Daughton looked over the latest report of refugees. Thirteen yesterday, less than half compared to the day before. He sighed.
He guessed it was to be expected. The reports of the status from the nearby larger city of Clayton painted a picture of anything but a safe place to live. He was just lucky that the city his platoon was ordered to protect, Bothell, was in less dire straits.
Daughton examined the list or refugees more closely. It looks like another one of the refugees was coming in with a skill. He’d have to keep an eye out for them, make sure none of the citizens gave them a hard time.
At first, some of the natives of Bothell demanded defensive measures in place against the ‘Changed.’ At the tamer end of things, they were requesting quarantine. The more panicked people were demanding extermination, citing the Changed as soon-to-be monsters.
Luckily, his CO shut that down right quick. With over half of the Changed being in their limited combat force and one in Daughton’s own platoon, they couldn’t afford to waste time and manpower on a divisive witch hunt. And based on what Daughton saw Tracy do the other day with his new ‘skill,’ coupled with the steadily dwindling supply of ammo with no sign of resupply, they may need all of the Changed they could get.
Daughton scanned the report for a name or at least a description of the skill, but was disappointed to find no other information on the Changed refugee -- only the names of the two people they were traveling with. He glanced at the bottom of the page to see who made the report, only to groan. Once again, he’d have to chew out Connoly. He’d pay a visit to him in an hour, and get the information on the new Changed while he was at it.
- Sgt. Daughton, Inclusion +6 days 19:35 hours
After another few minutes of resting, I force myself to my feet to set up our camp. But after standing and looking around us, I realize that without most of our supplies our camp is about as ‘set up’ as it will ever be. But before collapsing back to the ground, I grab the water bottle and carefully make my way to the edge of the river, keeping a sharp eye out for any tentacles.
My parents always told me to never drink water directly from a stream or outdoor water source if I wanted to avoid a week on the toilet, but unfortunately I don’t know if we have another alternative. My throat is still extremely parched, and I drink almost all of the refilled bottle before refilling it again and making my way back to my friends.
Part of me is tempted to ask Sam to watch all night for us, but when I glance over to where it is sprawled out on the ground I can’t bring myself to make the request. Instead, I turn to Pallas.
“You good for the first watch, Pallas?” He just nods distractedly, staring off into the distance. “Wake me up in a few hours, I’ll take the next one.”
Pallas once again nods, and I drop to the ground curling into a ball. I expect to have trouble falling asleep, and for my sleep to be haunted by terrifying nightmares of flames, spirits, and tentacles. But mercifully, when I eventually drift off it is to a deep and dreamless sleep.
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What feels like seconds later, I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I start awake.
Pallas is bent over me, and when I sit up he calmly stands straight. My mouth feels as if it’s stuffed with cotton balls, my throat as if I swallowed a box of knives. Pallas hands me my now half-empty water bottle, and I gratefully gulp down a few mouthfuls before slowing, taking smaller sips as I carefully work myself to my feet.
My muscles cry out in pain and my skin feels painfully stretched over those same muscles. I don’t know how late it is, but a dim orange light shines from the horizon on the other side of the river, illuminating the road and surrounding trees.
Pallas stands next to me as I shake out my legs, wincing as I put pressure on the wrong section of my feet. For a moment it looks as if he’s about to say something, but instead the silence stretches.
“Get some rest,” I finally say.
“Goodnight,” he replies in his deep voice. And in minutes I can hear his even breathing joining the scratching snores of my other companions.
I spend the first few minutes of my watch carefully cleaning the bottoms of my feet. The foot that was covered by my one remaining sock seems okay, but my other sole is crisscrossed with scratches and half-embedded pebbles under the skin and blood. I wince as I gently pour water over the tender skin, washing away the dirt, soot, and blood. Bright red shines in the orange light as fresh blood flows from the wounds, but I don’t mind; hopefully it will wash away any contaminants that might be trapped.
Luckily, I still have some antibacterial goop in my backpack, and I slather a copious amount onto my foot. Belatedly, I realize I don’t actually have anything clean to cover my newly washed wounds. I hop on one foot to the river and spend a few minutes washing out the sock, wringing it dry before wrapping it around my wounded foot.
I return to the camp and set up for my watch, finally confident that I’ll be able to move faster than a turtle if something actually attacks us. I consider using my skill to ‘fix’ my sole, but decide to hold off for now to give it time to heal naturally in the open air.
Finally settled in for my watch, I look down to my left palm and at the small Number there.
Seven.
I wince. I had been hoping for so much more from setting the forest on fire, but it seems whatever system governs the allocation of Numbers doesn’t give us much credit for killing monsters by starting a forest fire. Either that or kills from a distance reduces the amount we earn much more than expected.
I hesitate before tapping quickly seven times above my Number for intelligence. As tempting as charisma, strength, or dexterity are after our mad dash through the forest, our only weapons are our skills. They need to get more powerful, and fast. I only wish someone else was awake so that I could train my new skill. I glance over to Sam, who still lies prone on the ground. When we checked on it earlier, Sam reacted instantly, so it doesn’t look like it’s sleeping, but it certainly isn’t acting normal either. Hopefully it’ll still be able to stand watch when its turn comes.
Aside from the distant roaring of the fire and the louder-than-usual breathing of my friends, the next two hours pass in silence. When I judge roughly the correct time has passed, I shake Melete awake, letting her know Styx and Sam have yet to take their watches.
----------------------------------------
I wake at dawn the next morning. Not because of the sunlight -- no, the sky, thick with smoke, is too overcast for the faint rays to be a bother. I wake because of the sudden rush of power, the familiar feeling of gaining Numbers.
I look down at my palm, and gasp.
One hundred fifty-nine.
I marvel at the huge Number, scarcely able to believe that it’s real, that this isn’t some strangely realistic heat-induced dream.
But as I stare at my palm, I feel another rush and the Number on my palm changes again, blurring for a moment before reforming into a new Number: one hundred sixty-two. And then a few seconds after that, it reforms again. And again. And again.
“It is impressive, is it not?”
I jump in place at the sound of Sam’s voice. Suddenly it appears next to me, looking down at my palm with its large eye as my friends stir in their sleep around us. Out of habit I close my hand, blocking the Number from its sight.
“I have never gained Numbers in such large quantities before. Only in myths did I believe it was possible. Truly, a new inclusion is unparalleled in its opportunity for growth.”
“What’s...going on?” I ask, finally accepting that this isn’t a weird dream.
“It seems we are given credit for the deaths of the Mind Spirits now that the sun has risen and they have no shelter to return to.”
It’s hard to focus with the almost constant rush of the increasing Numbers, but finally I pull my thoughts together in some semblance of order. “This is all from the Mind Spirits? I thought the Numbers would be reduced by distance?”
“That is true. But even reduced, the death of hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of beings is no small thing. And while likely the majority of the Numbers we gain now are a result of the Mind Spirits dying in the sun, it is also possible the fire has spread and claimed the lives of other creatures, those unwilling or unable to flee. After all, fire is a weakness to many in the universe.”
I close my eyes, breathing deep. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of creatures are dead or dying. And as time passes, more and more may die -- the clearing separating the haunted forest from other trees was as small as a few yards in some places, easily crossable by the flames.
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Sure, the Mind Spirits seemed mindless and were trying to kill us. But how many other monsters have died? Monsters that might be sentient, or even peaceful? The Alatir colony was only a day’s walk away. With one rash decision did I doom Sam’s family?
And that’s not even considering the millions of animals I killed. I’ve never been much of an environmentalist, but still...thousands of acres in flames. The scale is almost incomprehensible, that I personally could cause that much damage.
And Fort Carscott! I pale as I recall the trees that surround the town. Did that small group of humans band together to survive waves of monsters, only to be condemned to death by my reckless actions?
Sam is unaware of my thoughts. “I must thank you for the opportunity to travel with you. While it certainly has been dangerous, the risk is by far paying off. And I did not even set the fire! I can only imagine how many Numbers you, as the originator of the flames, are gaining.” I turn to the side and dry heave, suddenly nauseated.
I feel a hand on my back, rubbing circles against my shirt as I stay bent over, my mind whirling. As if from a great distance, I hear Styx’s voice. “Why don’t you leave us alone for a while, Sam.”
Slowly I regain my composure as Styx rubs my back, murmuring words of encouragement under her breath. When finally I stand upright, no longer worried that I’ll empty my guts onto the grass, she pulls me into a tight hug.
“It’s not your fault,” she whispers, but I know it’s a lie. Unquestionably, it is my fault. Styx seems to sense my doubt as she continues. “You saved all of our lives. You just did what was needed to survive.”
That provides little consolation to my struggling conscience, but I choose to ignore my flying thoughts and simply lean into her hug instead.
But after a few seconds, I become aware of my lack of pants and pull away. While sleeping I wrapped my jacket around my legs to form a makeshift kilt for warmth over my bare legs, but it provides much less coverage than I’m used to, especially when this close to Styx.
I notice Pallas and Melete are both awake and awkwardly ignoring my struggle. Melete is clearly ecstatic about her gain in Numbers, but in an unusual display of consideration she’s subdued in her excitement, the only signs of her delight her constant glances to her palm followed by wide grins.
Pallas, however, looks subdued. He’s staring down at his own arm with a somber, considering expression on his face.
Wait…
He’s looking down at his right arm! I follow his gaze to the strange red loopy tattoo barely visible against his skin in the dim dawn light.
“Pallas, you got a skill! Congratulations!” I say to distract myself from my internal conflict. “What is it?”
Sam, who had wandered a few yards away from the camp, presumably returning to its watch, scuttles back over at the mention of a skill.
“Ethereal: Self,” he replies simply. Holding up his right arm for us, he concentrates for a moment before the arm turns see-through, almost invisible in the dark. Pallas raises his other hand and passes it through the faint outline of his right arm, unimpeded. After another second, his arm returns to normal.
“Oh wow, that’s cool!” Melete exclaims. “How long can you hold it for? Does it hurt when you pass through things? Can you do your entire body? What does it feel like?” Her questions fly fast, without a break between them, until Pallas motions for her to slow down with his hands.
“I’m not sure, I’ve barely tested it, but I don’t get the feeling I can keep it active long-term. I don’t feel any strain from it like Styx or Atlas do from their skills, though. It doesn’t hurt myself. Can’t do my whole body, at least not yet, but I think if I practice I’ll be able to manage it eventually. And honestly...it feels just like normal.”
Another rush passes through me as my Numbers increase once again.
“Let’s test to see if it will hurt someone else, if you pass through them like the spirits did,” I say, ignoring the growing Number on my palm.
Pallas shrugs. “Sure,” he says without much enthusiasm as I walk over to stand in front of him.
“Let’s do the arm first. The spirits aimed for the chest, but let’s ease our way there,” I say cautiously. Pallas nods in return while Melete, Styx, and Sam look on curiously.
I lift my arm out in front of me, Pallas raising his own above my own. “Ready?” he asks.
Mentally preparing myself, I nod. Pallas’ arm turns ethereal from the elbow down, and he immediately swings his arm to pass through mine.
“Nothing,” I say. And it’s true. I felt nothing from part of his body passing through my own, not even a breeze of displaced air from his movement. If I had closed my eyes, I wouldn’t have even been able to tell it happened. “Chest?”
Pallas’ arm has returned to normal, but he nods at me, raising it in preparation. As his arm turns ethereal and he punches forward with an almost-invisible fist, I wince. But, once again, I feel absolutely nothing.
“Couldn’t even feel it,” I say. “That’s really weird though to see. It seems like I should at least feel something.”
“Hmm, what would happen if you turned off your skill while your arm was inside of him?” Melete asks.
“Let’s not test that inside of Atlas’ chest, please,” Styx quickly says, and I nod fervently in agreement. But Pallas is already replying.
“I don’t think I could. You know the feeling you get for how to turn ‘off’ your skills?” We all nod in understanding. “For the half-second it was passing through Atlas, that feeling wasn’t there. Like it wasn’t even an option.”
“Wait, does that mean you might be able to get stuck like that?” Styx asks in alarm.
Huh, that’s true. Even if it’s just a short-term skill like Pallas seems to think it is, if he isn’t able to deactivate it if something is occupying the space his body should be occupying...would he get stuck like that? Or would he just return to normal once he eventually moved out of the other object? Or, probably the worst possibility, would he somehow fuse with the object?
“I don’t...feel like that’s an issue,” Pallas says slowly. “It feels like the skill comes with its own set of instincts, and while it doesn’t give any clues as to what would happen, it doesn’t feel like that would ever be an issue.”
“You should probably try to avoid that situation though, either way. Or at least start small, with a splinter of wood or something else we could remove if it gets stuck inside you,” Styx says.
Pallas nods his approval, and I jump in place as I feel the rush of my Numbers increasing once again. I take a deep breath and look back to my palm, focusing intently on the Number and pointedly NOT thinking of the implications of that Number.
Two hundred and seven.
At least we’re gaining something to replace the weapons and supplies we lost. Knowing I’ll likely continue to accumulate Numbers as the fire burns, I don’t agonize about how to assign my Numbers, adding one hundred and fifty to intelligence and fifty to wisdom.
I blink as my intelligence skyrockets, everything suddenly seeming...slower. No, not getting slower -- my thoughts are getting faster, my mind suddenly clear of distractions. For a moment I find it hard to ignore the reality of all the lives I’ve taken and will take via the weapon of fire, no longer selectively ignorant of the destruction I caused. But as I tap fifty times above my wisdom Number, I’m able to regain control, calm once again.
I have seven more free Numbers left to spend, and I hesitate. Charisma would be nice to heal my feet, especially if I can’t find replacement shoes for a while. But wisdom coupled with my skill could ‘heal’ my feet even more effectively, even weakened as my skill is. Maybe strength then? If we don’t find more food supplies soon, I’ll definitely be appreciating that Number a lot more.
I scan my current Numbers up and down my forearm. Wait…
“Um, guys?” I say, still staring at my Numbers. “Do any of your Numbers look...strange?”
“Strange how?” Melete asks. “Foolishly imbalanced? All somehow focused in charisma? Then yes, they are very strange.”
“What do you mean?” Styx asks from where she is inventorying the supplies from her own pack. She stands and looks over my shoulder to where I’m gazing intently at my arm.
I point to my strength Number. One hundred forty-seven. “I could be wrong, our Numbers have been changing so fast recently...but I’m pretty sure my strength Number was higher than this yesterday morning.” My finger moves to my charisma Number, ninety-nine. “And I’m almost completely certain this was higher last week. I could have sworn I had all my Numbers in the triple-digits.” With my increased intelligence I can picture with startling clarity my left forearm from a few days earlier, each of the five Numbers three digits long.
I haven’t started to panic yet, but my voice trembles in anxiety. I’ve already lost all of my Numbers once in the last month. You would think that would make losing them again a less difficult prospect to deal with, but I find the opposite is true.
My friends are now examining their own arms in consternation and alarm. “My strength is back below one hundred fifty!” Melete cries.
Styx and Pallas remain silent, but I can see my own worry reflected in their faces. “Did any of you notice it before this? Did any of you feel your Numbers going down?” I ask.
My friends shake their heads. “Mine look more or less the same,” Styx says as she examines her own arm under her ever-present concealing sleeve. “Unless they’ve increased and then gone back down in the last few days and I didn’t notice.”
Sam’s voice cuts into our growing panic. “Did I not explain? The Mind Spirits. With each attack, they stole some of your life.”
There’s a moment of silence in the wake of his statement.
“...and by life...you mean our Numbers?” Melete asks with poorly concealed frustration.
Sam seems oblivious to her growing temper. “Of course. What else would I be referring to? Some ephemeral ‘life force’ that all beings possess?”
“YES!” Melete retorts, and then walks away in a huff.
“I am sorry for the confusion,” Sam says, and despite the lack of any new inflection in its voice, I’m inclined to believe it actually is regretful. “I was unaware you believed in something like that. My Numbers are my life, and I believed you would understand what I was referring to.”
I just shake my head as I add one to charisma and my remaining six to strength. “No worries. Just for future reference...when explaining monsters to us, please try to be as specific as possible.”
Styx follows after Melete to ensure she doesn’t wander too far, and I sit next to Styx’s bag to continue her inventorying, the struggle of my conscience with my actions thankfully forgotten, at least temporarily.
S: 153 (-2) (+6)
D: 144
W: 370 (-1) (+50)
I: 259 (+157)
C: 100 (-2) (+1)
0
Skills: Adjust:Self, Bond:Mental