2. Consent

Somewhere within the gnashing redness, Serac found the wherewithal to reorient herself to her immediate reality.

Her body remained crushed between the uneven edges of the Pulverizer’s teeth. That much hadn’t changed. As such, she had no eyes with which to see, no ears with which to hear, nor really any nerves left with which to feel the pain of her liquefaction.

The only solid thing left to her was her right hand, which she’d managed to poke out of Pulverization range in the last second… and with which she now gripped her lifeline with the last of her rapidly waning strength. A lifeline that took the form of—hang on, what exactly was she holding in her hand?

As if in answer to her unspoken question, a new set of stimuli entered her world. Strings of faintly glowing symbols floated into her mind’s vision before settling into neat rows of words.

Words she could read, which was surprising enough by itself, given that, until this very moment, Serac Edin didn’t even know herself to be literate. In any case, she quickly put her newfound literacy to use, deciding that a visual message from nowhere couldn’t be any less helpful than its auditory cousin.

[Designation: REVOLVER]

[Instrument Class: DEIFIC]

[Anchored Realm: NARAKA (Base)]

[Item Description: Oft-lauded by Manusya firearm enthusiasts as the finest revolver ever made, the Smith & Wesson ‘Triple Lock’ gets its iconic name from an additional third locking lug that sits on the cylinder crane, deemed necessary to harness the sheer power of its ammunition of choice: the .44 Special. Despite its quality and popularity, its production was surprisingly limited, leading to its eventual status as a sought-after collector’s item. Consider yourself lucky if you ever get your hand(s) on one of these bad boys, especially if you happen to be in need of some extra firepower!]

Too much was happening at once, and none of it felt all that helpful—at least not yet. Wayfarer? Transmutation? REVOLVER? And who the hell are ‘Smith & Wesson’?

Numerous questions continued to spill out along with Serac’s brain soup, but she knew one of them to be more immediately pertinent than all the others. So, she squeezed every drop of her fading consciousness to compose a sourceless message of her own.

Um… hello? Mr Voice? Were you maybe planning on telling me what to do next?

“Before we proceed any further, I first require confirmation on your end. Do you agree to be my collaborator?”

If Serac had any musculature left, she might’ve jolted in surprise. Even though she’d been the one to ‘ask’, she still hadn’t fully expected to receive an answer—least of all in the form of another question.

Er… do I even have any choice in the matter? What does it mean exactly for us to collaborate?

“It means we enter a binding agreement, which states that you shall wield REVOLVER, continue to do so, and never deviate from its intended use until such time that our shared goal is achieved. It’s… really more of a formality than anything. I need to register your conscious consent—your express will to take up the life of a Wayfarer—otherwise our activities won’t proc their just rewards in Karma.”

More questions, along with some words that didn’t particularly sit well with Serac. Binding? Never deviate? She’d been so sure that the object in her hand would be her unshackling, but that notion seemed more tenuous by the second. Still, one question remained immediately pertinent above all others.

If I agree to be your collaborator, will you help me out of this mess?

“Naturally.” For the first time since their ‘conversation’ had begun, a note of something approaching emotion entered her savior’s speech. Something akin to a scoff, as though it—he?—had deemed Serac’s question to be one deserving of ridicule. “You won’t be much use to anyone while you’re crushed and trapped under these rocks. Our first order of business would be to extricate you from the Pulverizer. And hopefully with all your bits intact.”

Hopefully? That was yet another word that didn’t sit well with Serac, but the rest of Mr Voice’s spiel sounded pretty good. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? Couldn’t be any worse than to do nothing and wait for her soup-form existence to drain away…

Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll be your collaborator.

“You give your consent, then?”

Yes, I consent! Now get these rocks off of me, and hurry!

“Consent registered. Awaiting Pathsight verification.”

This was followed by a pause. Brief in reality, yet excruciatingly long in perception. Long enough for more of Serac’s strength and consciousness to fade, and for a few drops of her brain soup to congeal into a new question that suddenly gripped her with its ominous import.

Wait. You said the agreement is ‘binding’, but how is it even enforced? Like… if I up and decide this ‘Wayfarer’ life ain’t for me, how will you—

“Verification received. Congratulations, Wayfarer: you are hereby the proud new wielder of REVOLVER. May your Path never lead you astray for long.”

Only then did Serac realize that she’d asked her question too late. For that was also when the tendrils of the Penitent’s Circlet tightened around her ‘forehead’. Ow!

The pain was brief and rather dispassionate, with an almost business-like flavor. As Mr Voice might’ve put it, it’d been a mere formality and nothing more.

As much as Serac had expected and dreaded its onset, she was also mystified by the pain. Because, as far as she could tell, she no longer had a forehead to speak of, and she could only assume that the Circlet and its filamentous composition would’ve long been ‘Pulverized’ along with the rest of her head.

Then, as if to hammer home the ‘formality’ of the occasion, yet another message came in, this time in text form.

[Designation: SERAC EDIN]

[Wayfarer Race: RAKSHASA]

[Karmic Level: 1]

[Liminal Karma: 0 क]

[DEIFIC Instrument: REVOLVER]

[Auxiliary: Nil]

[HP: Indefinable*]

[MP: 25/68]

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

[Stamina: 1*]

[Poise: 0*]

[Cartridge: 6|30]

[Burden: 0/27 (Light)]

This elicited only more questions, each more confounding than the last! And now, in addition to ominous-sounding words, there were some numbers that didn’t sit particularly well with Serac. Poise of ‘0’? I mean, granted, I don’t feel terribly composed at the moment, but all things considered, I’d say I’m handling this situation rather well.

“Don’t worry about that right now; I’ll explain later.” Mr Voice interrupted what Serac had too naively assumed to be her private thoughts. “What’s more important for you to know is that, given this is where we ratified our partnership, this room here has just become the first Waystation on our journey. Which is… less than ideal, but it’ll have to do.”

Waystation? What’s that?

“You’ll understand soon enough. But before we can put this Waystation to use, we ought to clear it of its previous occupant. Now, how dexterous are your fingers at the minute? Can you feel the shape of REVOLVER in your hand?”

With Mr Voice’s prompting, Serac realized that the thing she’d been gripping for dear life was a kind of metallic handle, covered in parts by smooth wooden plating.

Gun to her head, she would’ve sworn that she’d never before held a gun in her life, and yet, the way REVOLVER’s grip sat snugly within her grasp—almost as if its contours had been tailor-crafted for her anatomy—felt intimately familiar. As familiar as the sensation of toppling a mountain with the snap of her finger…

Yes. I can feel it.

“Now move your index finger. See if you can’t slip it through the trigger mechanism.”

Serac did as she was bid. She felt the cold of the carbon steel—soothing against her burning skin. Her index finger wrapped around and pressed against the trigger, moving it ever so slightly without fully engaging its mechanism. This produced a light and delicate click, somehow captured by her mind’s ears.

“Good. Now go ahead and fire. Remember, squeeze rather than pull the trigger. And I won’t apologize if that comes across as condescending. Manusyas usually don’t require such reminders, but you never know with you Rakshasas.”

Wait… what am I actually aiming at right now?

“Why, yourself, of course. Or more accurately, the ungodly amalgam of the Pulverizer plus whatever still remains of yourself.”

Wouldn’t that… kill me?

“Naturally. But with any luck, it should also destroy the Pulverizer, especially in your current condition. Now, stop dallying! Your MP is still ticking down, and soon you won’t have enough to activate the spell.”

What ‘MP’? What ‘spell’? And what’s this about my ‘current condition’?

But Serac was a realist, and the reality was that now wasn’t the time for more questions. No, it was time to act. Before she lost her nerve. Before all of her consciousness leaked out into the gnashing redness that had taken over her world.

Serac Edin pulled—no, no, squeezed—the trigger. Then two things happened simultaneously. First was the flash of a new text across her mind’s eye, a relatively brief one that only read:

[Chamber One: CATHARSIS]

Second was an explosion. That was the only way to describe it. What wee lead pellet had shot out of REVOLVER had taken the form of a bona fide bomb, instantly turning the Pulverizer’s oppressive redness into an inferno of fire, rock fragments, and evaporated Rakshasa soup.

Serac had been a solid being when she’d stepped into this room. Since then, she’d run through the gamut of phases of matter: from liquid to vapor to now something so minuscule and insubstantial as to defy categorization. And in this newly diffuse and elusive form, the amorphous entity of what used to be roughly Serac Edin floated out of the room altogether.

The entity didn’t stop there. It floated through the dank, fleshy corridors of the Damnatorium until it reached the light at the end of the tunnel: open air and the scarlet skies that spread all across Naraka. Still, it kept going, floating high into the air until it had a bird’s eye view of the land below.

There was the exterior of the Damnatorium itself, a dense collection of necrotic tumors that grew from the bottom of an enormous gaping wound. The wound edges leveled off into a flat desert, as pink as the capillaries that showed through its translucent surface. Then even the desert ended in a sheer cliff, beyond which lay the vastness of the Fibrinous Canyon—that desiccated vestige of a bygone era when the Sanzu River still flowed blood-red this far down in Naraka.

How did Serac know any of this? As far as she could recall, she’d never stepped foot outside her prison. And yet, everything she saw from her bird’s eye view settled into the wisps of her consciousness as knowledge rather than novelty. She’d been here before, had wandered through Naraka proper and all its strange and horrific sights—if not as herself, then at least as one of the ghosts of her previous lives.

Along with that knowledge came realization. That she was free. Released from her mortal coil and from the miseries of a Penitent life. Solid into liquid into vapor into soul: unattached and free to move onto her next life, wherever that might take her.

You’ve done it, Mr Voice, whoever you were! I followed your crazy advice and shot myself right out of prison. Sandy beach, here I come. (Imaginary) fingers crossed!

… And that was when Serac’s world shrank again, along with the scope of her vision.

The red sky fell away, and a bird’s eye view became that of a dung beetle on ground level. Then the beetle became a stream of pus that could trace its origin to one of the many tumors that made up the Damnatorium. On this occasion, the river of pus flowed backwards, back into the orifice that served as a prison’s entrance, then through its dank fleshy corridors all the way until it reached the tricuspid valve that gated the Pulverizer from its stockpile of potential victims.

Welp. So much for that sandy beach. I guess we’re back to the drawing board.

Only… the Pulverizer was gone: reduced to a fine rubble of rock and rust, and in its place, in the center of the room, sat a strange object. It was about knee-height and shoulder-width, with multiple layers of densely overlapping petals that fanned out in radial patterns. Its color, save for thin strips of gentle pink, was pure white—a striking and beautiful sight against a backdrop of rock, rust, and blood.

A lotus flower. Granted, it was far larger than any lotus flower Serac could recall from this or a previous life, but even in its mutated form, there was no mistaking its distinctive morphology. Too much had happened at once for Serac to process it all, but she could be sure about at least one thing: this lotus flower hadn’t been here the ‘last time’ she was in this room.

“Let me guess. This is your so-called ‘Waystation’, isn’t it?”

She jumped, startled by the sound of her own voice—pleasantly bubbly and produced by an intact set of vocal cords. And the fact she was able to jump also told her that she had full use of her body—flesh, blood, and bone. Which meant she was seeing the lotus flower with her own two eyes. Which also meant…

Serac first looked up, then down at herself. Everything was back in its proper place: soul into vapor into liquid into solid.

Two horns—in their full onyx glory—jutted from between the filaments of her Penitent’s Circlet before curving rearward into the wavy ash-gray mess that was her hair. Her cinnabar skin sagged a little too visibly over her atrophied muscles—sans blisters, neither fresh nor unremitting. Most of her now healed body was covered by the drab and moldy Penitent’s rags that hung a little too loosely over her emaciated frame. That was a shame. A girl would’ve hoped that one of the perks of resurrection might be a fresh set of clothes.

In Serac’s right hand—as she’d half-expected by now—she held a six-shooter, though it was of an obviously different model than the one that had belonged to Porky.

At a glance, it was noticeably larger, with a sleek metal frame that showed no wear nor tear. The plating on either side of the grip was of varnished wood, so pale in color as to be almost the white of a lotus flower. Intricate engravings marked the plates’ surface, and Serac might’ve held the gun up for a closer inspection, had her full attention not been wrested away by… whatever the hell was going on with her left hand.

Well, her left forearm, to be more precise. What was once a flimsy twig of cinnabar skin and brittle bone had transformed and bulked up beyond all recognition—into a craggy mass of jagged red rocks. It looked solid and painful, and Serac marveled at her own apparent nonchalance, for she could only imagine that her real arm must be a mangled mess underneath all those rough surfaces and sharp edges.

Cautiously, almost fearfully, she flexed the free hand that poked out of the abomination that had replaced her left arm. She found to her massive relief (and more confusion) that everything seemed to be in its proper place: four fingers, a thumb, and their onyx claws, all moving freely without sending any pain signals further upstream.

Was this her life now? An ungodly amalgam of mostly intact Rakshasa plus one hideous rock-vambrace? As if in answer to Serac’s concerned musings—as she’d half-expected by now—a block of now familiar text beamed itself into her mind’s vision and overlaid her physical surroundings, bringing with it some updated information:

[Designation: SERAC EDIN]

[Wayfarer Race: RAKSHASA]

[Karmic Level: 1]

[Liminal Karma: 0 क]

[DEIFIC Instrument: REVOLVER]

[Auxiliary: PULVERIZER]