3. Jailer

[Designation: PULVERIZER]

[Instrument Class: AUXILIARY]

[Anchored Realm: NARAKA (Base)]

[Item Description: Deep in the nadir of Laceration Gorge lies the Damnatorium, by all accounts the bleakest and most brutal prison in all the Six Realms—a cautionary tale to discourage any soul from a life of sin and debauchery. And somewhere within its dreary bowels sits the Pulverizer, voted by readers of Penitents Weekly as the bleakest and most brutal of the Damnatorium’s numerous and diverse torture devices. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and perhaps nowhere does that adage ring truer than within the Pulverizer’s gnashing maw—provided, of course, that you live to tell the tale.]

***

“Congratulations, Wayfarer, for procuring your first Auxiliary Instrument. Now, let’s see you put it to good use.”

“Hang on, Mr Voice. Aren’t you gonna take a minute to explain a few things? I think I’ve waited long enough.”

“I’d suggest that you reevaluate your priorities, and quickly. Do you want me to stop and explain things, or do you perhaps want to defend yourself against the immediate threat?”

“Defend myself? From—?”

“You! Why you not dead?”

The squelching of heavy boots against flesh. The bulging of gnarly muscles (somehow audible!). The clink and jangle of a metal chain, now loose and bereft of its anchor.

Serac turned away from her giant lotus flower of a ‘Waystation’, just in time to spy her favorite Jailer burst through a tricuspid valve and into the room. Then she was forced to duck, as something black and leathery shot forth from Porky’s hands, aimed straight at her newly intact face.

The object’s flight was accompanied by more metallic jangling, louder and closer. Serac saw that the leathery mass was Porky’s belt—bulky buckle, rusty spikes and all—that the Jailer now flung around like a DIY morningstar.

So, even minus a six-shooter, he’d found a use for that chain after all. But then, if he wasn’t wearing his belt, what happened to his—? No, some questions were best left unanswered.

Not that Serac had any time to ponder them, as Porky’s improvised weapon flew back around a second time, this time swinging down from the ceiling and shooting for the crown of her head. She managed to sidestep it, just barely, and felt the ground beneath her give way as Porky’s belt pulverized a pile of rubble that used to be the Pulverizer.

Then a third attack followed in quick succession, flying low and kicking up a cloud of rock dust. Serac dodged again, this time by jumping and bringing her knees up to her chest. She nearly lost her balance as she landed, unaccustomed as she was to the excess weight in her left arm as well as the unfamiliar stress on her deconditioned body.

Lungs were already full to bursting, and muscles—what was left of them, anyway—burned from the preceding effort. Serac couldn’t recall the last time she’d had this much exercise (she figured that being tortured didn’t count). As such, she had very little confidence in her own cardiovascular readiness to withstand Porky’s barrage.

Sure enough, when next the Jailer’s morning-belt whipped toward her at speed, Serac found that she couldn’t move at all. Her muscles had seized up, and she herself was out of breath. The attack connected cleanly, with buckle digging into her midsection, belt knocking her off her feet, and spikes drawing blood for good measure (and surely seeding a bit of the ol’ tetanus at the same time).

“Oof!”

Even as Serac staggered in pain and from the sheer force of Porky’s attack, she retained the presence of mind to be startled by changes to her metaphysical world. For the hit she’d suffered—and her inability to prevent it—had been accompanied by more signals from nowhere.

[235!]

Only then did Serac become aware of a red bar that hung from a corner of her vision. Had it always been there, or only since she’d entered into an ‘agreement’ with a sentient six-shooter? In any case, a chunk of the bar—just over a third of it, to be exact—disappeared like it’d been chopped off and added to a pot of stew.

That hadn’t been the only colorful addition to her world. Two more bars sat adjacent to the red one: a fully intact but rather stubby-looking blue one, as well as an emptied green bar that flashed angrily before filling back up at speed.

“That’s your Stamina.”

“What?”

“Every action you take requires a bit of Stamina. Like dodging and jumping, for example. If you deplete it fully, you become momentarily immobilized, as you already so aptly demonstrated. The only way to move again is to wait for your Stamina to recover.”

“Might’ve been useful to tell me that beforehand, don’t you reckon?”

“On the contrary, I believe that first-hand experience is always the best teacher. Especially painful ones. Look out!”

Porky the Jailer, as was his right, refused to let his prisoner have a sidebar with her invisible collaborator. He held his position at the valvular boundary of the room, blocking Serac’s exit with his rotund yet towering frame. With gnarly, bulging arms, he rattled the chain once more to send his morning-belt hurtling toward the nearest Rakshasa.

With her ‘Stamina’ replete again, Serac acted on instinct and dodged. But this latest bit of successful evasion elicited an audible tsk from Mr Voice.

“If you’ve got something to say, I’m all ears. Truly.”

“Do you plan on fighting back at any point? Or do you expect us to stay forever Anchored to our very first Waystation?”

“What am I supposed to? Not like Porky’s letting me have any breathing room!”

“You’ve got limbs. With access to some rather useful tools, I might add. I suggest you use them.”

Mr Voice could really do with a little less snark, but he was probably right. In between another sidestep and the next sequence in Porky’s combo, Serac glanced, first at REVOLVER, then at PULVERIZER. Nothing in her life of torture and punishment had prepared her to use these ‘tools’, but even when experience failed her, she had her imagination to fall back on.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Porky threw out his attack, a wobbly swing aimed at Serac’s midsection. This time, instead of dodging, the Rakshasa held up her left arm, as if to shield herself behind the craggy mass of rocks.

It worked. Porky’s morning-belt bounced against PULVERIZER’s uneven surface with a deafening clang before flopping onto the floor. Serac herself felt the blunted impact, along with another number that popped into her consciousness: [30!]—much reduced from the previous hit where she ate the whole thing with her own tummy.

More importantly, the shielding maneuver had allowed her to stand her ground and keep her eyes on the opponent, while also leaving her right hand free to launch an attack of her own. This was the breathing room she’d been looking for. Now, all she needed was to raise her gun and—

Except she couldn’t. Try as she might, her right arm remained stuck by her side, with REVOLVER pointing uselessly to the floor. What in the…? That was when she noticed the green bar in the corner of her vision, if only because it once more screamed out for attention, flashing brightly to alert a Wayfarer to the depletion of her Stamina.

“What? I can’t even shoot a gun without this stupid Stamina?”

“I thought I told you. Every action you take—including blocking or attacking—requires a proportionate amount of Stamina in order to function properly. Count yourself lucky that you came out of this sequence relatively unscathed. And focus on your next course of action. Think carefully, now. Don’t let a single move go to waste.”

Mr Voice’s advice was all well and good, but Porky the Jailer proved uninterested in giving his prisoner the time to think. He went straight into his next combo, forcing Serac to react purely on instinct, though now informed by a bit of experience and know-how.

A horizontal swipe, same height as the Jailer’s last attack. Serac mimicked herself from just seconds ago, this time with the added benefit of a full Stamina bar. She blocked with PULVERIZER, then barely had the time to acknowledge more changes to the overlay ([30!], along with the reduction of just over a fifth of the Stamina bar) before she committed to her counterattack.

Raise the gun to eye level. Align the sights and lock the joints. Then steady pressure to squeeze the trigger.

Gun to her head, Serac would’ve sworn that she’d never held a gun in her life, and yet, the way she ran through the fundamentals of marksmanship—and the hefty kick of REVOLVER in her hand—felt intimately familiar. As familiar as the sensation of crossing a thousand skies in the blink of an eye…

A not-so-wee lead pellet—the .44 Special—shot out of REVOLVER’s barrel with a booming report. At nearly the same instant, it landed in the center of Porky’s flabby chest, sending up a spurt of purulent blood (yuck!) along with a new number that shot to the fore of Serac’s consciousness:

[111!]

111?

Rather than celebrating the inaugural salvo of her true rebellion, Serac found herself… feeling annoyed. If she remembered correctly, Porky’s morning-belt had hit her for a cool ‘235’, whatever that number meant. Compared to that, a ‘111’ was more than a little underwhelming.

As if to compound her disappointment, she became aware of yet another element of the overlay. A second red bar hovered just above Porky’s squished mess of a face, labeled rather superfluously with the word: [Jailer]. It too had lost a portion as Serac’s attack landed, but only by about… one-seventh? One-sixth at best?

Serac didn’t know much, but she was capable of some simple math. And the sight of her own red bar, already more than half-gone after she’d barely shaved anything off Porky’s, only added to her indignation.

“Are you telling me,” she groused, uncaring whether her ire had been well-directed, “that I have to hit Porky six more times before… what? Before I can end this fight?”

“If you only pepper him with unimbued bullets, yes, I suppose so. But again, I can’t stress this enough: you have multiple tools at your disposable.”

“Fine, then why don’t you enlighten—”

“Rarrggh!”

Serac’s counter-snark was cut short by Porky’s roar, made incoherent with rage. He bulged his muscles and swung again: a high-arcer that plunged down from the ceiling.

Serac raised PULVERIZER above her horns to block ([30!]), all the while keeping her eyes—and barrel—pointed at the prize. Aim. Lock. Fire.

[111!]

The same action produced… the same result. Porky’s red bar went down by another piece, still leaving about five-sevenths of it intact. And by then, Serac had come to a decision.

Mr Voice had urged her to explore her options, but why try something new when old thing do trick? With PULVERIZER acting as a shield, she was now the one putting out bigger numbers at each exchange of blows. As long as she stayed alert and patient, she could whittle down Porky’s bar before he could do the same to hers. As long as she stayed alert and mistake-free…

The Jailer’s next attack immediately put Serac’s theory to the test. It came in as another daisy-cutter (or perhaps stone-cutter in this case), skimming the ground and driving at her feet.

Instincts and experience told Serac to jump, which she did. Then, in her eagerness to stick to her game plan, she readied REVOLVER as soon as she landed.

By the time she realized her mistake, she was already committed. And Porky’s morning-belt came flying again, far sooner than she’d expected.

The reason was simple, of course. With Serac having dodged rather than blocked the daisy-cutter, it left no lag in between Porky’s moves. No breathing room. Serac’s counter was about to coincide with the Jailer’s latest attack, with herself left momentarily defenseless.

She still could and would fire her gun before the belt could hit her, but she knew it’d be a futile effort. For Porky’s numbers, when unmitigated, were bigger than hers, and this would be one trade too many for her to survive.

REVOLVER’s booming report. A spurt of pus and blood, along with another flash of [111!]. Then, something remarkable happened.

Porky’s attack failed to connect. Instead, the Jailer let out a phlegmy grunt, one that was perhaps a little more pitiful than what his prisoner was used to hearing. Along with that pitiful grunt, he fell to his knees, with his massive frame shaking the ground beneath. The morning-belt, along with its jangling chain, dropped harmlessly to the side.

“Move, Wayfarer! Now that he’s Poise-broken, this is your chance to destroy him with one hit!”

“What? What? What do I do?”

“You’ve got limbs. Use them.”

Mr Voice could really do with a little more directness, but he was probably right. In the short time they’d spent together, Serac had learned to read between the lines of her disembodied savior’s advice. And right now, his apparent obsession with and emphasis on ‘limbs’ told Serac that she ought to—

The Rakshasa used up a bit of her dwindling Stamina to close the gap, dashing to within an arm’s length of Porky in one swift motion. She instantly regretted the proximity, as her senses were assaulted by a concoction of pus, blood, and general decay. But sometimes, a girl had to buckle down and push through all the unpleasantness life could throw at her, especially when her tormentor of gods knew how many years knelt defenseless and at her mercy.

And especially when she was within an arm’s length of her first step toward freedom.

[Auxiliary Technique: THE GRIND]

Serac punched. With her left fist and as hard as she could. Then, as if in roaring approval of her burst of anger, the craggy mass around her left arm grew outward, driving the pointy ends of its jagged rocks out and into Porky’s face.

The ugliest mug this side of the Sanzu River disappeared into a mess of rattling rock and shredded flesh. Serac watched on in frozen horror and morbid fascination as PULVERIZER pulverized its latest victim and slurped up the sloppy seconds.

By the time all was said and done, Serac’s entire focus had condensed onto two objects. Well, more accurately, one object and a missing head. Well, more accurately than that, a missing head and a number that floated from nowhere.

[703!]

Porky’s red bar emptied in an instant. His body, rotund and less towering than before by exactly one head, slid and fell backwards. Serac expected a loud thud—and even braced herself for it—but the thud didn’t come. Indeed, Porky the Jailer made no sound at all in his final moments.

For even before his corpse could hit the floor, it evaporated. Utterly and without a trace. Solid into liquid into vapor into soul.