The area before Mike was a subway platform, however where the tunnel would usually allow entry and exit of the trains, the openings were bricked up only a short distance into the tunnels.
The platform itself was full of people… but the people were… odd. They were dressed weirdly, and many were openly carrying ancient looking weapons. They definitely weren't commuters.
What it looked like was some sort of busy, makeshift marketplace. There were shops and stalls with cloth covers between the supporting pylons of the subway ceiling. There was the bang and clang of metal striking metal from a real life old-school metal forge, and there was the smell of charcoal cooked food wafting around. There was even an actual tavern that had been properly built on the center of the platform, back against the wall, that was full to the brim with rowdy customers drinking and laughing.
But all of that paled in significance right now, because as strange as it all was, it was nothing compared to what cut through the middle of the subway tunnel, right where the tracks should have been.
Whoever had named it the rift had picked the perfect word. It was like a tear. Like reality had been ripped open and it's guts were spilling out. Or maybe like someone had peeled back the fabric of the station around the edges. The edges shimmered and flashed with prismatic color. Mike felt like he did when he looked deep into space on a clear night, a sense of vastness. Or maybe this is what looking into a black hole felt like. Or maybe it was more like he was in a black hole, looking out. In fact, he had no idea what he was looking at. But, whatever it was, rift felt right.
It was surrounded by transparent perspex barriers, and they were topped with what looked like sensors and cameras and… other complicated looking things. There were also warning lights that currently glowed a comfortingly stable green. And razor wire. There was a gate that led into the enclosure, and a set of sturdy steel checkerplate stairs that led down, disappearing into the rift.
There was a tall tower next to the perimeter fence, and another hooded guardian stood there with his arms crossed, watching.
“Hey, move it, buddy, you're blocking the door.” it was a middle aged man in a business suit carrying a briefcase and an oversized warhammer over his shoulder. Mike stepped forwards onto the platform and watched as the man headed for the men's room, weaving through the crowd as if the whole thing was a perfectly normal subway platform.
Mike needed advice. Goblin was in trouble. This place was well out of his league.
It was time to write a letter to Grandma.
He pulled the letter out of his inventory. It was blank now. He wondered how he could use it, and then figured if it was like all the other magical tricks so far, he just had to think. He did.
Dear Grandma,
Thanks for your letter. Wow. So you're alive. I mean that's great. I went to your funeral so it's also weird. Actually all this is weird. Don't worry I'm ok with it. Actually it's awesome tbh. But, um, I'm a bit stuck.
Me and Goblin kind of stole a car and got into a high speed car chase with some orcs, and Goblin was in the engine and then I pulled it out and kind of blew the car up and Goblin isn't very… well. I got a warning that its state is less than 1:15.
I got into the rift in the disused subway on 42nd. Just.
What do I do!?
Love Mike.
He looked at his writing. It faded from the paper. New writing started to appear.
Dear Mike,
It's so lovely to hear from you. Stealing cars? High speed chases? Explosions? Well doesn't that sound nice!
Goblin will be ok, but it’ll be fragile so just don't drop it or anything. If you're in the subway rift look for a blacksmith named Jimmy. He'll fix Goblin up, good as new. If you don't have gold to pay him, find something to trade. He's a hoarder, a sucker for gear, and an accomplished black market dealer.
Lovely to hear from you. Look forward to you dropping by sometime soon.
Much love, Grandma.
Mike felt better just having read the letter. On reflection he probably should have worked out for himself that a blacksmith was going to be what Goblin needed, but it was nice to know he wasn’t alone in this all the same.
He walked further onto the platform.
“Hey, man wanna buy some poshunssssss?” he was accosted by a guy who looked like he might have an addiction problem, who had a simple stall stocked with little plastic ziplock baggies of white pills.
“No thanks.” said Mike, pushing past him. He needed a blacksmith. He followed the bang and clang of metal striking metal. He knew he'd found the right forge, because there was a sign over the entry that said,
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
JIM'S FORGE
“Ah, hello? Jim?” Mike asked. The bangs and clangs continued.
“Ah… JIM?” he yelled. Nothing.
“JIM, YOU IN THERE?!” he screamed it at the top of his lungs just as the banging and clanging stopped. A stooped but muscular greying man hobbled out of the forge.
“No need to yell, son! Whaddya think, I'm deaf?!” He laughed like that was incredibly funny, “So what can I do ya for?”
“Hi Jim,” said Mike, “Ummm, my… sword got damaged, and I wanted to know if you could… fix it?”
“Do I look like the kinda guy who can fix a sword, son?”
Mike looked at him, confused and unsure.
The old man laughed again, “I'm a blacksmith, son, 'course I am! Here, hand it over, give us a look.”
Mike placed Goblin's hilt gently on the bench between them.
The blacksmith looked at what was left, frowned, and then looked at Mike.
“Youch. Ye don't need a blacksmith, son. There's an armorer, three stalls up, ask for Tom, he'll sort ye out with a new blade.” the old man turned to go back to his forge, shaking his head.
“Jim? This is Goblin. My Grandpa left him to me in his will. He just died. We're soulbound now.” said Mike.
The blacksmith stopped. He turned his head, not his body. He spoke quietly.
“Goblin ye say? Yer Jed's boy?”
Jedediah was Mike's grandpa's name. He nodded.
“How can this be… Goblin?” he had turned back around now. He picked up Goblin's rusty hilt, the snapped off shard of the blade held gingerly, even reverently, in his rough hands. He almost whispered, “What became of him?”
“Grandpa lost his mind after a battle with some Hobgoblin King.” said Mike, “He was in a dementia home for years. Grandma has been a prisoner in the King's dungeon all that time. Grandpa died a few days ago. He left me this sword.”
The blacksmith looked at Mike in shock. And sadness. “I'm sorry, son. Yer Grandparents were legendary ’round here in their day. I didn't hear what happened to ‘em. This sword was once a force of nature. Few could stand against it… tell me, what was it's title when you got it?”
“Ahhh…” Mike thought back, “Oh, right, yeah, it was a rusty thruster.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Jim, sadly, “What a way to go.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mike. The old blacksmith thought for a moment.
“Imagine ye were an elite athlete, and ye woke up one day in diapers in a daycare centre… but with all yer memories intact... ye'd know how to do everything but ye wouldn't have the physical capacity to do any of it. That's what I mean.” he said, with a sigh.
“But you can fix it, right?” asked Mike.
“Yeah, I can fix it,” said Jim with a sigh, “I'm a smith. If I couldn't fix a rusty thruster, I wouldn't be in business. But there ain't nuthin cheap about this kinda work. It'll cost ya. Fifty gold. And that's at cost. ‘Cause yer Jed’s grandkid.”
“I don't have any gold,” said Mike, “but what about this?” He pulled the orc bolter out of his inventory.
Jim's eyes goggled, and then darted around the platform quickly, including a dedicated glance up at the hooded watcher on the tower over the rift.
“Put that away!” he whispered urgently, “Ye can't bring that sorta gear in here and wave it ‘round like that. You'll get us both banned!”
Mike put it away. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “I'm new here, I don't really get the rules yet.”
Jim stood up straighter and tried to act casual, speaking louder than normal speaking voice, “So… ah, about that… transaction we discussed… I think the payment of… the amount discussed… should be… acceptable. Follow me.” he finished with a whisper.
He picked up Goblin and walked back into his forge. Mike followed. There was a partition at the back, behind a movable screen. They both walked behind it.
“Okay son, hand over the bow. Do ye have any idea how hard these things are to get yer hands on? They’s worth a fortune. Ya got any ammo?” Jim whispered.
“Sure.” answered Mike, handing over the bolter and the bolt cartridge too.
“A full cartridge!” Jim exclaimed, the whisper gone now, “I can make molds from this and crank out me own bolts! Son, yer me new favorite Diver! For this lot, not only will I fix up Goblin, I'll craft it up a class for ya! Whaddaya want him to be? Gladius? Cutlass? Wakizashi?” The old smith sounded excited now.
“Umm…” said Mike, “I mean, I don't really know the difference to be honest. How do I choose?”
“Hmmm…” said Jim thoughtfully, “Well, what sort of a fighter do ye want to be? A stabber? A chopper? Slasher?”
“I think I'd like to be…” Mike considered. He thought about what he knew about history. He thought about his Grandpa. “I think I'd like to be like… like a medieval knight.”
“Ah, yes, ‘course, following in Jed's footsteps indeed! Honorable. Brave. Powerful. Well, in that case we'll need to craft ye an arming sword. Well balanced. Versatile. Not a hacker, mind you, an arming sword will take some extra work on yer part. Excalibur was an arming sword ya know… admittedly with a few very well endowed slots…” He looked Mike up and down and nodded, “A good choice, Mikey. Stand back, son.”
The old smith carefully carried Goblin's hilt to his workspace. He pumped a large foot-bellows that blew a powerful gust up under his forge flame. It flared up, glowing a deep, hot red. The heat was suddenly intense. Mike did stand back then.
Jim's face glowed with heat, and sweat, and excitement.
He went to work, the bangs and clangs echoing around the subway platform against a backdrop of raucous laughter from the tavern, the buzz of the markets and the hawking of the sellers.
[G/TITLE RUSTY THRUSTER UPGRADED TO ARMING SWORD
[G/+10GRADE
[G/STATE 15:15
[GOBLIN | LEVEL 2 | STATE 15:15
[SOULBOUND SWORD | ARMING SWORD
[FORCE 2:4 | GRADE 12:4
[WORMWOOD SPRIG | SPORTS CAR TIRE SHRED | SLOT | SLOT | SLOT
[MIKE | LEVEL 2 | HEALTH 27:150 | ENERGY 12:30
[SOULBOUND SWORD WIELDER | INHERITOR
[READ 9:10 | FIGHT 9:10 | POWER 11:10 | SPEED 10:10
[FEAR 2 | SPEED DEMON 1 | SLOT | SLOT | SLOT
[INVENTORY[-]
[G: Hey Mike. Phew, that was close. Thanks for having my back.
“GOBLIN!” Mike cried out.