Last time Chase was this close to a monster, he ended up with two holes through his body. This one was shaping up to be not so different.

The Berekhin pounced from its cage, crashing to the dusty ground and flopping on its side. A piece of Nebula’s crystal bound its legs together. The chunky amethyst handcuffs (legcuffs?) made it hard for the monster to move, but with sufficient rage and the usual monstrous exuberance, it got to its feet and prepared to attack. The security team hadn’t come in yet — they would arrive after the raid team killed the boss and exited the Dungeon. Chase and the other Haulers were on their own, unless a member of the raid team heard the kerfuffle and came running.

“Run, Chase! It’s a frickin Berekhin!” Marla said.

“Yeah, I’m trying!” he yelled back. “I— Get a Hunter or something!”

Marla shouted something to Pete, who was in the thin hallway ahead of Chase. The Hunters were through there — perhaps a kilometre away, maybe more, but still there.

Pete sprinted deeper into the Dungeon. The Berekhin’s head snapped towards him. It crouched, tensing the muscles in its legs like two springs. When it launched, a sound like the Luger being fired echoed around the cavern, and the monster’s jaws wrapped around Pete’s midriff and crunched him in half.

Marla screamed. Chase gagged. The Berekhin turned back to them with Pete’s blood dripping down its chin and his ragged spinal column dangling from its jaws. Chase felt his stomach drop and his legs turn to soup. He thought he might piss himself. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he’d already done so. His entire world shrank down to one simple concept.

Run.

The pounding of his feet on the hard ground was nearly as loud as his heart. He grabbed Marla by the arm and shouted at the groups of newbies in front of them, all crowded around one Retriever. What he said wasn’t words. It was fear and urgency in the form of a yell. They got the message.

Behind them, the Berekhin had broken free of its restrictions completely. It made a burping noise then coughed up some part of Pete that Chase didn’t want to identify. He didn’t have time. He put his head down and pumped his free arm faster, eking out a bit more speed. Marla was struggling, but she kept her balance despite Chase dragging her along.

“I think…you’ll have…to leave me,” she gasped.

“NO!” Chase yelled. He didn’t mean to shout, but he was puffing so hard. “I won’t. Shut up…and run.”

Marla didn’t reply, which he supposed was her taking his advice. They passed a group of Haulers that weren’t quite as quick. A terrible thought crossed Chase’s mind.

They’ll go next. Thank God it’s not us.

He hated himself for thinking it. He hated himself even more when he heard the wha-bang of the Berekhin’s muscles as it shot towards fresh prey. There were screams, then pleading, then he couldn’t take it anymore. A Retriever bin sat only twenty metres away. He let go of Marla’s arm when they came level with it, slowing down so she didn’t trip.

“What the—” she started.

“Keep going!” he demanded. “I’ve got a plan, just keep going!”

She slowed to a jog, watching him over her shoulder. When Chase leaned into the bin and pulled out a spiky red Dolothin leg longer than his entire body, she shook her head and gave up on him.

Alright, Chase. It’s just a big, dangerous lizard. You got this.

The Berekhin had already made short work of the newbies. Chase blew out a shuddering breath through clenched teeth, trying to ignore the grotesque mess of human flesh it left behind. Part of his ‘plan’, if it could be called that, was to take advantage of the distraction and clock it one in the head.

That was no longer an option. Instead, he was the next target. The next meal.

With desperation masked as courage, he inched toward the Berekhin, gripping the Dolothin leg like a baseball bat. He didn’t stop to think if it would even do damage. It wasn’t human-made, sure, but was it magical? There was no time to deliberate. The monster cocked its head sideways, then started winding up for the third time.

Now.

“Fuuuuuuuck youuuuuuu!” he yelled, thinking they were terrible final words. The Berekhin shot towards him. He leapt to the side, swinging the leg in an awkward roundhouse. Something crunched as it made contact. Another thing popped. Chase rolled along the ground for metres, his knee burning with pain and hot blood coursing down his chest from reopened wounds.

He thought he’d done it. Maybe a lucky shot, maybe a mountain of strength he didn’t know he had, brought on by fear and necessity. Maybe he’d finally gotten a Talent?

Then the monster’s snapping jaws hung over his face, and a clawed foot stamped on his chest, winding him and driving him into the dirt. His backpack was by his side, one arm strap torn off in the rolling. All the bottles were broken. Warm monster drool, or blood, maybe both, trickled from its maw and dripped on his face. It lowered its head, and those golden eyes pierced his for the second and last time.

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Now he definitely pissed himself. Unashamedly, too, because it wouldn’t matter to him if his pants were pissy when he was dead and gone. The warmth was somewhat comforting.

The Berekhin’s jaws came down, wide enough to encapsulate his skull in one mighty mouthful. He noticed that it had a series of teeth missing, and a gash along its chin where he’d thumped it with the Dolothin leg. It meant he’d hurt it. That was good.

Then the monster’s hot breath, smelling strongly of mojitos and mimosas, infiltrated Chase’s nostrils and crept down his throat. He brought his hands up instinctively, pushing against the Berekhin’s throat and chest, but he may as well have shoved a brick wall.

He was halfway through his final thought when a blue lance split through the Berekhin’s skull. It was catapulted aside, a tooth nicking Chase’s eyebrow before it flew ten metres and hit the ground in a pulp. He sat upright in an instant, his eyes wide and searching. To his left, in the direction of the raid team, was a Hunter. An A-Rank Hunter, crouching down and puffing after releasing such a devastating shot from such a distance.

Reynold. No fucking way.

Chase’s saviour rose to his feet and closed the distance between them. Chase just lay back down. He could see the look on Reynold’s face, contorted as though he was disappointed to see who he had saved. The Hunter pulled him to his feet and glanced down at the dark patch on Chase’s overalls around his crotch. He shook his head, then turned and knelt by the remains of the newbie Haulers. Raid team members filtered through, some gasping in shock, others stony-faced as though this was to be expected from time to time.

Now that he was safe, only one thought bounced around Chase’s head.

I should make bullets out of monster parts.

**************

The Raid was called off. All Majesty employees were to report to Jenny to have their names ticked off her list. Chase peeked over her shoulder once she finished. There were thirty-two green ticks.

Four red crosses.

He changed into his spare overalls, which were decorated with chips of glass and Talent residue. The only usable stuff was Nebula’s gems, which gathered at the bottom of his bag like a nest of bird eggs. In a daze, Jenny transferred him 50 Credits from the Majesty account to buy fresh undergarments. He popped into a store near the Gate, got changed in the change rooms, then asked for a plastic bag for his other clothes. The cashier gave him a funny look and a smirk, but Chase didn’t give two shits. Nearly dying will do that.

When he got back to the Raid, there were four trim-looking GRA folk wearing black suits and heavy sunglasses. They were questioning anyone they could get their hands on, including Jenny, Marla, and the American lady supervising the Haulers. Especially her. Chase didn’t want to get involved, so he just left. He’d read all about it later, when the story got out to the press.

With the rest of the day on his hands, he wasn’t exactly sure what to do. He went to a café, told the waiter he was still looking over the menu, then poured himself a glass of water and sat. He didn’t have 25 Credits to spend on a plate of syrup-drenched waffles, he just wanted somewhere to sit. Where there were other people. People who didn’t know what just happened in a Gate not so far from where they sat, eating fries and gossiping about who cheated on who.

Once his head was on right, Chase boarded a train to Three City, where he dropped home to dump the broken bottles in the recycling bin and retrieve his pack of bullets plus his stash of Talent residue. A yellow sticky note flapped on the wall, disturbed by the breeze coming through the window. He plucked it off and checked his writing.

3/78 Prognost St, Randalburg, Five Town.

Marla’s younger brother’s place. Or her place. He didn’t get that clarification.

As far as the Five Towns went, Five Town itself was the nicest, and Randalburg was a decent suburb within it. It gave Four City vibes, except that the rental prices were a little nicer on the wallet, and the fuel station employees locked themselves in their clear polycarbonate cages once it got dark. Those things could withstand just about any magic that an aspiring criminal might throw at them, unless they were A-Rank or above. But A-Ranks didn’t need to rob gas stations to get by. Their financial positions were mostly air-tight.

Chase found the house and walked up the flat grey driveway. It was a battleaxe upon a battleaxe, meaning he had to slip past two family’s front doors before knocking on the wire screen of the target house. It made a pish-pash noise as it rattled, then footsteps approached. A man with thick eyebrows and nose hair opened the door. It was hard to tell how old he was — middle-aged was too generous a term, but elderly didn’t quite cut it either.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Hi, yes, I think you can,” Chase answered. “I work with Marla; she might’ve told you I’d drop by? I’m here to see her younger brother. Your son, I suppose.”

“You’re here for Herb?” An incredulous look crossed his face. His eyebrows joined in the middle like a long blonde caterpillar. “Are you sure?”

Chase laughed. “Quite sure. I’ve been warned about the basement, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I see. Well, come on in. I’ll put the kettle on and pour some tea for when you’re looking for something more pleasant on the nose.”

“Thank you, sir, that sounds lovely.” Chase walked inside, noting how orderly the house was. Not a speck of dust, as though Marla and her father were compensating for the alleged disrepute of the lab downstairs. Marla’s father, who introduced himself as Aroon, guided him to a descending staircase. He placed his hand on the bannister, then took it off and let it hang by his side.

“Here she is. Knock a few times, but you’ll prob’ly just have to barge in. And close the door quicksmart — his music is so loud it makes the plates shake in the cabinet.”

Chase nodded and went down the stairs, feeling like he was exploring a haunted mausoleum. He rapped on the heavy door as ordered, then went in. Hard dubstep bashed against his ears, a smorgasbord of bass drums, timpanis, electric keyboard and something like a horse farting.

Ah-ha, he thought. Quaint.

The odour wasn’t too bad, though he wouldn’t buy it as a candle. He’d seen some nasty shit as a Hauler, smelled just as much, and all in all he felt like Marla had overhyped the place. A wide bench dominated most of the room, crowded by past and current experiments, sheets of newspaper, and spilled chemicals. The perimeter was lined with shelving, most of it scratched or battered in some way, like they’d been left out on nature strips for rubbish collection. At the far side of the room, a young man sat stooped over a small bench. His jet-black hair poked out like a porcupine’s quills, and his lab coat had a large print of a bubbling beaker on the back.

He turned to see the newcomer, switching off the music when he didn’t recognise Chase. He was missing an eye.

“If you’re here to kill me, do it quick. If you’re not, let’s talk science!”