Honestly, Marc could barely call it a house. It was more like a ramshackle shed, the mossy planks appearing to buckle under the weight of the corrugated metal roofing, despite how light it was. An old rocking chair sat unused, covered in a layer of dust so thick in areas you could scarcely see the wood underneath. The Tracker didn’t even bother locking the door, since it swung open with just a light push.

“C’mon in. Shoes inside are okay.”

He was glad for that too, since if the outside was as terrible as the inside he’d much spare his bare skin any kind of contact with anything within. And then he stepped inside. Frankly, you would not believe how spotless it was. A marble countertop sat above a laminated wooden floor, almost reflective. White painted shelves lined the walls, stocked with all kinds of foods. Mostly canned, though. A brand new oven and stove sat against the far wall, clearly never used, unlike the beaten up microwave.

Plastic white chairs struck a strange contrast with the relatively luxurious interior. Marc sat in one and found it quite sturdy, still. A sticker on the back dated it as over fifty years old. Now in the safety of his home, the Tracker let the glow of his revolver dissipate as he swept it into his massive overcoat. Even when he sat the cloak remained securely around him, covering his whole body. Instead, the coat just bent around the lip of the chair, making for a terribly cartoony appearance. If only Marc could find the desire to laugh.

“Surprised?”

Marc nodded, looking out a window that was angled just so to meet the sunrise. The Tracker followed his gaze,

“Wasn’t easy setting all this up, you know. But I had to get away from the big city. Still close enough to a different city for the occasional trip, but far enough away to still be peaceful.”

“So you know this place?”

“The city itself? Not very well. I don’t know what’s got the big men upstairs hunting you down, but I ain’t got the know how to be leading you to the boss. That’s something you gotta do yourself.”

“Won’t they hunt you down too?”

“Oh, they tried. Years ago. Must’ve pissed ‘em off or something, they just came at me one day. Took a fair few bullets to convince them I wasn’t worth the trouble.”

“You ever think about finishing the job? Killing off the company for good?”

“Don’t think I could ever do it alone. Life’s good for me right now anyway. Sometimes I get a job, I track a guy down, I get paid. If you need help finding someone, call me. I won’t fight your war for you, though.”

Marc slumped down in his chair as Tracker got up to rifle through his pantry and start microwaving a can of beans. As he waited for the machine to finish processing, he dangled a thread of hope in front of the fugitive:

“If you ever need somewhere to hide, though, my door’s always open. I’m not the greatest man you’ll ever meet, but I hope I’m nowhere near the worst.”

“I don’t wanna live my whole life under the metal thumb of some dumbass robots. I’ve got to head back in there and do something about it.”

“And die? How’re you gonna fight off a whole corpo by yourself?”

Marc held out his hand, and Tracker peered at it, expecting to see some secret weapon not yet unveiled. For a second he squinted, trying to understand, only for Marc to waggle his hand at the can of beans that just finished microwaving. He tossed it to the former scriptwriter, a little disgusted as the slime hanging off Marc’s body greedily absorbed everything inside before spitting out the can.

“Cool idea, but that little guy doesn’t seem to be able to dissolve metal very well. Not great when you’re fighting robots.”

“That’s true… can you show him your other tricks?”

The iridescent blob shivered for a bit in indecision before beginning to bubble a neon green. From its surface, it ejected a sizable amount of the glowing substance all over the can dropped on the floor. In seconds, it had already eaten through the thin tin, slowly making a hole in the floor wherever the acid ended up. Then the slime hardened, crashing to the ground with a clunk, cracking the floor. It swiftly slithered up Marc’s legs, then onto his arms, where it became a sharp chitinous layer reminiscent of claws; smooth, black exoskeleton gave the impression of a bug like gauntlet on his right arm.

The Tracker whistled in approval, impressed at its versatile range of transformations.

“Never seen anything like it. What’s its name?”

“...Name?”

In the heat of the moment, Marc had forgotten to name it, what with the almost dying he had experienced multiple times in twenty four hours. The slime morphed back into its gelatinous form, speckled with false stars across a backdrop of dark ooze. He thought about space, the stars, the sky, and then snapped his fingers as he came up with the name:

----------------------------------------

“Nova! That’s his name.”

“It’s a him?”

“I kind of get that vibe.”

The newly christened Nova blurbled an affirmative reply, gelatinous skin bubbling in a hypnotizing yet creepy pattern. Tracker withdrew a map of Sunside city from his coat, marking the location of a building deep within the inner city, before handing it to Marc.

“I’ve got an informant hiding out here. Talk to her and she’ll hook you up with a place to say, or so she says.”

“You’re not sure?”

“She talks big about her real-estate agent skills. It’s up to you whether you can trust her. So far she’s done an alright enough job nabbing me deals, so it’s worth checkin’ her out.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Don’t stray too far into the back alleyways. In a city that big you can get lost in ‘em, and I’ve never heard a good story from there.”

Marc felt the creak of the old wooden floorboards as he stepped out onto the porch, Nova latched to his shoulder. Taking in the morning light, he was unprepared to be domed in the back of the head with a gray undershirt and brown jacket, nearly causing him to fall over. Tracker called out from inside the house.

“Here’s some spares. Don’t tell me you were gonna go in there with no shirt.”

“I wasn’t!”

He was, for Marc knew no shame.

As he trudged through the forest, following a dirt path from the shack, Marc contemplated his next moves. First he’d have to get inside, and the Wall Collective were notorious sticklers for the rules. His ID most definitely wasn’t on him anymore after the debacle he had just experienced, and there was no way he was getting in without one. After getting inside, drones would no doubt spot him, and alert the execs to his location, and then he’d be dead meat.

All of that was to say he had little chance of getting to his destination. The morning dew hung heavy on the leaves of shrubs and silent oaks, keeping their forever vigil as Marc shuffled past them. The chilly dawn breeze convinced him to zip up the jacket and put his hands in his pockets. Nova did not care, unconcerned by changes in temperature. He had been in the depths of space, so a mild wind chill was nothing by comparison.

As always, the outer wall that encircled the city stood imposingly over the surrounding landscape, an aberrant protrusion through otherwise gentle soil and rock. It wasn’t even the biggest kind there was, for he had heard of a much more impressive wall in use for the defense of a city to the east, deep inland. This wall was just high enough to encircle the outer city, which was to say it was at best ten stories tall.

The glint of a scope did not escape his vision, a pinprick of a barrel poking out from the battlements of the outer wall. No one entered without permission. But this time, what appeared in the sights of the scope was not a human face, but a mask, formed out of some strange brown material. For Marc, it was a disconcerting experience, trying to walk with Nova firmly plastered across every aspect of his face. But it was not impossible. While his eyes could not see, he could kind of feel out his surroundings. Nova, who could not form eyes without breaking his disguise, seemed to sense the world around him with some sort of sixth sense.

Roughly, Marc shared a little bit of that sense, telling him where he could walk. Ahead was a series of rolling hills, marked by a wide dirt path that led up to a sizable reinforced gate. No one stood outside, only a single camera watching the entrance. Deep breath, he told himself, trembling as he knocked on a small side door right by the gate. A few seconds later, a stout young man, tired from peering at the cameras all day, opened the door a smidgen and stuck his head out.

“Yes, sir, are you here for admittance? If so, I’ll need an ID, or you will have to go through the registration process.”

Marc leaned back, pointing to the woods behind him.

“I was just traveling and hoping to pass through. However, I saw a monster in the woods earlier; it’s much stronger than anything I’ve ever seen.”

“Description?”

“Oh, I didn’t get a good look at it. I just saw flashes of it as it killed other things out there. Might be a Dust-mutated.”

The mildly overworked man rubbed his eyes before responding.

“Well, alright, I’ll send a request out for a team to search and neutralize it.”

“That’s good. It looked pretty special, it might be an evo-type.”

The man paused right before he turned on his radio, staring Marc dead in the mask.

“You sure? Absolutely positive?”

“Well, it was somewhat translucent, and I saw a bit of a weird white glow…”

“Hmmm. Well, I suppose I should get you through here quickly then. We wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt, now would we?”

The man was all smiles now, his eye bags practically gone. He put up no pretense of calling a squad, instead equipping himself with an alloyed dual baton, clearly modded himself. The taser on one end was now a two pronged spear, clearly intended for quick incapacitance of anyone unfortunate enough to be perforated by its front end.

Marc could always rely on bribery. The worth of an Amplifier, no matter how small, was enough to make anyone salivate. Little did the man know there was no monster to be had, and that there would be no payout for him. But blinded by his desperation as an impoverished guard of the gate, he could not see in totality the trap Marc had laid for him.

But he did have his doubts.

“Are you really sure you saw it out there? I need to know if there really is an Amp in the woods right now.”

“Just trust me. Siron’s protocol.”

That was the code word for “just trust me”. A company as big as Automotive Industries had their fingers everywhere, even if it was just a small influence on the lowest rung of the Wall Collective’s employment. Only an insider would know, and the guard was too impatient to bother verifying his identity when a potential payload awaited outside.

He was barely frisked, and shot through security personally like a cannonball. Other security members stood by, uncaring, as one of their own shuffled Marc through the metal detectors and whatnot. Eventually, they came to a waiting room, where those inside the walls could meet with the Wall Collective to update their IDs, or other similarly DMV-type activities.

“Here you go, sir. Hope you have a pleasant day!”

Marc had not even the chance to reply before the man practically dashed away, ready to hunt down an Amplifier. Marc just stood, wavering, by the exit door. Outside, he would find himself in the city once again, the only thing standing between him and death a slime sticking to his face to fool the cameras. Now what?

----------------------------------------

He ran down a side street, ducking behind buildings and vaulting fences as he hurried through the tight and narrow alleyways of the bustling port city. The city had once again woken up from its nightly slumber, and the nightlife gave way to hurried men and women rushing to work, or visiting their friends, or any one of the many things to do in a city as large as this one. In the short periods between buildings, when Marc had to cross streets, he saw billboards, stylized and ever changing in an attempt to catch the eye of many a passerby.

[WEAPON ENLARGEMENT SURGERY- SUPPORTING ALL CALIBERS!]

[THE CATGIRL OF YOUR DREAMS, HALF OFF FOR 24 HOURS!]

[INTRODUCING YOUR NEWEST PARTNER-IN-CRIME, THE HOVRBORD V3!]

[NEED A PERSONAL ASSISTANT? CONTACT US NOW!!! AI FOR YOU!]

These were just a few of the snippets he caught in his vision as his legs carried him across asphalt and past all kinds of strange citizens. One appeared to have a head of steel, eyes glinting with complicated machinery. Another reached to the sky with a cybernetic arm, a metal cord loosing from the artificial limb to hook onto a little metal rod above a large open window. Then the sound of a motor, and the man zoomed forward up above the crowd into the building.

“ASSHAT! WATCH THE CORD!”

“FIX THE FUCKING ELEVATOR THEN!!!”

He was so distracted he nearly tripped face first into a puddle of oil, slowly spreading across a sidewalk. Marc and everyone else backed away, as a woman stood hunched over in the center, the black liquid spilling from in between the gaps of her shiny gray mouthguard. Immediately, multiple faceless goons from the nearby police station appeared from every which way, supporting the woman as they hauled her away.

And that would’ve been all, if a man with golden threads for arms didn’t unleash his writing limbs upon the unfortunate city guard. The strings twirled around the rifle of one, slamming it into the faceplate of another. Multiple guards found their bullets useless against a wall of gleaming yarn, soaking up the damage. In a moment, he snagged the infirm woman in his grip, before launching himself away. A guard on their side reached for their radio as the gold thread swung the pair between two buildings and out of sight.

“Command, we have two Empowered fugitives, suspected rogue…”

But Marc was already long gone, in the darkness of backstreets and sunless corridors, lined with concrete and steel and littered with bits and pieces of all kinds. Was that whirring overhead? He pressed his body against a wall, a thin slit of the sky visible between the harsh artifices of man’s jungles. Nova wriggled on his face, feeling Marc’s paranoia and worry.

The unmistakable hum of a drone caught his ear. A flash of metal shell, so brief he almost missed it. Fortunately, it seemed to be occupied with other matters. If it had looked down… he loathed what would happen next. His burning irritation turned his head and lifted his chin, aiming his gaze squarely at a steel disc embedded in the pavement.

A sewer porthole.

No, that’s ridiculous. It would surely be disgusting, revolting… but could he?

----------------------------------------

The answer was yes. A bit of sewer water never killed anyone (probably), but a bunch of robot assassins definitely would. The sewer tunnel itself began a few meters below the artificial stone that paved every roadway of the city, a typically damp and dreary place. Mold clustered around the waterline, at least those species hardy enough to survive going toe to toe with the waste and other products of a bustling port like Sunside City.

The cylindrical shape of the sewers was different than the rectangular hallways of above Marc had been expecting. Little caged lights were inset into the walls, with large gaps between them. Though the space between them grew dark, it was not hard for Marc to remain on the sides of the sewers, watching the water run by while he stayed on the dry walkways designed for maintenance workers to traverse. In the dimly lit near-darkness, Nova began to bioluminescence gently. Marc peeled the slime off his face, using him as something akin to a glowstick, if only barely as effective.

So they hopped between islands of light, little bubbles of safety from the oppressive silent darkness of the underground. Occasionally they could hear the sounds of bugs or rats scurrying just out of view, as the tunnels curved and threaded their way under the familiar streets and buildings that he had passed by so often in life. Then came crossroads, branches and paths in a maze that wound around and around with no end. Eventually, Marc began to feel the many different calls of nature pulling at him.

“Ough… I probably should’ve eaten something. Despite the danger.”

No one would complain if he took the piss directly into the sewer water, probably. Can’t dirty literal shit water. While he did that, he considered how thirsty he was, and also that it was a little cold down here. In his idle dreamstate, he didn’t catch the pitter patter of paws until it was too late. They came at him as he buttoned up.

“If only I had a map of this place… I don’t know which way is forward.”

SQUEAK.

“Oh, there’s rats here?”

And then one rounded the bend of a tunnel up ahead, the glint of the dim embedded lights just enough to reveal the dark silhouette of a hulking beast the size of a lion. Beady eyes and white teeth told him these rats were definitely omnivorous, and with the way it chittered menacingly at him, definitely sizing him up as its next meal.

“Uh… nice, rat. Go eat something else? Nova, do something.”

Nova, unfortunately, did not know rat language, and could not do anything. So instead, they turned tail and bolted, down one of the many passageways that characterized the sewers. Behind him, Marc could hear the sounds of more huge rats a few dozen feet behind. The embedded wall lanterns caught flashes of their shadows as they sprinted past, away from the wave of rodents on their heels. Eventually everything began to slope downwards, and the pair descended down and down, deeper into the underground.

Here, the tunnels widened, all of them leading into central tunnels where the wastewater collected together. The size of the center stream grew from a creek a few feet across into a roaring river, one that threatened to drown out the sounds of the rats. Despite the white noise, the sounds of gunshots tore through Marc’s ears, piercing cracks and bangs that caused the rats to hesitate as Marc pressed onward. As the gunfire grew closer, the rats lost their courage and fled, dashing up the incline and disappearing back to the first level of the sewers.

Marc’s relief was short-lived. He watched the rats leave, only to hear a click and turn around, coming face to face with multiple rifles trained on him. They wore gloves and thick coats, with baggy waterproof leggings to shield the lower body. Beanies and masks kept their identity hard to place. The dark palette of the clothes combined with the grim lighting of the deep sewers made him feel on edge, as the mysterious assailants moved to encircle him.

“What ‘ave we told ya about personal space? Buzz off, and don’t let us catch you bringing’ any more of your cop friends down ‘ere, eh?”

One of them spoke to Marc, but it was in some strange unplaceable accent. The message was clear; he wasn’t welcome. He didn’t need to surrender or anything, thankfully, as another man of their number nudged the others out of the way to talk to Marc face to face.

“Do not mind him, sir. I can tell you’re no undercover cop. What has a topper like you running into the deep sewers?”

This new guy had deep silver eyes, framed by ashen unkempt hair that partially obscured the eyes. He stood with a slight hunch, that gave off an air of weakness, despite his fit stature. Marc chose his next words carefully, to avoid a volley of lead to the face.

“...I’ve run into a bit of trouble upstairs. There’s somewhere I got to get to, but I’m a little lost.”

His stomach rumbled again.

“And hungry.”

The strange man held out a hand in reply.

“Nice to meet you. The name’s Jams. We’ve got a little settlement down here, just this way.”

“That would be really great, but I wouldn’t want to impose. I’ll just be in and out.”

“Nonsense. If you have to take the sewers, you’re probably gonna be down here more than you think, for longer than you thought. Judging by that friend you’ve got on your arm, you could easily pay off anything you owe us after this.”

Nova remained coiled around Marc’s right arm, nervous in the face of new people so closely interacting with his master.

“If you’re looking for Empowered, I guess I could help out a bit. Marc.”

“Well, Marc, there’s some things I have to explain to you. Follow me.”

So they went deeper, the guards surrounding Jams as he led them all towards the sewer settlement. While he did, he helpfully made conversation with Marc. Both to break the silence and to exposition dump all the little bits and pieces he would need to make a living there.

“You probably don’t want to hear me go into the specifics, but this settlement was founded a few decades ago down here after the runaway sewer infrastructure project sucked up too much of the budget and became a figurative and literal sink: of money, time, effort, and waste.”

“Why make a town down here?”

“You need a place to hide, right, Marc? So do many of us. And down here, in the deep sewers, almost no one bothers us. Just the occasional police raid. But we’ve got our tricks for dealing with that.”

“Any work there to do? I didn’t exactly get time to bring my wallet, and I haven’t eaten in a bit.”

“I’ll help you get on your feet. Oh, we’re almost there-”

The sounds of the waste river, omnipresent as always, fell away in favor of other sounds. Like screaming. More gunshots rang out ahead, and the guards ran ahead, wanting to secure the immediate area for their leader and to find out what was going on.

“Is this normal, Jams?”

“No, but there’s no way the police should’ve been able to get through. I’m the one patrolling these areas every day, and my mirages never fail.”

Marc didn’t even bother asking what those were, rushing ahead of Jams into the settlement. In front of him was a massive clearing, a room underground with a ceiling a few dozen feet high. Buildings of stone and wood, more primitive than the technological marvels of the surface, stood shoulder to shoulder, packing the already large chamber. He could still hear the gunfire ringing out, and the cries for help in the distance. Jams came up behind Marc, tapping him on the shoulder.

“You wanted work, here it is. Let’s go.”

----------------------------------------

Marc leapt over fences and ran down painted-stone streets towards the source of the sound, legs pumping and heart beating wildly. Behind him, Jams followed closely, with his posse of armed gunmen assigned to keep him safe. Panicked civilians of all kinds of garb dashed past them, fleeing the gang as they threaded their way through tight gaps between shoddy architecture and piles of scrap and refuse left in random spots.

After only a bit of running they made contact. Marc’s first indication that he was way in over his head was the crack of a rifle, and the whizz of a bullet flying right by his right ear. Then he dove behind a building, as standing in the street would just lead him to a quick death. Jams fell in beside him, hugging the wall as the guards took up positions on the sides of the street behind various buildings. Bullets thunked into the wood by Marc’s hand, and he leapt backward away from the shot as Jam’s bodyguards returned fire down the street.

“Nova, can you become bulletproof?”

The slime jiggled silently on his arm, wobbling with uncertainty. Jams rustled around in one of his pockets, drawing out a pistol he tossed to Marc.

“Use this if your pet can’t block bullets for you.”

“Don’t you have anyone with an Empowerment to stop gunshots?”

“Maybe small-arms fire, but larger rifle calibers are too much to stop.”

Before Marc could even aim, one of the bodyguards called out to everyone.

“BACK UP, ENEMY EMPOWERED!”

Marc peered around the corner, only to find all the enemies had withdrawn a considerable distance. In their place, a single mercenary stood in the center of the street, with no regard to his own safety. A blade on his hip and a magnum in his opposing hand whispered that he meant business, and he wasn’t above killing to get the job done. No one could see his face behind his black helmet and red visor, but they could feel the gravelly killing intent in his voice as he spoke.

“This is a message from Utility Unlimited. Leave the sewers immediately or be flushed out by force.”

As he finished his sentence, a wave of radiation burst from his body, almost visible in intensity. A few of the guards, intending to shoot him, began to cough or convulse, as radiation sickness gripped them in totality, and their fragile bodies succumbed to the waves of poison that crumpled their DNA and fractured their very genetic code. Jams and Marc weathered it at this range with less issue, their selves reinforced by the Empowerments they had received.

With Nova stabilizing his arm, firing the pistol was much easier, round after round pelting the radioactive soldier, but the bullets always struck him as halfway melted slag, their kinetic force severely reduced. Bodyguards far enough away to avoid being sick found their rifles similarly ineffective. Instead, the Empowered soldier was single handedly pushing them all back with his sheer presence and power.

“Shit, I need some weapons besides a gun!”

Marc’s lament gave Nova an idea, as he slid off of Marc’s arm and dashed out into the road where the man was slowly walking forwards. Marc tried and failed to grab him, panicking as the slime slipped between his fingers.

“No, Nova, get back here! They’re gonna shoot you out there!”

The mercenary didn’t even bother unsheathing his sword, staring down at the blob of ooze in his way.

“Eugh. A pest problem.”

Then Nova spat a fat glob of acid directly on his visor, sending the irradiated merc stumbling away, trying to swipe the fast acting solvent off of his mask. A slash of his sword threw Nova off, sending him slithering for cover as the radioactive soldier regained his bearings. Marc wasted no time stepping out of cover to pick up the beleaguered slime, pointing at the soldier.

“Come back later. We’re making things more awesome right now.”

“Utility Unlimited has hired me for this job, and a good merc always completes their contracts.”

Marc's heart raced as he clutched Nova, who was still shivering from the close encounter with the mercenary. Despite the imminent danger, Nova's act of bravery and resourcefulness had given Marc an idea—a risky one, but potentially effective. As the mercenary regained his composure and continued to fumble with his visor, Marc's mind raced to formulate a plan.

"Nova," Marc whispered urgently, his grip on the slime tightening, "we need to create a distraction. If we can disrupt his focus, maybe we can get the upper hand."

Nova's gooey form seemed to quiver with understanding, and with a determined gurgle, it began to change shape. The translucent slime stretched and morphed, forming intricate patterns and designs in response to Marc's thoughts. In moments, Nova had transformed into a dazzling, bioluminescent spectacle, casting a mesmerizing array of colors into the night.

The mercenary, still struggling to remove the corrosive acid from his visor, was momentarily taken aback by the sudden display of lights. His hand paused in mid-swipe as he stared at Nova's radiant transformation. The distraction had worked.

His focus disrupted, Marc darted forwards towards the mercenary, who didn’t expect that someone unarmed would just charge a guy with a sword. A flash of steel as the man lashed out at Marc with his blade, bouncing with a clang off of Nova’s suddenly hard chitinous surface. Even with the advantageous angle, the edge bit into Nova for a moment, slicing off a small chunk of his body. But the rest of his body, the wound exposed, grew to be likewise sturdy and tough.

Marc wielded Nova like a gauntlet on his right arm, socking the surprised mercenary in the helmet with the beefed up equivalent of brass knuckles. The visor cracked, but the man shook it off with ease, swinging back with a haymaker that rattled Marc’s arms as he brought them up to guard against the punch. The force pushed him back just a bit, and Nova shifted to grow spikes of chitin from his surface as a response. With the ante upped, the merc realized Marc might be more than just some easy target.

So came the oppressive wave of radiation that washed over everything, with such intensity that Marc felt some sort of phantom burns on his exposed skin. Already he could feel the sickness creeping into his body, and he thought to himself that there was no way this was normal radiation. It could melt lead but not flesh, and instead corroded the asphalt they walked on. Nova gurgled in some kind of agreement, visibly disoriented from the brief exposure to the merc at point blank range.

“What’s wrong? Feelin’ a bit under-the-weather?”

The mercenary goaded him on as he backed away, wary of being subjected to more of that deadly energy at close range. Marc took the bait in his own way; he raised his arm, and Nova was coherent enough to spew more acid in the general direction of their enemy. The man was more cautious this time, and dodged the initial spurt of corrosive liquid, only to be met with more successive shots that stained his thick clothing with the hiss of chemical breakdowns.

And then Nova got a glancing blow on the helmet, and the acid gleefully found its way into the damaged sections of the visor, slowly boring open a hole. The hired soldier scraped at the substance with his gloved offhand. A moment of introspection told him it wouldn't work, and a second of resolve drove his legs forward. A mad dash brought him within striking range, and a swing of his blade just barely nicked Nova.

Then it was chaos. Bullets flew past both, as gunmen on both sides recognized this would be no easy win. In the crossfire, it was all Marc could do to avoid the edge that sought his vitals. A punch to counter an overbalanced swing was met with a kick to the gut that sent him reeling. Nova took a direct hit, and Marc’s brain was filled with a terrible aching feedback that inflamed every nerve as if he himself had been laid open. In his panic, he turned, desperate, calling out:

“JAMS!”

The hammer came down, the metal head of the sledgehammer shattering a section of pavement. The ground came up like the tide, ripples of concrete causing the mercenary to stumble. WOOSH— the slice of a blade. CLANG— the sound of the razor edge meeting a reinforced metal handle. A lean backwards saved the soldier’s skull from being caved in by a hammerhead, and his attempt at a counter was thwarted by a swift elbow that knocked his arm aside, followed by a headbutt that forced him back a few feet.

Marc leaned against the wall of a building, shocked and awed and exhausted all at the same time. In front of him stood unmistakably a mechanic. Red hair that fell down to the shoulders framed a black welding mask, a leather apron partially covering their jeans and a white work shirt. At just over five feet, their relatively short stature clashed with the massive sledgehammer gripped tightly in dark welding gloves.

“T-thanks, uh…”

“Maria. Jams can’t do much here, so I’m here instead.”

“Can you take him?”

“Already feeling a little sick… I’ll try, unless you have any other ideas.”

----------------------------------------

Marc pulled the pistol he had been given out of his pocket, tossing it to Maria. They caught it, staring at it confusedly. A near hit from the tip of the mercenary's blade brought them back to their senses, swiveling around and firing a shot that went straight through the right side of the helmet, embedding itself in the material and leaving a massive gash. His head whipped around from the force of the bullet at point-blank range, the lead half-melted into slag.

Marc was right; the “radiation” energy that the guy emitted did far less to protect him from firearms at melee range. The irradiated soldier stumbled back, away as his half-broken visor showed signs of giving way entirely. There were screams of pain as some of the gunmen on either side continued to lay down suppressive fire, mostly to ensure the other did not interfere with the duel. Now, barrels were turning back, covering the retreat of their most important combat asset. Marc leapt behind a concrete roadblock. Maria swiftly slid into place behind him, a bullet deflected off the welding mask.

“How the heck do we get them out? We can’t go down the street or we’ll die!” yelled Marc over the gunfire.

Maria lifted two fingers in the air, pointing them forwards in a signaling manner. Almost immediately, a malignant sense of death stifled Marc’s thoughts. The reaper was right in front of him. Just over the concrete barricade, though he could not see, a fountain of killing intent threatened to drown his mind and fill his lungs with his own blood. Nova just shrank away. His goopy form pressed down on the ground and against the roadblock as if shying away from an overpowering predator.

The weaker willed broke and ran. The stronger ones felt their muscles clench, their bodies locking up from the mental pressure. In the face of such severe stress the enemy could only collapse. The guards assigned to Jams and the town’s dedicated police force were unaffected, as the extreme bloodlust was projected in a cone towards the enemy. Many a gun clattered to the floor, hands shot through or owners fleeing. Then there was silence.

Five seconds. Cautious men in black and gray gripped their weapons firmly, aiming down the street.

Ten seconds. Itchy fingers brushed cold triggers.

Fifteen seconds. Everyone’s breath hitched in their throats with the tension.

Only at twenty seconds did everyone breathe a collective sigh of relief, a cheer going up among those still well enough to fight. Medics laid out those hit in the battle, bandaging up the injured. Marc and Nova just sat on the ground, scared shitless. When Maria poked him in the cheek did he stand up shakily, Nova quivering on his arm.

“What the hell was that, Maria?!”

Maria jerked a thumb over their shoulder to the groups of uniform men and women in the street behind being treated.

“It’s one of them. Dunno which one, but Jams got a mind-related Empowered on his side. Has ‘em hide with the normal guys and scare the wits out of any police from up top.”

Marc turned around to see Jams walking towards him, a few guards in tow. When they came together, Jams held out a hand, which Marc took.

“Thanks, Marc. Every man counts in the defense of our little town down here. You’re probably hungry after all of that, so I’ll tell the chefs to serve you on the house.”

“That would be good, actually. I haven’t eaten in a day.”

“Then enjoy yourself. If you want, you can come to the town hall in the center and I can give you an honorary citizenship. But I won’t force you to stay with us. I can tell you’ve got somewhere to be.”

So he left, Maria following close behind. They waved once at Marc before hurrying after the mysterious man. Marc leaned heavily against the nearest building, winded from all the excitement and constant exercise. He glanced at Nova, who blurbled contentedly at being allowed a break from being shot at. Or stabbed. Or blown up.

----------------------------------------

Finding the diner was a lot harder than he thought. Streets were few and far between, with hundreds of tiny alleyways just wide enough for two people shoulder to shoulder. Cheap LED lights kept these dark areas bright enough to see. Often Marc saw men and women talking, chatting, or just peddling their wares in the cracks between multi-story buildings. A shame he didn’t have any money, for he saw all kinds of interesting goods sold in these sketchy back alleys.

When he did come upon the diner, it was on a separate street entirely, the entrance facing the relatively open space that the road afforded. A flickering sign read “The Rat’s Nest”. Not a particularly appealing name for a restaurant, Marc thought. Pushing open the glass doors yielded the tinkle of bells. A few customers turned their heads to him, only to lose interest and divert their eyes away. Shockingly, the interior here was likewise far more impressive on the inside than the outside.

Past the vending machine that sat by the door, alternating cyan leather seats and soft red tables wiped clean lined the right wall. On the left, a long countertop that stretched all the way to the back wall. Metal barstools sat on checkerboard floor tiles, relatively dim ceiling lights casting a yellow glow over the slightly seedy sewer diner. At the counter stood a portly man, potbellied and ever so jolly. Marc raised a hand, unable to muster up the will to speak more than one word.

“...Food?”

“Ah, you’re the fellow Jams was texting me about? C’mon and sit down, everything’s on the house for the man of the hour!”

Experimentally, Marc spun around on the barstool, feeling the soft leather seat cushion. He let his eyes drift over the multiple menu boards and various bottles of wine and tonic.

“Maybe a burger, please?”

“Anything specific?”

“House special. I’m starving. What do you want, Nova?”

Nova was practically dripping down his shoulder with exhaustion. He blurbled quietly.

“Uh, seafood for the slime.”

“That’s not a slime I’ve ever seen before.”

The restaurateur tried to poke Nova, who glowed a threatening shade of red to make him reconsider.

“Where’d you get this little fella? Ocean?”

“Forest. Found him there by himself.”

“Figured he would rather eat meat then.”

“I think it’s about the novelty, since he hasn’t had it.”

In his mind, Marc knew the real reason. Someday Nova might end up in deep water, and when that happens, he would like to be able to swim. Do slimes drown? Nova didn’t want to find out.

“How do you know it’s a he?”

“I kind of get that vibe from him. It’s an Empowered thing.”

“Do slimes even have gender?”

Marc opted not to answer that. Instead he turned his attention to a small TV, anchored in a corner of the room, constantly playing whatever was on the news. Nothing particularly interesting:

“This is Pewter, from the Plainshold radio station. I’m legally obligated to say this every time I report, for any new viewers. Breaking News! The Dust has been observed again, much earlier this year. Scientists across America, or whatever’s left of it, are baffled by this change, as it has not deviated from its schedule for the last thirty years.”

Oh. Interesting. He wasn’t really a Dust nerd, so he couldn’t comment on this annual disaster. Marc was dragged out of his thoughts by a sudden cry:

“Oh my god, look at him go!”

Behind him, he saw a little turtle spinning in place on the tile floor. The diner’s patrons were all gathered around, cheering him on. Strangely, Marc did feel a little compelled to get out of his chair and start clapping, or praising Jerry. How did he even know the turtle was named Jerry? For a minute, he stared transfixed at the little amphibian. Finally, it leapt up onto its hind legs, holding a top hat in one hand and a magician's cane in the other.

“That’s all, folks!” said Jerry, before disappearing in a puff of smoke. Immediately the crowd dispersed, and the portly restaurant owner froze in his tracks, on his way out of the kitchen with a burger in one hand a platter of salmon in the other.

“Goddamnit, Bob!”

The man dropped both plates onto the counter with a soft clatter, leaping over the table to grab the shirt of the homeless man, bag full of pilfered food he had just nabbed from the plates of all the patrons, who only now were realizing who had swiped their meals. Their outcry mixed with Marc’s confused question.

“What? Who’s Bob?”

“This bastard’s been stealing food every Thursday right before dinner hours. He’s an Empowered, that’s where the turtle came from. Can’t kick his ass out of the town cause Jams says ‘he’s an asset’ when he’s clearly just a bum. Sorry about the trouble.”

----------------------------------------

Tentatively, Marc held out the burger on his plate towards Bob, who eyed it balefully, as if it would bite him if he tried to grab it. The homeless man picked it up experimentally, taking a bite.

“Please don’t bother the diner anymore, Bob. I’m sure you can find food somewhere else, right?”

The haggard man scarfed down the rest of the food, appearing to glare balefully in their direction before scampering away down another alleyway, disappearing into the darkness. The tavern keeper or whatever was less than pleased at Marc’s sudden display of altruism, patting him on the shoulder.

“Look, son, I know it’s always a good thing to look out for your fellow man and help those in need. But you gotta understand not everyone is someone worth helping, alright? If you let ‘em do what they want, they’ll suck all the life outta ya like a leech.”

“Oh… I see. Thanks for the advice sir.”

“Of course. Same applies to marriage too. God, I hated my bitch wife.”

Marc had nothing to say to that, so he just sat back down.

“Anyway, can we get another plate? On the house?”

“Yeah, I suppose the boss said you could. Does the little one need it to be cooked? I don’t know if slimes can even taste like a person can.”

“Probably not, just the raw fish is fine.”

Marc held up the purplish-black slime in his hands, the ooze wrapping itself around his fingers to maintain stability. It gurgled uncertainly, accepting his decision.

“What kind of food is best for you, anyway?”

Rather than words, Nova gave him flashes of memory of the past. He saw brush, claws and teeth and bugs galore. The eyes of prey and predator alike turned from wary caution to panic, moments before they were all devoured.

“Oh, I get it. You’ve always eaten them raw. What’s the most nutritious for you, then?”

Nova bubbled to Marc the concept of something he did find to be a lot more familiar than he would expect.

“...milk? I guess they used to say that it built strong bones in the past. But I don’t really produce milk…”

He thought about it for a few long uncomfortable seconds before shrugging his shoulders.

“I’ll just buy a few jugs of milk from the store later.”

Thus, they finally had their first meal in a while. And by god, was it good. Juicy meat on a tender bun, with crisp lettuce and cheese with just the right consistency… a burger to die for. Before they left, Marc took one last look at the town, momentarily admiring the guile and craft it would take to create an entire settlement underground. The ramshackle town bustled in a way the topside didn’t. Rather than the anxious buzz that permeated the minds of the employed members of society, here, everyone was almost obnoxiously carefree.

They worked like a unit and had the camaraderie of those who had fought many battles together for a common cause. That they could resist the might of the systems that kept the city running for this long was admirable. Perhaps when he was done with all of this, he would visit them again. But for now, he would take his leave. After consulting posted maps of the sewers scattered around town, he could see that he was much closer to his target than he had realized.

The walk was not very long, with the exception of the somewhat steep slope he had to climb to return to the sewer tunnels closer to the surface. Careful count told him what manhole cover to lift, and by some miracle, he emerged on a street just by rows of flats by the edge of the city. From here, he could see the ocean waves lapping against rock and beach, as the sun set again over Sunside city. Unlike the downtown area, this part of the city had been sectioned off from use in city development. Maybe to preserve the small town feel?

A single set of stairs led Marc to the second floor of the flat. Unlike apartments, these were open to the air. In that respect, it was more like a motel than a permanent place to live. Nevertheless, he pressed onwards. He hadn’t seen a single security drone here yet, likely as no one expected him to be all the way in the deepest parts of the megacity.

“Let’s see… 179… 180… 181. This should be it.”

He expected something a little more flashy, but it was just a standard door in a standard building. Nothing to write home about. Lifting his hand, he rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Um, hello?”

Immediately, some kind of intercom flared to life, and he heard a tired female voice crackle in complaint at his arrival.

“Go away, I’m not interested in whatever you have to sell me this time.”

“I’m not a salesperson. Someone told me to come here if I needed help getting a place to stay.”

“I’m not exactly buddy-buddy with most of the people I deal with. Transactions stay professional. Not anyone can just work as a walking talking letter of recommendation.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Does the Tracker count?”

A few seconds of silence.

“A lot of people know him. Doesn’t mean you know him personally.”

“I know his house sucks ass. The outside looks like its halfway through being demolished. Inside’s fine, but he’s got too many cans of beans for his own good.”

“Ah. I see. You’ve definitely met him then. Maybe I’ll trust you for now. C’mon in.”

At that, the door suddenly unlocked, swinging open with a creak. Inside the flat, the lights were all mostly off, generic IKEA furniture decorating the interior. A few empty mugs of coffee sat on a glass table, and shelves displayed various trophies, knick knacks, and random wilted houseplants.

“Don’t stand around and stare. Come to the office.”

There came the voice from the bedroom. The place was a bit messy, but nothing too out of the ordinary. When he opened the bedroom door though, he did not expect to be met with a wall of screens, some displaying video feeds, others tracking numbers and graphs he could scarcely keep track of. Nova curled around his neck like a scarf, intimidated by all the lights. At the desk sat the Tracker’s trusted informant, fingers clacking away on multiple keyboards. At Marc’s entry, she spun around in her chair to face her visitor.

“So. Whaddya want?”

----------------------------------------

“A baddie.”

She tensed, pausing with a sigh. She waved a hand towards the many screens behind her.

“I’m a busy woman. Go hit on someone else if you want a girl that bad.”

She turned back to her keyboards, micromanaging everything going on at once without sparing Marc a glance.

“I know he didn’t send you here for a reason as dumb as that. Tell me why you’re really here.”

----------------------------------------

“Well… who are you, exactly? The Tracker didn’t give me much info to go off on.”

She slapped her forehead, mollified by her own forgetfulness.

“Oh, yeah, sorry, I forget to do that. Maybe I spend too much time inside looking at screens.”

She held a hand out to him, a tired deadpan plastered across her face.

“You don’t need to know my real name. Everyone just calls me Coyn. On the nose, I know.”

Marc was tempted to ask what was so on the nose about it, but instead he decided to keep his mouth shut for once and just shake her hand. For the first time that night, she kept eye contact as she reclined in her gaming chair.

“I dabble in a lot of things. A little day trading, a bit of investing, maybe some real estate on the side. People come to me for everything money.”

“Oh, that’s good. ‘Cause I’m broke.”

She paused uncertainly, eyeing Marc up and down with a mix of confusion and genuine worry.

“Are you… a freeloader?”

Her voice was tinged with just a bit of fear, as if Marc would begin squatting in her living room this instant like some kind of disheveled druggie looking for a place to stay.

“No! Well, kind of. I had a job and everything, but I dug a little too deep. I can’t go home now, or they’ll find me.”

“Oh, I see. I’ve had a few of those kinds. Where’d you use to work?”

“The Automotive Industries branch. They’ve been hunting me with their drones for a little while now.”

“I wouldn’t want to be in their sights either. Let me see what I can do.”

Coyn went back to typing furiously on her keyboard, adjusting screens and digesting incredible amounts of information. Even while multitasking she could still keep up their thread of conversation.

“Let me see what info is publicly available for you. Name?”

“It’s just Marc. No last name.”

“Classy. Short and sweet. Let’s see… scriptwriter, stenographer, manager of documents… you got a lot of dirt on ‘em?”

“I don’t have the physical documents. Knowing about it is enough for them to come after me, though.”

One of the main screens pulled up a database, with pages and pages of names. All kinds of people, of all walks of life, all reduced to a few words and a small picture of their face. On another screen was his personal profile, with a disturbing level of detail. Whose database was this? How did they know he wrote fanfiction on the side for cash?

“Don’t worry, I don’t judge. I’ve done worse.”

Coyn’s attempt to be supportive did not make him feel much better. He swore an oath to himself someday that whoever was in charge of this database would meet a most violent end indeed. Nova slithered out of his coat, not understanding why but simply agreeing with his master with a cheerful bubbling noise. Coyn heard it and spun around, backing up while pointing at it.

“Shit, slime inside! On your shoulder! Kill it!”

“It’s not just A slime, it’s mine. His name is Nova.”

She looked up his Empowerment and found him designated as N/A.

“What? How? I’ve never seen a non-Empowered with a tamed monster before.”

Nova perceived the connotations of the word monster through his shared link with Marc and visibly deflated, becoming a floppy puddle on his shoulder. The sudden change disturbed her a bit.

“Um? Is he okay?”

“He can hear you, you know. Kind of rude to call someone you just met a monster. Don’t worry, Nova, I don’t think you’re a monster.”

Nova happily perked up more at Marc’s comforting words.

“Well, except for when you tried to eat me.”

Nova deflated again. Coyn decided it was best not to pry into that concerning statement and pressed her hands together.

“Sorry, Nova. Didn’t mean it, honest. How did you manage to get him to listen to you? I see people on the news monthly dead or injured trying to domesticate certain… animals.”

“Well…”

----------------------------------------

His voice trailed off into silence, and it took Coyn a second to understand his reluctance to speak. She snapped her fingers and gave him the finger guns that meant she ‘got it’.

“Oh. I guess it’s a little rude of me to ask you to tell me your secrets. I won’t pry into it anymore. Everyone has their trump cards.”

She went back to working, waving him off.

“It’s late. Go crash on the couch or whatever. I’ll have something arranged for you by tomorrow.”

“Aren’t you gonna sleep?”

A coffee machine on her desk began to whirr at his words, hissing as boiled water passed through coffee grounds and into the waiting coffee pot below. Rather than pour out the coffee into a mug, Coyn picked up the entire thing and took a big swig from it. She gave him a shaky, trembling thumbs up.

“I’m good.”

Marc wasn’t sure he liked her. She was kind of weird. Sitting down on the couch, he noted the softness of the furniture, as if it had been bought but never used. Pillows sat neatly at the corners, and blankets draped over the back of the sofa were clearly gathering dust. After flicking off the lights, he lay down and pulled a blanket over himself, tired from working himself to the bone all day.

Sleeping was hard, despite everything. All the excitement of the day meant he was buzzed on adrenaline, and now that he had the time to finally rest, he couldn’t. It took at least an hour to drift off, and even then his sleep was not as restful as he would have hoped. So he slumbered, until the night grew silent and even Coyn retired in the late hours to catch a few z’s. Unlike the humans, some others grew more active…

Abruptly, your point of view is silenced, a darkness enveloping everything. You cannot see. As you adjust to your new situation, you can almost feel the world around you. It is almost as if your body blankets the ground, the tables, the chairs. You’re touching the whole room. Where are your arms? Your legs? You can’t seem to sense your limbs. The body you inhabit simply doesn’t have them. Then you pay attention to what you CAN feel, and the realization is a metal bat meeting the back of your skull.

YOU ARE NOVA.

Nova knew not of sleep, merely idling as his owner entered REM sleep. He didn’t really understand a lot of things, being not much smarter than a dog or cat. All he knew was that animals slept, and during that time it was really easy to hunt them. With a little bit of concentration, some of his alien slime coalesced into a round ball, cells restructuring at high speed to form a simple construct many would know well. A newly crafted eyeball poked out from the slime surrounding it, trying to get a good look at everything. This visual form of contact was peculiar to Nova, who simply sensed everything near him as if he were touching it all the time.

While most slimes stumbled around, using pseudopods to navigate the tiny slice of the world they sat upon, Nova stared out the windows of the flat, frozen at the clear unobstructed view of the moon that coated every surface it could see with glimmering moonlight. The low light just barely allowed him to perceive color, the blacks and grays of the dark obfuscating the normally vibrant colors of the world around him.

He cast his gaze over to the doorway, lit dimly by the screens in the room. He was a little bit curious about this new person, and felt the urge to explore. Quietly he slithered down from his spot on the sofa and crept across the floor with his single eye centered on the path in front of him. Keeping the eye operational was a little annoying; when he stole the design from the animals he’d eaten, he hadn’t anticipated needing to frequently clean the surface with fluid to keep it operating. He resorted to covering it with the bare minimum of a slime membrane to ensure it wouldn’t break down.

Rather than hearing with his ears, he felt the vibrations of sound ebb through his own body, processing it into noise he could understand. So even despite the solid windows that kept out the weather, he could still feel the faint sounds of quiet footfalls outside. Even in the dead of night, the city was still lively. Strangely, though, when he turned his eye to look outside, he saw no one. Also… the moonlight that streamed through one of the windows was missing, its silver light no longer cast across that patch of floor.

He slithered over to the window with its moonlight missing and peered into the outdoors. The moon still hung where it always did high overhead, the only light in a starless sky polluted by city light. The glass was thick, as if to defend against bullets, but he could probably melt it with acid. An unrestricted look at the goings on of the world outside, or more information on the mysterious woman that his owner was trusting to help them both?

----------------------------------------

In a moment he was past the threshold of the doorframe, in the spacious bedroom Coyn had converted to an office. There were a few shelves with books and the occasional trinket, the few tiny potted plants that always invaded any kind of working space, and the boring little rectangular pencil and pen holders that inevitably filled up with random shit you forget about. Such was Nova’s analysis of the room from his vantage point on her desk. Behind him, most screens remained black, except for a single screen with a little AOL window open. If Nova could read, he would have remembered the words “AOL Instant Messaging”. Instead, he spared little time perusing the glowing pixels with his eyeball. There were better things to look for.

Ding!

[Incoming Message!]

Nova crept across the desk, checking every nook and cranny. Behind him the AIM window opened up automatically to a chat log between her and someone else.

Teethcollection: Found the person you’re looking for. Came to my hotel in Plainshold, can you believe that? Get back to me soon, I’ll connect you to him when you’re ready.

On the far side of the room lay the woman in question, beneath a little pile of blankets and pillows. It was a mound of fluff, one that rivaled the stone castles of yestercenturies. The lack of moonlight streaming through the window meant he couldn't see her; only the moon hanging high through the glass…

----------------------------------------

Marc awoke to the feeling of drowning, spluttering as he launched himself off the couch clawing at his face. Nova obligingly dropped from his face and fell with a splat on the floor.

“Nova what the hell! I still need to breathe, damnit…”

He rubbed his eyes, tired and unable to see in the darkness.

“Whatever. Where’s the bathroom? I can barely see anything…”

The only light in the room was the dim glow of the single screen emanating from Coyn’s room. Besides that, the spacious living room was actually pitch black. Marc moved to pull back the curtains and let some light in, only to find there were no curtains. The moonlight simply no longer penetrated the glass. In fact… no light at all came through. The formerly transparent glass instead appeared as a black, inky void, darker than anything that ever existed.

“Did you do this Nova?”

The slime sat there, still as a rock, staring at him, for he didn’t know what exactly Marc was saying. Marc put a hand on the cold glass, confirming it hadn’t turned into another material.

“Is this just part of her apartment or…”

To answer his question, a single small pane in Coyn’s room appeared to shift from pitch black to a normal state, the moonlight splashing across the shaggy carpet of the room. The sudden gleam caught both Marc and Nova unawares, staring as a thin figure climbed out of the moonlit glass, as if it were a portal. They dared not move a muscle; the man stood up and stretched, hunchbacked. His whole body was covered in dark black bandages that wrapped him like a mummy. He flexed his hands, and twin daggers of pure moonlight glittered in each hand…

----------------------------------------

Marc slowly leaned forward, to where Nova sat on the ground. In his head, he could clearly picture his next move, and Nova could easily sense the general intent that Marc had in his mind. So as the bandaged man stretched his limbs, Marc grabbed Nova in one hand, slinging him across the room like a baseball pitcher; only, this ball was the size of a basketball and actively hostile. The minutiae of sound of the scuff of Marc’s shoe and the whoosh of the slime meant that even with Nova’s suddenly hardened exterior, a quick reaction meant that an insanely thin blade of pure light bisected Nova like a butterknife.

Unfortunately for the man of bandages, a slime is the one thing a superthin blade cannot permanently cut. In a second both halves were bound again, reconnecting across the infinitesimal gap created by the gleaming blade of moonlight. With a splat, the relatively heavy weight overbalanced him the moment Nova struck him in the neck. The chitin spines that Nova could expel found themselves stopped suddenly, a thin barrier of moonlight preventing a swift sharp edge to the throat.

----------------------------------------

As the mystery man struggled to pull the slime off of his throat, hands scrabbling at his neck, Marc charged forward with a silent cry and socked him in the face with a mean right hook. Despite the force field surrounding his body, the recoil of the punch sent him reeling anyway, and Marc tackled him into one of the bookshelves. Realizing he could get Nova off so easily, he shoved Marc away and tried swiping at him with blades of hardlight. Marc ducked, narrowly avoiding a decapitation strike partially obstructed by the basketball sized slime currently enveloping the shoulders of the assassin.

Then the heavy bookshelf they’d bumped into during their scuffle tipped over. A mighty crash echoed off the walls as the heavy wooden cabinet fell down directly onto the assassin. The severe blunt force trauma shattered his moonlight barrier at multiple points, pinning him to the floor. He was lucky to have escaped broken bones. He did struggle admirably, trying to pull himself out from under the furniture while Nova was momentarily stunned from being stuck under the unknown Empowered.

Clink! A coin from the darkness lands on his head, and his head meets the floor. Marc turned away from the dazed hitman to see pillows and blankets sprawled across the bed, Coyn flipping a little bronze coin up and down in her hand.

“Another one, huh? I get ‘em from time to time. I’d say thanks for stopping him, but I know you’d rather have a real favor. Call me anytime if you need something done.”

Her gaze shifted to the prone man, surrounded by random books. A few more coins stuck themselves to his arms and hands, and he found himself unable to move.

“What do we do with this guy?”

----------------------------------------

“We should probably get rid of him.”

Marc wasn’t in a very merciful mood after being shot and slashed at multiple times in the last few days. As far as he was concerned, a swift death was really just sparing the assassin from the torture he would have to go through if Marc really felt like squeezing him for dubiously useful information. The helpless bandaged man could do nothing. He could only watch Marc walk off to the kitchen to grab a knife.

A shame he wouldn’t live that long. Without the full body barrier to protect himself, he could do nothing as a frustrated Nova finally pierced his throat, then chest. Coyn backed up from the ensuing groans of pain, momentarily confused while Nova slipped his entire squishy body inside the gory interior of the human killer. What happened next should be no surprise to anyone who had ever seen a slime in the process of digesting its meal. The cries soon stopped due to an absence of lungs.

So when Marc came back from searching the kitchen, he saw only the weakly twitching cadaver in the middle of being devoured, inside out. Much to his horror, blood was pooling by its mouth.

“What the hell? Nova?! What’d you do to him???”

A glib, sated Nova crawled out of the hole he’d made and blurbled in an imitation of a giggle as he began to slip into and devour the skull. The blood was all gone now, as Nova consumed all of that too. The worst and most concerning part was his size. He just kept eating. With every bit of mass digested, the total amount of slime increased bit by bit. Already Nova was nearly three feet in diameter, and the brain he was currently chowing down on would only add to this number. The only consolation was that the mess being made was largely wiped clean, as Nova could easily pick out and absorb most of the organic matter whether it was inside the body or staining the ground.

Marc glanced up and met Coyn’s disgusted eyes. One hand over her mouth, she mumbled something akin to “I’m gonna use the restroom”, and shuffled out the door.

----------------------------------------

“Good job, Nova!”

Marc gave him a big, awkward thumbs up. It was really weird having Nova watch him with his one eyeball as he continued to dissolve and absorb the flesh in front of him. The brain was all gone now. He was onto slurping up the flesh and munching on the bones.

Coyn stumbled in, still a little bit woozy from the whole experience, elbowing Marc on the shoulder.

“Could ya get him to do that somewhere else, maybe? I’m not a gore fanatic, and I don’t think I can eat anything for at least six hours without evacuating the contents of my stomach again.”

“Well, the body is gone now. Isn’t that right, Nova?”

He was right. Nova had just finished devouring the entire man. It was shockingly fast, once he stopped resisting. Internally, he tried parsing all the new biological information he had gained from the meal, separating data for muscles from blood vessels. Much of it was the same as other mammalian species, but some of it was different. To make sure, he would test it out.

Thus it came as a shock to both humans when Nova began to imitate the shape of a human, covering his body with skin and flesh. Solid bones kept him upright, and crude fingers and toes let him manipulate the world around him with ease. In under a minute, a near-perfect replica of the assassin stood in front of them, only sans all of the clothes.

“EWW, OH MY GOD. WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?”

Coyn turned away covering her eyes in a mix of disgust and abject terror. Marc had to agree with her. Being able to use acid and chitin? Very cool. Turning into a human? No thanks.

“Nova, please don’t do that. Stay as a slime, please. No one wants to see all that.”

The slime let all the biological constructs he built melt away as he fell to the ground with a splat. Despite having no face, eyes, mouth, or visible body parts at all, Marc could feel the shame and sadness coming through the connection.

“Ok fine, maybe I was too harsh. You can be human shaped. Just don’t turn your body into a human one, okay?”

Nova was a lot happier with that, growing bones to give him hands, legs, and arms. The slimy goo that constituted his body deformed to match the body shape of a human, though lacking critical features such as skin or hair. A head formed to encapsulate what Marc could vaguely tell was a human brain floating around. To his surprise, this head had two sharp cat’s eyes, as well as their snout and a fair of vaguely furry ears.

----------------------------------------

“FURRY ALERT!🚨🚨🚨”

Maybe Marc yelled that a bit too loud. Coyn covered her ears while Marc exhibited behavior more typical of a veteran Discord moderator than a responsible person of society. Nova appeared confused, his slime face contorting into something that resembled confusion. He tried to speak, only to remember he had no vocal cords. Swiftly formed throat muscles later:

“I… no understand.”

While Nova had gleaned some information from the mind of the man he ate, he couldn’t perfectly grasp the nuances of the English language, instead cobbling together the words he absorbed in somewhat understandable speech. It was a little surreal, watching this abomination of nature attempt to mimic human mannerisms. He lacked the expressive facial expressions and the body language people had.

“...nevermind. It’d take too long to explain.”

“I don’t understand how you can be so calm about this???”

Coyn cared a lot more about the potential threat of a skinwalker than Marc, apparently. Getting shot at and almost sliced to pieces probably does that to a person. He considered Nova’s strange body type, an unholy mixture of human and animal.

----------------------------------------

“Nova, you should probably change to something… more human. You have to appeal to people.”

“...Okay…”

Nova’s shape changed again, the false fur that lined his body dissolving back into his slime. Instead, strands of false hair fell down her shoulders, and her torso became just a little bit slimmer as mass was allocated to different parts of her body. By the end of the transformation, Nova stood as a five foot five woman with hair down to the waist, though she was all made of slime. Experimentally, she twirled around, trying out her new form. Holding the form was somewhat taxing, so she let her legs naturally meld together again partially.

Coyn gave Marc the stare. You know the one. It’s the stare you use when someone tells you about their favorite waifu, or that they own a body pillow.

“There’s no way Tracker knows you’re all kinds of fucked up.”

“I didn’t mean THAT! I just meant Nova should try being more normal!”

“At least, uh, she doesn’t have any human features. Just a human shape. At least buy her some clothes or something.”

Marc made a show of turning out his pockets to reveal no money. He was still broke.

“Oh. Yeah. Well, I’m setting you up with the Mercenaries Union. Should be quick and easy gold for you, and Automotive Industries won’t be able to touch you since they’ll offend the execs.”

"But where am I gonna live?" mumbled Marc, as he 'tested' the firmness of an all-slime body. "I don't have the money to drop on a place right now. I'd have to work for a while before then."

Coyn stared at him disapprovingly.

"Maybe stop fondling your pet and pick a place on the screen."

"It's not- look, I wasn't-"

"A flat here in the Residential Block, or a nice suite in one of the skyscrapers downtown?"

Marc was incredulous. "A SKYSCRAPER?"

"Yeah, it's better than anything here. I'll put it under your name and I'll pay for the first few months. Just pay me back after."

"Yeah, I think a flat is fine. I just need a one person-"

"Two."

"...two person apartment, basically."

Coyn pulled a little white card out of one of her pockets, scribbling some indecipherable chicken scratch on them before handing it off to Marc. He didn't bother trying to make sense of the mess. It appeared more like a child's scribbles than anything resembling language.

"Code's on the other side. Your room'll be in block C22. Show the other side to the receptionist when you get to the Merc Union building in this city. Get there without being intercepted, and the robots will have to leave you alone; for a time, at least."

Nice infodump. Marc thanked her for the card. "I'll repay the favor someday."

"Eh, I'll trust Tracker's judgment this time. Don't stir the pot, and don't drag me into shit, and I'll consider it even. Also, make sure your apartment is... presentable. When the landlord checks in on you I don't want him to think I recommended him a creep for tenant."

"Why would he ever think that?"

Coyn turned her head to stare at the slimegirl in the middle of the room, and then back to meet Marc's eyes with an extremely neutral stare.

"Oh."

He left before he pissed off Coyn for real, this time.

Traveling by sewers sucked ass. Huge ass. Mega dogshit stinky ass. That's what Marc thought to himself as he pushed open a manhole cover and climbed into an alleyway. He would be glad to finally put this chapter of his life behind him. Getting here had been hard, even after having seen the map, since he didn't really remember it perfectly, and everything in the sewer looked the same. Who designed it as a death maze, anyway?

Now he was at the front of the Mercenaries Union. It was quite the imposing building, being a giant dome in the middle of the city, alongside the Nodemap Spire standing proud in the center plaza, the Catgirls Inc. Park Complex, and the Automotive Industries Tower Factory at the farthest end of the city center. No time to mull over everything, Marc pushed open the glass double doors (no automatic sliding doors?) and went inside.

The interior was definitely very... cyberpunk, one might say. The outer walls were mostly glass, reminiscent of the design style Apple used to have, before they got wiped by the onset of The Dust some thirty-odd years ago. The history books were pretty boring, he didn't remember the exact number when he was in school. Thankfully, humanity was technologically advanced enough at the time to recover, and now a few decades later walled cities could be found dotting the entire country.

Anyway, the inside of the building, or at least the reception area, felt very artificial, in the kind of way you might want to gratify a customer, or employee. Imagine a souped up employees lounge, only open to the public and containing a lot of higher technology. Like, come on, a laser toaster? Who needs something that luxurious? Cameras ran overwatch over many tables, all covered in big screens you could control to play any video or games you wanted.

"Wow. City is weird."

Oh yes, I nearly forgot. Nova is still here. A few of the mercenaries were looking over, gossiping about what is very obviously a slime girl.

Marc walked up to the bored receptionist, Nova gliding forward on her two legs that were fused together into one. Rather than having feet, it was easier to just pool excess slime at the bottom and use that for movement; at least, out of battle.

"Uh, hello? I'm here to register."

"Huh? Oh, yeah, That's my job. There's an interview process and everything though. Where's your acceptance receipt?"

"Receipt? What receipt?"

The guy sitting in front of Marc looked super exasperated, eyebrows drawing together as his gaze tried to pierce Marc's skull and kill him instantly, so that he wouldn't have to walk through the process with this thickheaded mercenary wannabe.

"The one you get after submitting your resume and getting past the first wave of applications? You don't have one, do you."

"No, well, I have this. It's kind of like that."

Marc showed him the front of the card, with the signature on it and everything, and the receptionist immediately swung over to his computer and began typing. After an uncomfortable 7 seconds of silence, his eyes began flicking back and forth between the screen and the card Marc was holding.

"Alright, I guess that works. Whatever. Will you register your Empowerment with us, or would you rather leave that information out of the company profile? We'd like to have it to pair you with mercenaries that complement your unique ability set."

"How would you know if I had an Empowerment? Maybe I don't?"

The reception guy gestured at Nova, who was attempting to digest one of the free pens you get from places like these (still shoddy as ever despite the technological advances of the past forty years) and succeeding. When she noticed the guy and Marc staring at her she gave them a happy airheaded look to reflect the fact that any semblance of intelligence she absorbed from the moonlight assassin was minimal. She was dumb as a rock.

"So you gonna register your Empowerment or not?"

----------------------------------------

“If it’ll help, then I will.”

“Don’t worry, we don’t share this information with third parties. It’s only to help you complete missions more efficiently. Come this way, to the back.”

A side door by the front counter beeped, the red lights bordering the doorway turning green as the metal gates slid open to reveal a room beyond this one, much more practical in its opulence. As the receptionist walked by him, Marc snatched a handful of complementary plastic pens from the cup they were stored in, slipping them in his pockets as the duo followed close behind.

The doors slid shut behind them, signifying that they couldn’t change their minds anymore. Ahead, many more people sat around tables, quietly discussing. A nice change of pace from the more rowdy people outside. Posh couches and armchairs surrounded complex holograms displaying pictures of missions in progress, weapons for sale, equipment available in a rotating shop, and other things.

In a corner, a tall pod sat with cords wildly sprouting from the top, going in every which way. Like worms, they burrowed into various holes in the wall and ceiling. Screens spat out diagnostics and enough junk data to overload most consumer hard drives. The receptionist gestured to Marc.

“Well, go on, don’t be shy. Step inside and put the helmet on. And, uh, I guess the slime too. There’s a secondary helmet for contingencies like this.”

When they stepped in, a pair of helmets dropped from a hidden compartment and almost hit Marc in the head. The cool metal contrasted the bright lights that decorated the inside and outside of the headwear, and when he put it on it ‘shrunk’ to fit snugly over his skull. Strangely, it knew how to apply the right amount of force to fit tightly without being uncomfortable, even on Nova.

“Ok, great. Everything seems to be working fine. Readings indicate you’ve got a Level 3 ability; unlucky. Or lucky, depending on how you look at it. Now, could you state, out loud, the name of your ability?”

----------------------------------------

“[Soulbound].”

“Name registered. Level 3 ability, passive. Typing?”

“Err… probably Unique. It’s mostly Coax, but some physical.”

“Alright, that’s everything. Thank you for registering. You may step out of the pod now.”

After dismounting the strange device, the receptionist led both of them to one of the many tables scattered around the posh lounge. Immediately, holographic screens lit up in front of them, with multiple tabs, scrolling feeds, general news, and other things. One of the windows displayed some text: “Hello, Preston!”. Thus the receptionist finally had a name. Preston’s nimble fingers flicked over the projection, swiping past screens to reach a window labeled ‘Party Up’.

“Since you’re new, you’ll want to use the Party Up function when doing any of the harder missions. You can sort by type as well. Make sure to do your proper research before sending out party requests; no one wants you to waste their time. Take some time to check out all the features of the holotable. When you’re ready, you can pick a mission to begin, or just go home to prepare for tomorrow.”

Marc waved his hand in front of the hologram, testing its responsiveness. He never had enough money for one of these big holotables, and getting to play with it was a novel experience. He turned around to ask Preston a question, only to see him gone, the sliding door they came from hissing shut. Oh well. Nova was entirely unconcerned with everyone going around her, ignoring the stares and the whole conversation to exercise her humanoid hands by swiping through windows and clicking on random things in a guest account. On Marc’s screen, he carefully observed his options.

----------------------------------------

Clicking on News brought him to a list of the latest articles, with many tabs to break down searches into certain topics. He took a second to read some of the headlines.

The Dust will come early this year, experts say!

Vigilante activity on the rise, possible capes resurgence?

Fruit of the Future teases new HoloPhone X.

Protests mount, Wall Collective under fire for perceived dictarian rule.

What We Know; Empowerment Breakdown of VIPs!

Intercity conflict escalates, increasing skirmishes in the north.

He didn’t really read the news too often, since he was too busy writing it for Automotive Industries, but now that his employment was terminated, he might finally be able to keep up with the times. The shop tab was refreshingly neat, with a section called TODAY’S SELECTION placed front and center to capture his attention.

TP3 Pulse Rifles, 25% off!

FF Privacy Fields, perfect for all occasions!

Personal Shield Gen MK3 now available for commercial use!

Each cost a pretty penny. Even if he had any money, he’d hesitate to drop such a large number of chits on any of these items. The glowing reviews did make him reconsider, though.

----------------------------------------

So many things to think about. It was starting to overload his head; Nova’s too, apparently, based on the way she was swaying a little bit on the couch and slightly melting. An unexpected downside of permanently connecting their souls, alongside pain sharing. Marc slipped one of the cheap complimentary pens out of his pocket and tapped Nova on the nose with it, startling her a little. Both eyes focused on the pen, then Marc, and he inserted it into her mouth.

The process of eating was weird. Nova imitated a human mouth partway, but the gooey nature of her body meant that the teeth were just for show, and strings of slime occasionally connected the top and bottom halves of her mouth. Rather than chewing, she closed her mouth, and the pen was subsumed entirely by the slime, and was swiftly dissolved. Marc kept absentmindedly inserting pens in her mouth while he checked the missions tab, to see what kind of jobs he’d be taking.

Temporary and permanent contracts were the two main categories of jobs, which could be further broken down into combat and civilian tasks. For now, he just scrolled through the ones on the front page, posted by the people with enough influence to get their ads pushed up there.

Automotive Industries now hiring for a writing position!

It hurt a little to see himself replaced that fast.

Help wanted: trainguard position needing fulfillment.

Looking for information types available for tracking down serial robbers.

Research assistant for Reticule Laboratories!

Contractor jobs at Catgirls Inc: with medical benefits!

Keeping the city safe; join and become a founder of Capes and Cods!

----------------------------------------

The hand of God descended from heaven’s realm, nudging him towards the option that stood out the most in his mind: Catgirls Inc. They’d rejected him before when he had first applied, due to lacking any kind of useful ability. But now, that is not the case. No longer would he be working in dingy factories, streamlining productivity reports for drug addicts and ruthless dictators higher up on the corporate ladder. Maybe he could even get his own cushy office, with secretaries and assistants that all worked for him.

He filled out the forms on autopilot, in a trance as Marc daydreamed about the alpha sigma omega male hedonistic lifestyle he would shortly be indulging in. To Nova’s limited understanding of the English language and the world at large, he seemed to be in a half-sleep, like the moment when you’re about to fall asleep. She was a little bored of messing with the holo-screens now, and looking around there were a lot more interesting things to do. Or poke. Or maybe try eating.

She got up to peer out the back windows, massive as they were. To the left was a large gym area, where Nova could see multiple Empowered fighting. One appeared to project lightning from their body like a conduit, countered by a hydromancer grounding the charge with their water. A storm of floating blades interrupted their stalemate, knives and swords and daggers lazily spinning through the air until they were hurled at their targets. Those weapons never found their targets, narrowly skimming past someone who could switch up the vector of their momentum at will, moving in impossible ways to avoid the flashing steel that sought to cut.

It was a battle that belonged in a movie theater with how intense and skillful the fighting was. So distracted was she that she never noticed the guy sidling up to her. The sudden sound of his voice startled her and she leaned away, body rippling slightly as the cohesion of her slime body was disturbed by a second’s lapse in concentration.

“A new Empowered? You lookin’ to fight like one of ‘em someday?”

The sentence flew by her, a bullet of words just missing her mind and embedding themselves into the wall behind her. She was able to catch the words ‘You’ and ‘fight’, and nodded her head vigorously.

“Well, it’s difficult. Not just anyone can put their lives on the line for money. A lot of newbies lose their heads when they gotta go out on a combat mission for the first time, sometimes literally.”

She didn’t understand the subtext so she just tilted her head slightly and kept eye contact. She slowly tried to parse the words in her mind, searching through the foggy subconscious of the man she consumed to find the definition. Being unable to eat his memories really tripped her up here; he was dead by the time the brain was eaten, so the complex records of memory fizzled out before they could be processed. Only the instinctual reflexive habits that he possessed she could remember. Thus, easy or more commonly used words simply came to the forefront of her imitation of the human brain when she needed them, while she had to dig deeper to reconstruct what ‘losing your head’ meant.

“But hey, don’t worry about it. I’ve been here for longer than most, and I can show you the ropes of freelance life. A mercenary’s word on it.”

He held out his hand then, and she took in the full image of the smiling man, flawless skin and a glowing grin accentuated by ruffled brown hair and his casual business attire. Her eyes flicked to Marc, still on autopilot, then back to the outstretched hand.

----------------------------------------

Nova glanced uncertainly at the hand offered, nervous like a cornered animal. Her eyes flicked from his hand to his face, and slowly, she slunk away to the person she was [Soulbound] to. The man appeared puzzled, but brightened up as if she had not just slighted him. Nova bent down and poked Marc in the shoulder, not knowing what to do. He glanced up from his trance to stare into the face of the man now standing in front of him.

“Oh… hello. Who’re you?”

“Suvert. It’s nice to meet you.”

He held out his hand again for Marc, and he hesitated briefly before taking it and shaking vigorously, apprehension vanished.

“Nice to meet you, Suvert, I’m Marc. Did you need something?”

“Oh, I was just talking to this polite lady over here when she poked you. I’ve no idea why.”

They both turned to Nova and she stared at them unblinkingly, waiting for Marc to resolve the situation she could not.

“Sorry about that. She’s just like that sometimes. Don’t mind Nova.”

“Nova? Sounds kind of like a pet’s name.”

“She is, basically.”

“Oh? I thought she was human.”

“Ah, it’s more like she’s my familiar. It’s my Empowerment.”

Something clicked in Suvert’s head and he finally understood why Nova was acting so weird.

“Is there a reason why she’s human-shaped?”

“It makes her more approachable. There’s still the stigma of slimes being monsters, you know, and I think people would think twice about killing her if she looked like a person.”

“I see, I see. I haven’t seen either of you before, so you must be new. I could show you around if you want.”

“I’ve got to fill out these employment forms for now. Nova can take my place, she should be smart enough by now to do these kinds of things.”

Paperwork, the bane of socialization. Suvert walked away, hands in his pockets, while Nova trailed behind him slowly. One last look at Marc was met with a wave of his hand, the irresponsible bastard, and she swiveled around to stare at the guy’s back and the facilities in the building. Suvert turned around after about a minute, half-bowing and gesturing towards the rest of the dome with a wave of his arm.

“Where to, madam?”

----------------------------------------

Nova pointed to the large double doors at the far end of the spacious hall, past all the people milling around discussing various topics, where a large sigil with two swords decorated the entrance to a place of particularly high security. Suvert scratched his head, thinking about it.

“Well, I’ll try. I’m not sure if my rank is high enough to get you in the door.”

Nova’s face warped, a mouth appearing where there was formerly none, speaking in a warped facsimile of what she thought Coyn sounded like. Vocal cords of slime quivered trying to imitate human speech.

“...rank…?”

“Hm? What was that?”

“Rank. Rank?”

“That was you? You can talk??? I guess that Marc fellow wasn’t kidding about your intelligence. I’m rank B by the way, so I have some expanded privileges. Not infinite, though.”

“What… is… rank?”

“Ah, yeah, slimes wouldn’t know what those are. Humans, we enjoy categorizing things. So even though a tier system is pretty archaic, it’s still in use here to sort everyone into a bunch of buckets based on how useful they are to the union. They go like this: F, E, D, C, B, A, and S. I think there might be a rank beyond S or something like that for a special case or whatever, but generally you won’t ever have to deal with those.”

She tuned out his text wall as he continued to ramble on about ranks. At some point she tried generating a second brain to pair with the first, and had the first brain connect to her ears (also made of slime) to record all the information she was taking in. The second brain drifted off, engaging in a practice the moonlight assassin would have termed “daydreaming”. She thought of sneaking up on the unaware animals of the forest, falling upon them and devouring them whole. Those were good memories. She thought of running away from strange creatures of dark and dust, silently creeping through the forest to watch the city on the horizon. She thought of pressing herself in the dirt, dangling arms like a human’s scraping the ground meters away. Those were bad memories.

After a minute she turned and started walking (more like sliding) to the armory by herself, ignoring the stares from everyone else. Suvert snapped out of his trance to run after her.

“Hey, wait up! I’ve got to ID you in!”

Two security guards stood by the door, largely unnecessary due to the podium created specifically for scanning IDs right by the door itself. One of them spoke up at the approach of both of them.

“Please place your hand on the podium to verify your identity and rank.”

Suvert went first, touching his palm to the biometric scanner. A series of beeps confirmed him, and a holographic screen brought up his rank, B, as well as his Empowerment, listed as none. Weird, she thought everyone here was Empowered. The scanner obviously had 0 reaction to her hand of pure slime.

“Don’t worry sir, she’s here with me.”

“Them’s the rules. No ranks below C can enter. If she can’t scan, she can’t come in.”

“But you see, she’s a familiar. She’s not actually human, she is a pet in human form.”

“Hmm… I suppose that isn’t disallowed. You may enter.”

A surprising turn of events for Nova. Truly he must have the most godlike charisma to pull off an argument that shoddy. The giant doors slid open, and they walked in to see a massive room, walls covered in various weapons. Giant ladders allowed people to climb up to grab weapons they wanted, and a few checkout counters sat off to the side to manage the flow of customers. Already many others were trying out a variety of blades, guns, bows, and other more esoteric weapons. Suvert put his hands in his pockets as Nova drank in the sights.

“Which wall do you wanna try first?”

----------------------------------------

She was immediately drawn to the gun racks. There were other melee weapons, but she’d consider those some other time. In comparison, guns were so different from everything else. Individually they differed in their presentation and composition as well, crafted from a variety of materials. Some even had scribbles on the side, for some reason.

“Don’t touch the signed weapons. Those are Tinker-made. Personalized weapons are a bit too high of a price point.”

She hesitantly climbed one of the ladders, avoiding the weapons with the scribbles on them. Suvert helpfully pointed out all the guns she shouldn’t touch. Multiple times, she had to press herself against the ladder bars, as other ladders offset a distance from the wall scooted by right behind her. They sped by at a worrying speed, and more than once she was nearly launched off the aluminum ladder by another one whizzing past her back in a near-collision.

A perilous journey indeed; but one well worth it. At the top, she laid her hands upon God’s great gift to humanity. The sawed off shotgun! This particular model, intended for mass-production, clearly had a Tinker’s hands in its creation. Light yet sturdy, with a sizable magazine capacity that belied its small size. Capable of fitting custom shells, a versatile firearm for all kinds of urban combat scenarios.

She didn’t know any of that. To Nova, it was just a fun toy. After descending the ladder, she proudly presented the item to Suvert as if she had made it herself. He watched in horror as she proceeded to point the barrel randomly at multiple bystanders, messing with the trigger. Thank God it was unloaded, but it was still horrible trigger discipline.

“Nova, you can’t do that. You need to understand when, where, and how to handle a gun if you want one.”

She tilted her head and gave him a quizzical stare. Burying his face in his hands, he turned around and gestured for her to follow. When she wouldn’t, he held out a hand again, and she shied away like he had just threatened her with a knife. I suppose trust is a gradual process, he thought, shuffling away to the gun range. After thirty seconds Nova built up the courage to follow.

The accompanying gun range was absolutely kitted out. A lot of people stood around, waiting for their turn to fire downrange. A few glances were exchanged and a couple of elbow nudges thrown as Nova came in, but most were preparing to get in the zone and nail the most accurate shots of their life. It was more crowded here than outside, and Nova practically scampered over to behind Suvert standing in line at the nearest window.

She did not have to suffer the gazes of everyone else for long. When it was her turn, Suvert helpfully pressed a button that shifted the target from a great distance away to only around twenty meters. A dispenser ejected a few shells for her to use. Before she could even begin to start loading them, Suvert grabbed the gun from her slime hands to demonstrate how to properly wield the damn thing.

“Before I can let you point a gun at anything, you have to learn to never point the barrel, that’s the end here, at anything you don’t want to kill or destroy. On the side here is the safety. Always keep it on when you’re not about to fire. It would be nice if you treated it like it was loaded at all times… are you listening?”

She was kind of listening, but also eating one of the complementary shells. The metal parts were kind of like hard candy to her. Obediently, she memorized his stance as he aimed and fired the weapon with a bang to deafen her ears. That was very unenjoyable for her brain, so she had to perform on-the-spot repairs to fix the damage her false ears had suddenly taken. Impatiently she nabbed the shotgun and aimed downrange where the spray of pellets had put holes in the target paper.

The recoil shocked her enough that she nearly dropped the thing. She flexed the slime in her body like one contiguous muscle, temporarily compacting the large volume of free floating goo into the exact shape of the human body. For a moment it was as if she was perfectly sculpted into the spitting image of a human. The next, she let her whole body relax, and the flexible ooziness came back with a vengeance. The whole process was more than a little weird to watch. It was akin to watching a pile of goop suddenly harden into a strict mold, and then return to being a puddle. Gingerly, Suvert lifted the weapon from her hands. Despite being 0% human, she had a shell shocked expression he would only expect from the most battle-hardened mercenaries.

While Nova was goofing off and generally being a nuisance, Marc put the final touches on his shitty ass resume to be submitted to Catgirls Inc. He took a second to stretch his arms and legs. In a day or so they’d probably come back to him, and with a useful Empowerment by his side they’d surely leap at the opportunity to take him in as an associate, a contractor.

Though without Nova he couldn’t go home. He could sense her vaguely in the room across from him, all the way down the hall. Perhaps he could take this free time to enjoy himself.

----------------------------------------

Maybe checking up on Nova would be for the best. It had been a hot second while he drifted off during the whole filling out of forms. He vaguely remembered some kind of mental battle powering through layers and layers of holographic “paper”work. But now he was free to do anything, to go wherever he wanted. Nothing would stop him!

“I’m gonna have to stop you, sir.”

“What? But I’m a registered member of the union now!”

This was an OUTRAGE! He wasn’t allowed in the armory despite his brand new ID with the company! What was the point of registration if he didn’t even get to make use of the amenities?

“Take a look at the panel.”

He took a look at the panel.

[INSUFFICIENT RANK. C RANK REQUIRED. CURRENT RANK: F]

“The hell are ranks?”

“Oh, I see you’re new. Let me explain:

The Mercenary Ranking System is a structured hierarchy designed to assess and categorize mercenaries based on their skills, experience, and achievements. The system consists of six ranks, denoted by the letters F, E, D, C, B, A, and S, with each rank representing a different level of expertise and responsibility.

F Rank (Fresh Recruit):

Entry-level mercenaries start at the F rank.

Limited experience and skills.

Engage in basic missions and tasks under the supervision of higher-ranked mercenaries.

E Rank (Novice):

Mercenaries at this level have gained some experience and demonstrated basic skills.

They may participate in more challenging missions but are still considered learners.

Require supervision from higher-ranked mercenaries.

D Rank (Competent):

Mercenaries in this rank have proven their competence in various missions.

Possess a broader skill set and can handle more complex tasks independently.

May take on leadership roles for smaller teams.

C Rank (Proficient):

Demonstrated advanced skills and expertise in specific areas.

Can lead larger teams and coordinate complex operations.

Assigned missions that require a higher level of strategic thinking and execution.

B Rank (Elite):

Considered elite mercenaries with exceptional skills and experience.

Specialized in particular fields such as stealth, marksmanship, or strategy.

Given high-priority and high-stakes missions, often involving critical objectives.

A Rank (Master):

Masters in their respective fields, A-rank mercenaries are renowned for their exceptional abilities.

Trusted with the most challenging and critical missions.

May serve as mentors or trainers for lower-ranked mercenaries.

S Rank (Legend/Supreme):

The highest achievable rank, reserved for legendary mercenaries.

Acknowledged for extraordinary skills, achievements, and contributions to the mercenary community.

Typically entrusted with missions that have a global impact or involve extreme danger.

Advancement between ranks is based on a combination of factors, including mission success, skill development, leadership qualities, and overall contribution to the mercenary organization. Mercenaries can undergo assessments, evaluations, and specialized training to progress through the ranks. The system aims to ensure that individuals are appropriately matched with missions that align with their skills and expertise, promoting a well-organized and effective mercenary force.”

Marc paid zero attention to the guard, who was clearly reciting some AI-generated description of the ranking system verbatim as protocol. Whatever. Guess he’d have to find something else to do.

----------------------------------------

Game room it is. He tried to get his mind off of his humiliation as he kept his eyes on the giant image of a die, red and white over shiny gold revolving doors. He thought it was so needlessly gaudy and prideful, until he stepped past the threshold into the game room proper; oh, what a fantastic world of wonder he saw. Glittering artifice, monuments to greed and gold standing tall amongst their lessers. These massive machines were placed in the center of rings of slot machines, coin pushers, and other such casino games. Their sheer height boggled the mind, clinking sentinels towering over everything else.

A closer look told Marc it was some kind of hub for all the money earned from every machine surrounding the main one. Glimmering coins could be seen being sucked up through clear pipes, though a few cases had them coming down to be dispensed for the lucky winners. All around red velvet covered the walls and floor, and lights and streamers decorated the space with bright colors cast upon every surface. The game room was a rave, a concert, a party that never ended. Drunkards could be seen chatting up others, collapsing over slot machines, or generally being minor nuisances to staff.

With no money to spend he went to a back corner, where some less glamorous options sat in disuse. An old air hockey table gathered dust just by the wall, beside Indiana Jones adventure titles and the large pirate-themed shooters with the mounted guns. Given the unappealing nature of such aged equipment and lackluster gameplay, he was surprised to see a woman around his age sitting at one of the stools, bouncing a puck off the side over and over again like throwing a tennis ball at a wall. The rhythmic click-clack of the plastic puck on the inner walls of the hockey table drew his attention, so he idled around for a minute or so before sitting down on the opposite side of the table.

“So, uh, how’s the hockey going? You look a little bored.”

Her eyes darted up to meet his, a fierce red against her black hair that fell to the waist. That gaze was equal parts nervous and wary, and any words he would’ve said died in his mouth.

This dude has no game.

----------------------------------------

Her stare was beginning to get uncomfortable. He noted her navy blue cloak, hood down, wrapping around her body like a shield against the outside world. Awkwardly, he gave her a small wave and a little smile.

“Hi.”

She lost interest in him and her eyes turned downward to the puck she was limply bouncing off the wall. Back and forth, back and forth, the clinking sounds forming a perfect rhythm. While she ignored him, Marc sat down on the other stool on the opposite side of the table, picking up the unused mallet. It felt heavy in his hands, with a realness unlike the hologram replacements that ended up taking all the marketshare from low-tech alternatives of past days.

He waited a minute, then two, then three. Eventually, as expected, she’d miss, letting the puck rebound and slide across the hockey table. Her eyes followed it until it reached Marc, and she looked up at him sitting nonchalantly on the other side. He turned away from watching everyone else to stop the puck’s movement with one finger. With the mallet placed flat on the table, he struck swiftly; one good whack sent the disc ricocheting off the side and right into the goal on her side.

[Ding ding ding!]

The bell rang, and the scoreboard changed: Home, 0. Away, 1. Her eyebrows arched, and she lifted the plastic puck where it was dispensed with two fingers. No sooner had she dropped it on the table when she grabbed the mallet and slammed it into the puck without even bothering to align the mallet flat on the table. Marc let go of his mallet just in time for the disc to fly past where his hand was, directly into the goal. He met her gaze with a glare of disapproval for almost taking his hand off, but paused when he saw the smug smile.

Oh, now it was personal.

[Home 1-2 Away]

Time seemed to lengthen, seconds becoming minutes becoming days.

[Home 3-2 Away]

For both of them, the world faded away, their entire universe becoming just the hockey table, the glowing scoreboard, and their opponent, focused on the orange puck bouncing across the field.

[Home 4-5 Away]

Marc could feel sweat on his forehead, every sense heightened as he deflected the disc with a quick swipe, watching the girl at the other end send it back fast enough to leave his hand buzzing when he blocked.

[Home 6-6 Away]

Down to the wire. His hand clutched the mallet in a deathgrip, every detail of the table standing out in vivid detail as he tracked the movement of the puck. In this moment, the pair felt nothing but the hiss of air from the table, the weight of their mallets, and a little respect for the other. He smacked the disc, sending it flying. Her swift intercept rocketed the puck left and right off both walls in his direction. A simple tap broke it out of its loop, tingles running through his hand from the force. She took a deep breath. Then— a swipe faster than the eye could see. He moved to catch, only for the puck to curve around his hand and slammed right into his goal with a celebratory:

[Home 7-6 Away]

[Home Wins!]

His heart was pounding in his ears, and he could hear her labored breaths. They were panting by now from the serious exertion. Both of Marc’s arms were sore, and the girl on the other side of the table looked frazzled, hair all messy and cloak hanging open in an attempt to cool off. He could see a glimpse of a red tank top and a black skirt, as well as a choker decorated with little glowing stars. Their eyes met and his burning shame from losing evaporated when he saw how she was positively glowing from the victory.

He held out a hand uncertainly. She paused, but took it in the end, shaking his hand vigorously. In an uncharacteristic act of honor, he acknowledged her win with a loser’s grace.

“Close game. May I know the name of my sworn rival?”

It worked; she cracked a toothy smile. He could tell she wasn’t one to smile often. When she did speak, it was a light and airy tone.

“It’s Avalle. Are you an analog fan too?”

“You could say that. I just play a bit of air hockey from time to time.”

“No, that was really good! I haven’t had to try that hard for ages.”

----------------------------------------

“So why are you hanging out in a casino? You don’t seem like you enjoy it.”

Her grin faltered a little when he mentioned that, and she looked a little more sheepish than before when she sat down to rest.

“Nowhere else to go. I’m just here in between contracts. It’s here or sitting in my apartment by myself on my holopad all day.”

“You don’t have any hobbies?”

“Well, I do. I draw sometimes. And I collect old CRTs. And… I like bugs.”

It took Marc more than a little willpower to keep his well-meaning smile plastered across his face. Never had he met such a girlfailure in his life. Though to be fair he hadn’t met very many women in his life to begin with. Such was the sacrifice he had to make to be a shut-in internal journalist processing information for executives. He leaned against the table in a fashion that he felt would give him a cooler aura… maybe rizz was a better word.

“That’s, uh, great to hear. I don’t usually come here so if you want I could show you some other places for entertainment.”

“I guess I should get out more. What’s your Metawatch ID? I’ll add you and maybe you can tell me more about it later.”

Mentally Marc did a little dance in his head. He might spend more time looking at women online than in person but he still got it! Outwardly he tapped the metal band on his wrist, almost a centimeter thick. A holoprojector brought up an interactable screen: his friends list. Avalle stood up, walking over to his side of the table to touch her Metawatch to his, and the data was automatically transferred and the friend request auto-accepted.

“Your ID is Marccenary? A bit on the nose for this job I think.”

“I picked it before I started working here, which was today, actually. Plus your name isn’t any better. ScarletDownpour?”

“LookImadeitwhenIwastenokay. I just. Never got around to making a new one.”

“Uh huh. Anyway, I’ll call you some other time later maybe ‘cause I just applied for my first contract. Well, technically second, but I didn’t have an Empowerment back then, and I do now so there’s no way I’ll get denied.”

“Oh! Where did you apply to?”

“Big corporation. It’s called Catgirls Inc. I haven’t heard anything about their work environment but their public image is pretty clean so it’s probably fine.”

“Really??? That’s where my next contract is, actually. I got accepted for an indefinite work period, so it’s the first stable job I’ll have had in a while.”

“Wow… small world we live in.”

“I mean, yeah. We all live in one big city. Why are YOU in the casino? I don’t think you’re a good gambler if you beeline for the air hockey table.”

“I was just checking out the place since it was called the game room. I mean, I wouldn’t mind gambling, but I keep all my chits physically instead of on my Metawatch, so I don’t have any to play with.”

“Well, you’re new, so there should be a signing bonus. Not saying you should gamble it all away, but like… you know.”

“What??? Where? I have not heard of this.”

“Yeah, they wouldn’t tell you if you came here to apply not knowing about it. Saves them money. Here, I’ll send you the promotion link.”

The holoprojector on his watch showed a happy looking group of generic men and women giving a thumbs up next to text proclaiming a free bonus for registering on a permanent basis with the Mercenary Union, as well as fine print claiming that by taking the offer you were promising at minimum a year of servitude. He pointedly ignored it and tapped to verify his identity as a fully fledged member of the union. One loading screen later, he was awarded with a small sum of chits and a burst of animated 3D confetti right in the face, startling him. Avalle giggled at that, much to his chagrin.

His eyes flicked to the slot machines patiently awaiting inevitable customers. They surrounded him now, a motley gang of light and sound pressing against him and suffocating him with their presence. I mean, he had money now, even if it wasn’t a lot, and he was gonna get a job anyway, so was there really any harm in gambling…?

----------------------------------------

Too late. He was already sitting in front of one of the slots. In front of him was a set of five columns, three rows. Each of them spun wildly, cycling through great numbers of pictures of cherries, apples, other fruits, and even alluring images of stacks of cash; all of which could be his for just half a chit… It was too good an opportunity to pass up. This is just an investment, he deluded himself into thinking.

Brushing his Metawatch against the play panel immediately caused it to spring into action, practically begging him to pull the comically large unnecessary lever attached to its side to begin the action. Before he could even reach out his hand, it lashed out with holograms and promises of wealth to assault the senses. PLAY NOW it demanded, ever hungry for more money. And Marc was oh-so-happy to provide. Avalle sat down on the stool in front of the machine next to his, content to watch instead of participating in bad financial practices.

Marc yanked the lever with an exaggerated ka-CHUNK, and the whole contraption whirred while every column scrolled by at high speed. Cherry, cherry, cherry, grape, fuck. Another pull, another set of fruits. 7, 7, cash stack, fail. Again and again, he pulled the lever, watching the losses climb higher and higher. After, like, the fortieth pull, she tapped him on the shoulder uncertainty.

“I know I joked about it but I don’t think you’re gonna win. Maybe you should—”

Marc affixed her with the stare of an addict.

“FACT: 90% of gamblers quit before they hit it big. Never back down!”

Fate was a mischievous goddess, for right as he said that, he hit five cherries AND five oranges at once. The slot machine rang with joy and jubilation as the pipe connecting it to the mainframe of the room began sending many coins down his way, which spilled out of the machine’s dispenser in a flood. It piled up as a mountain of metal, burying his shoes in its aggressive attempt to keep him playing. Avalle tried to kick the pile with her sneakers before clutching her foot in pain from having her toes clash with a stack of metal.

“That—this means nothing. Gambling isn’t healthy.”

She proclaimed, standing next to the pile of coins. Marc would have to convert them all to the digital currency later; no way he was carrying around this obscene weight. They must’ve done it on purpose. If it had been paper money he could’ve just left without having to go through their system. Devious bastards. Avalle looked a little pouty at having been proven totally wrong… maybe he should fix that.

----------------------------------------

“Really. Maybe I could change your mind?”

He scooped up as many of the coins as he could in his hands, dropping it on the dashboard of the slot machine in front of her. He thought she looked swayed for a second before her slight scowl reasserted itself.

“No. The house always wins.”

And yet, she was still stuffing her cloak’s pockets with the coins. When she got up they jingled in a chorus of wealth and greed.

“If you say so. I think I’ve had my fill of the casino for now, so I’m just gonna get all these chits transferred to my account. You free right now, or…?”

Avalle gave the hockey table a sidelong glance.

“Apparently not. Looks like I’m worth…”

She made a show of grabbing a few more coins from his pile and storing them wherever she had space.

“...at least ten thousand chits. But I am so gracious, so let’s say I am.”

Marc was definitely a little interested. He only dreaded having to make The Call later after they split up to schedule another time to meet. For someone so socially inept as him, being forced to text someone new was like raking his skin over hot coals. But he had his in, and to fumble now would be beyond criminal; a regret he would never live down.

“I’m thinking about buying some gear from the armory with all of this. But my rank isn’t high enough—”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re new. I could pass off some stuff to you, though, if you pay me back after.”

Hopefully they would have bulletproof vests as well. Maybe even a personal shield generator, though he wasn’t sure he’d be able to afford one, even with the sudden payout he’d just received. It was a lot of chits, but not exactly life defining. Not to mention he’d probably run it out faster than expected, and he wasn’t looking to live off of ice soup while looking for work.

“Sounds good. Gimme a sec to bring all this to an attendant or something. So how’s the work been here so far? Health insurance?”

“That’s only for C ranks and up. You’ve got a lot of work to do. The work kind of varies though. Once I had to do a track run…”

A short five minute chat grew to ten, fifteen, thirty minutes. Then it became hours, and they were eating Chipotle wraps just down the street, outside of the storefront. Cars came and went, and above hovercrafts of the rich and connected gazed down upon the peasantry of this titanic city, a dystopian love letter to the monumental modern artifice of human civilization. It was a bright and sunny day, and the gleaming towers of glass and steel and concrete watched over the open ocean that stretched to the horizon. Avalle pointed up to the haughty penthouses atop the highest skyscrapers with her free hand.

“Do you think we could ever be up there someday? I know this is part of America, and the American Dream or whatever, but is it all really true? I don’t feel any closer to being ultra rich than I was yesterday.”

“Well, the walled cities of America are only nominally part of the U.S.A. They’re more like autonomous regions, like the states used to be. But a lot of the old rules fell apart when the Dust came, and the Boon Waves toppled the power structures of the Old World. I wasn’t alive then, obviously, but I think history is really cool, and it’s nice to know that in at least one way things are better now than before.”

She plodded along, navigating the familiar streets of her home city like it was the back of her hand. The wrap in her hand disappeared in a few bites as she kept speaking.

“Like the monopolies haven’t just popped up again. I’m not gonna be toppling, like, Lansierre Transport anytime soon. If only I was born back then. I’d get to make a monopoly and be rich.”

“You just want to go back to gush over the nearest rotary telephone you can find in a museum.”

“Maybe.”

Marc splurged a little, despite his reservations. He felt he’d earned at least one reprieve from the stress of the past few days, purchasing a ticket for a Bottled World experience. It was strangely ephemeral, the two of them entering a large dome in the entertainment district nearby, completely dark. Then the lights came on, and an intricate series of hardlight projectors, calibrated sensory stimulators, and high definition screens crafted for them a jungle expanse teeming with life they’d never seen with their own two eyes.

Vines hung from giant branches thick as any tree from home, the twitter of birds and insects filling the air. The undergrowth rustled as animals darted to and fro, silent predators stalking over fallen logs and rocky hills ignoring the humans in their midst. Flickers of a harpy eagle could be seen through the few open spots in the canopy. To the left a jaguar bathed in the sunlight for a moment before slinking away into the shadows of the jungle. Avalle was more than awed.

“I’ve never been here before… I thought it would just be like an immersive Youtube video or something. But this is amazing. I can feel the texture of the wood and the wetness of the dripping vines. It’s like we’re there. Oh, look, weaver ants!”

A little troop of them were building a nest above in the leaf mass. Ovals of green bent and connected by larval silk, a palace of bugs with outposts dotting the area around it. Roads could be traced where ants flowed like water down preset paths to their destination. In it, Avalle saw an edifice to match any human construction. Even the greatest of sprawling metropolises were barely a match for these primitive megalopolises of old. To Marc, it was just a fond memory of the life he used to have.

“I used to visit these with my parents every year before I moved away. I can’t visit them anymore after the Dust got them, but… I like to come here in lieu of honoring the graves they don’t have. This one was always my favorite.”

“I think they’d be happy that you thought of them so much. Umm, I don’t want to say ‘I’m sorry to hear that’ because other people probably already told you that. So I hope you’re doing better these days. You could definitely make it big with hockey skills like that.”

“Yeah, well, it’s air hockey. I’m not going anywhere with that.”

“Hey, maybe in the underground scene. You’d love playing in a tournament.”

The sun passed overhead and dipped down towards the horizon, the faint pinks and oranges of sunset beginning to splash the clouds when they’d had enough. Eventually they found themselves back where they started at Mercenary Union HQ, content. Avalle stretched her sore muscles and mumbled tiredly:

“I haven’t gone outside for so long in ages. Maybe we could do this another time? It was a lot of fun.”

“Yeah, of course. Oh, yeah, can we go to the armory? I wanna pick up some things before it gets dark and I have to figure out the dinner situation.”

“Alright. Then I’ll be off.”

Inconveniently, when they did come to the armory doors, they slid open, a haggard Suvert following a happily jiggling Nova clutching a Monocaliber .410 bore semi-automatic shotgun. Thus, two very strange pairs met face to face. Avalle appeared a little uncomfortable when the slime and her temporary handler beelined it for Marc. He was too, primarily because of the shotgun. He pointed at it, slack jawed and without words. Suvert shrugged.

“She wanted one. It’s the lightest recoil I could find. It's ballistic, by the way, so you’ll have to buy your own ammo for it. Consider it a gift of goodwill.”

The guy did brighten up when he turned to Avalle, offering her his hand.

“I don’t believe we know each other. I’m Suvert. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

She hesitated. Avalle had that same look Nova had earlier when Suvert had been expecting a handshake that morning. Nova could see the imperceptible twitch of tensing muscles in his arm, knowledge gained from devouring a human body. Did he feel slighted? Thankfully, her wariness suddenly evaporated, and she took his hand in both her own in an uncharacteristically enthusiastic handshake.

“I’m Avalle. It’s nice to meet you! Who’s this with you?”

She must be in a good mood after chilling out all day. Suvert turned to Nova and gestured to Marc.

“Ask him, he’s her owner.”

“Owner?”

Marc cleared his throat awkwardly.

“She’s my familiar. It’s a part of my Empowerment.”

“Oh, that makes sense. I haven’t seen a slime tamer or anything like that. Why’s she shaped like a woman?”

“I thought she’d look more presentable. Anyway, thanks for making sure Nova didn’t blow anything up while I was gone, Suvert.”

“Gotcha,” said Suvert, giving Marc the finger guns of total approval of the situation, “it wasn’t a problem. I’m gonna head home and hit the hay, you guys have fun.”

He strolled off. Avalle watched him go until Marc nodded his head towards the armory doors.

“Can you get inside?”

“Yeah, sure. What’re you looking to buy?”

----------------------------------------

Five minutes later she came out of the armory with a selection of items in her arms.

“Here’s the stuff you wanted. A ballistic vest, ballistic shield, civilian nanite pen, and a hardlight blade. Were you a swordsman?”

“Not particularly. It’s a bit easier to use than the guns, though. Swinging a sword this light is a lot simpler than trying to hit things with my shit marksmanship.”

“Well, good luck with the job applications. Maybe if you’re lucky you can get past the interview process and we can work together.”

“Luck? I don’t need luck. I got here with pure skill.”

Avalle thought back to earlier when Marc won a minor jackpot from the slot machine. Wisely, she said nothing. Best not to engage with a statement so deluded.

“I’m gonna go home now since it’s so late. See you another time!”

She departed swiftly, and then it was just Marc and Nova.

“I should probably head home too. Have to break in the new apartment. What do you think, Nova? Ready to turn in for the day?”

Nova was definitely looking a little more opaque than usual. She was also kind of melting, like a snowman suddenly exposed to the scorching sun. Maintaining humanoid form did take some energy, and holding it all day did drain her reserves of energy. In a rare moment of humanity she grumbled (as best as a slime could) like a person would.

“Guess we do need to have dinner. I’ll order takeout or something, don’t worry.”

Nova slouched a little, latching onto Marc’s back with a splat. Rather than hold the shotgun conventionally, it was half absorbed into her body, embedded in her gel. It made for an awkward walk to the nearest bus stop. It made for an even more awkward ride home. It’s hard not to stare when a slime that looks like a woman is riding piggyback on someone else. A greasy man of three hundred pounds tried poking her experimentally, and she nearly dissolved his hand.

When Marc did get into his apartment, it was barebones. Only the most basic of furniture and a kitchenette against the wall, with little windows and a one bedroom suite. A few taps on his Metawatch and Chinese takeout was a go. He didn’t even bother with the pretense of feeding Nova normally, letting her just absorb the carton with the food inside. Today’s shenanigans must’ve left him tired, for he crashed on the queen bed and fell asleep in thirty seconds.

Nova did not need to sleep. Without direction, she stared at Marc for around ten minutes before going to idle by the bedroom window. So much information to digest…

She put a hand up to the glass, watching the moonlight stream through her translucent slime body. The world was so much bigger than she had ever imagined. Tastes, smells, sounds, sights, thoughts; even now she was constantly processing everything that had happened today. She did wonder: what would tomorrow bring? As she looked to the future, the people of Sunside City slept, danced, ate, sang, lived their lives, Nova excited to see it all. In the silence, the moonlight crept up her slimy skin, forming a barrier across its surface.

Tomorrow.