. But there was nothing, and then the pain was gone.
The same instant his head started pounding and his vision swam. He grabbed his temples with both hands and clenched his eyes shut, gasping from the pain, falling back into his pillow. It was so intense. He was going to black out, he was sure… and then it stopped too. His vision started to clear.
But something remained, hovering in his mind.
A word.
[SOULBINDING…
He blinked and shook his head trying to clear his vision. It was like the ghost spots from staring at a too-bright light and then looking away. But it wasn't just a spot in his vision, it was a word.
How could it be a word?
And then it changed.
[SOULBOUND.
How could words burnt into his retina… change?
But now more words started scrolling down his vision. He clamped his eyes shut in panic.
They're still there! I'm losing my shit! What is happening to me?!
Still they scrolled
[GOBLIN | LEVEL 0 | STATE 2:10
[SOULBOUND SWORD | RUSTY THRUSTER
[FORCE 0:1 | GRADE 0:1
[SLOT | SLOT | SLOT | SLOT | SLOT
[MIKE | LEVEL 0 | HEALTH 98:100 | ENERGY 13:15
[SOULBOUND SWORD WIELDER | FIRST INHERITOR
[READ 0:1 | FIGHT 0:1 | POWER 1:1 | SPEED 2:1
[SLOT | SLOT | SLOT | SLOT | SLOT
[INVENTORY[-]
Mike sat bolt upright in bed, arms outstretched, eyes wide.
He was having a panic attack. Or hallucinating from an emotionally draining day. Or… dreaming? He slapped himself on the face.
“Ouch!” he exclaimed. So not dreaming.
[HEALTH 97:100
Ok. Still might be dreaming.
“Ummm… hello?” he asked.
[G: I am the sword.
“Holy shit! Who said that!?” Mike was hyperventilating now, though he could be sure whether he had just heard anything at all, or whether he had... thought it?
[G: I am the sword.
“Hey, is this a joke?” This was the sort of thing Mike’s best friend Joel would find funny.
“Joel? Is that you, being weird?”
[G: I am not Joel. I am Goblin. You must wield me. We must slash and cleave.
“Ok, come on Joel,” Mike laughed nervously, looking around his room, “Or whoever you are… you can stop now. Great hoax. You had me. Now I really need to get to sleep…”
[G: No sleep. We must progress. We must hack and chop.
Mike got out of his bed, picked up the sword between a finger and thumb, walked to the window, slid it open and threw it down into the alley.
It was still raining. The sword clattered into some bins. A cat meowled and hissed in surprise. Mike slammed the window shut, got back into bed, flicked off his lamp and pulled his sheets up over his head.
[G: Come. Now. Let me drink the blood of this kitten and we will progress.
“GO AWAY!” Mike shouted.
[G: We are SOULBOUND.
He ignored it. He was going mental. Is this how Grandpa felt? Did this sword tip him over the edge?
[G: Mike. Come. Come now.
He wasn't going to be able to sleep. Not like this.
“Damn you!” he said, flicking his lamp back on and getting out of bed. He was angry. He was tired, and he was talking to a… a… a soulbound sword using some kind of messaging system inside his brain.
“None of those things are real, damn you!” he yelled again.
[G: Come Mike. Wield me.
He got out of bed and pulled on some pants and a hoodie, grabbed his keys and phone and stomped down the stairwell to the alley.
[G: I am here. Behind the dumpster.
“I know where you are!” Mike said out loud, angrily.
And he did. That in itself was weird. He didn't even need to look around for the sword, even though it was dark and wet and there was trash everywhere in the alley. He knew exactly where it was. He just felt it, like reaching for a familiar door handle.
He picked it up. It was still stuck halfway out of it's sheath. He yanked it hard, and this time it came free.
“WHY CAN I TALK TO YOU!?” he yelled at it,
“WHY AM I TALKING TO A SWORD!?” he yelled at himself.
There was a meow and a hiss, he'd startled the small, soggy, skinny, mangy looking alley cat. It arched it's back in warning. It clearly wanted him out of it's alley.
“Yeah?” he turned on the cat, verbally venting his frustration at it, “Want a bit of rusty sword do you?”
[CAT JUVENILE | LEVEL 0 | CLAWS 1 | TEETH 1
[G: Yes. Yes Mike. We will slash the kitten. Together. Do it. Do it.
Mike took a step towards the cat. It hissed again and spat at him. To its credit, it wasn't backing down.
It probably senses my weakness, he thought.
[G: Do not be weak Mike. Do it. Do it now.
He raised the sword…