Grunting in pain with each step, Rory glanced over his shoulder and saw the transport lifting off as a body slammed into his back. Both he and his attacker were driven into the muddy ground. The pain in his ribs and hip caused him to grunt and then moan. On top of that, the pain of his old burn scars stretching the skin all over his body brought him back to that time. But the burn from the leftover acidic rain as it splashed against his face and hands just barely kept his mind in the present instead of his living nightmare.
Rory wasn’t weak per se. He was tall but had a less than average muscle mass for a normal, mostly because he barely ate enough to survive and what he did had little nutritional value. On the other hand, he got a single serving of simple food two days per week as well as a workout those days at that school. Everyone had to do some physical exercise in all schools in the Empire and Rory wasn’t going to turn down free equipment and space. Nor the food, which he brought home, rationed for as many days as possible, and split with his mum.
That was the only good thing about the school because the other side of that farthing involved multiple students teaming up on him and giving him a pounding, mostly because he was Irish, poor as dirt in his ratty hand-me-down school uniform, and had the hideous scars that clearly made him weak and vulnerable through their pain.
Intruding on his reflections, Rory felt his arms grabbed from behind and twisted. He winced as they bent them across his back and then gasped and grunted as the group used them to force him to his feet. The enforcers on either side of him turned him around to face the black-haired head enforcer for his slum, Jonny Mycroft.
His head down, Rory stared at the expensive shoes of the slightly chubby twenty-five-year-old Mycroft in his shirt and jeans in perfect condition, and his short black hair neatly-brushed to the side. Rory on the other hand, in his dripping and smoking tattered fourth-hand school clothes, had his head leaning forward.
“Awww, Sheehan. Ya should know betta ‘n to run when we just wanna do a chat. Now me and me boys ga wet and that means new clothes. We’ll add it to ya tab, shall we?”
Rory chuffed a single laugh. He couldn’t help it. The idea that he could afford to pay them for their nice clothes was ridiculous. He couldn’t even pay the twenty-five pounds owed to the local boss they had borrowed to buy inscribing tools. Not that his mum had spent it on that. It went to her other vices while Rory was at that shitty school she had told him he had had to attend.
His mother hadn’t taken it well when… Well, she wasn’t how she was before everything happened back then.
The fake genial look vanished from Mycroft’s face at Rory’s unintentional laugh. “Think it funny, scum?” With a jerk of his head at the enforcer to his left, a punch landed in Rory’s stomach causing him to curl over and gasp. He couldn’t breathe for a few seconds but his breath came back as he was yanked straight by the thugs holding his arms. Another fist flew and Rory’s fel pain in his jaw and saw flashing lights in his vision as his head was knocked sideways.
“Still think it funny? Huh, Sheehan?” Another punch to the stomach followed once again forcing the air out of his lungs in a groan.
“Drop him,” were Mycroft’s orders to those holding him up. Without their support, Rory dropped once again into the mud. “Listen up, scum. I was gonna give ya a couple days, but I don’t take too well to bein laugh at. You got until tomorrow to get me the money. My boss and I are out of patience. It’s fifty pounds with interest and the clothes.” Rory felt a shoe on his shoulder and he was shoved onto his side. “If I don’t have fifty pounds in my hands by tomorrow midnight we’ll be by to grab your drunk of a mama and sell her to make up for the loss. And if you try to stop us, you’re on the block too. Your freckled mug might get something. If it weren’t for the skin, you’d be a good lookin boy, if boney. Hey, a rich bitch might think scars are sexy. Who knows?” Then to the four others standing over Rory, Mycroft ordered, “Give him a thump but make sure he ca walk and work.”
That’s when the kicking and punching started, causing Rory to curl into a ball and cover his head.
***
Ten minutes later Rory was shaking his head and wincing while shambling towards the latest mine hole he had found. The last time he had been there he had managed to grab twenty ounces of quality recyclable M-steel, which was how he had been able to afford to take the expensive transbus and buy food all in the same week. Now he had 1 shilling and 2 pennies remaining from that windfall. He had hoped to save up and get some cloth from one of the vendors to make gloves, but that wasn’t in the cards anymore.
Tomorrow? There was no way. It was hopeless. They’d have to run. Hopefully, no one would be watching. Rory lifted his hands and looked at them as he turned them back to front and back. The ugly scars showed even on his pale skin. Their melted and stretched wrinkles and swirls, a dance of disgrace that would inevitably lead to their horrible lives getting even worse. Looking deeply at the grisly withered burns, Rory tapped his rubbish but Soul Wielder-compatible commo and pulled up his Soul Summary.
Soul Summary:
Available/Used Vessels (Gathered): 1/0
Available/Used Vessels (Granted): 16/0
| Wielder |
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
| Construct {Chakram} |
Rory had stared at the available vessels in his construct night after night for years until he finally had resigned himself and his mother to their fates. He was able to enter his Soul Construct with no problem. But that was where the normality ended. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t apply the filled vessels.
He had started with eight thanks to his compatibility. Rory had tried so many different ways over the years, hoping for just one single Soul Point to be usable. Oddly, for the last eight Earth years, he had received another on his birthday. They were always in the granted group and never affected his vessel size, but he got them – useless as they were.
Adding to that, he had managed to kill a bunch of small and weak creatures with his garbage chakram while he scavenged in the mines for over five years. They were enough to fill one other vessel. And thus he had seventeen potential Soul Points that were less useful than wooden pennies. He’d earned only one of those seventeen, but it didn’t matter. They and he couldn’t protect his mother from their debt.
Yeah, we’ll have to run. Or I can find fifty pounds worth of scrap tonight. Right…
As Rory trudged towards his hole in the ground – being sure to avoid any steaming puddles in hopes of eking out as much life from his ratty shoes as possible – he passed by numerous others in a similar situation as him. Only normals came to the slums though. In six years he had never seen another Soul Wielder in this area. These normals, the hungry and destitute, often hunted in the slums, hoping to run across a small creature they could cook up, trade, or sell. It was the only safe place on the planet for normals to hunt. The cities were protected, but not the slums.
Tunnel rats and other small subterranean beasts could be anywhere in the mines, but the lack of food kept their populations in check. And the acid rain would often leak into the soil and weaken the tunnel walls causing occasional deaths. No, between creature and cave-in the mines were not safe. But as Rory often though these days, the desperate do desperate things.
While everyone called it a mine, this area of Queen’s Gate actually used to be a decent-sized city. Based on what Rory had heard from old Henry, the ancient digger who taught Rory all about the “profession,” there was a creature uprising from underneath the city and the whole place was destroyed before sufficient help could come. The Crown had, it seemed, decided to let it go and not spend the pounds to rebuild.
Henry claimed to have lived in the city and seen it all go down, but Rory wasn’t sure he bought it. The way Henry told it, the city had done something that upset the beasts and drew them in. He claimed they were looking for new ways to gain power and wealth and it ended up doing them in. Rory actually believed that last part of it. The rest of the old codger’s tale which included flaming birds and serpents of death seemed like an old man’s imagination and tall tales. But the part about rich bastards sacrificing lives for their own gains… yeah, Rory bought into that alright.
Either way, this entire area had become a haven for those looking for a way to make some money scavenging the leftovers of the lost city, whatever its name was. Henry refused to say it, insisting it would bring bad luck or whatever. Rory mentally rolled his eyes at the old man’s superstition.
Then again, the old man knew how to scavenge. He was totally bonkers, sure; but nobody was as good a scrapper as old Henry.
***
Finally having reached his mine entrance, Rory stopped by to say hello to the lunatic. He lit a piece of worthless scrap wrapped with a cloth using one of the fire pits outside and walked into the dark mines. The tunnel system that Henry had been digging in for the last months was easy to trace and he found the old man after only a few minutes because he hadn’t gone in deep yet. Henry had set a small fire and was working in its light leaning over his trusty knife. His favorite tool he had called it. At the moment he was running its blade along a smooth stone, the scraping sound echoing loudly in the otherwise silent tunnel. Rory watched for a few seconds when Henry lifted up and tested the edge with his thumb. When he saw Rory he smiled widely while creakily getting to his feet.
“Hey, boy. Heading back into the deep? You know what I told you about that.”
Old Henry was a stooped man who would be maybe five and a quarter feet tall if he wasn’t permanently hunched over. Rory, at an inch short of six feet despite his poor diet, looked down on him but had a smile as well. Rory thought Henry looked older every time he saw him. The wrinkles and liver spots were easily visible as he wore only a dark green tank top and torn-up and hole-riddled cargo pants of the same color. His short white hair was a scraggly mess that he cut with the knife he had just been sharpening. The only things on Henry’s body, including his body itself, that were in decent condition were his boots.
That exemplified his number one rule: “If you don’t take care of your feet, boy, you’re dead no matter what else you’re doing.”
Rory only wished he could afford boots to take care of.
Smiling down at him sadly, Rory said, “Hey old man. It’s looking like tonight might be my last time here.”
Henry didn’t look surprised. “Debts?” he has asked while rubbing his scruffy chin.
“We’re gonna have to make a run for it,” Rory confirmed with a nod.
Sighing, the old man shook his head. “Shame. Well, maybe we’ll find something tonight. I’m getting close now. So close! If you work with me, we might get there in time to help.”
Rory smiled at that. He’d said “we’ll,” because he would try to help. Of course, neither of them had a chance in hell, but it was a sweet gesture nonetheless. Figuring it was his last night and he was gone anyway, he spontaneously decided to spend his last night with his friend.
“You know what, old man? I’d like that. Lead on.”
His eyes wide with surprise, Henry sputtered and then grinned so wide it was contagious, causing Rory to also wear a huge smile. Henry patted Rory on the arm in thanks and pleasure. “There ya go!” he exclaimed.
“Let’s get your stuff and you can lead on. I’ll carry today so we can keep the speed up,” Rory told him. Even with him being gimpy, it would be faster than the old codger carrying their scrapping gear.
Henry nodded emphatically and moved forward until he reached a nondescript area of the tunnel. Looking around suspiciously, Henry went down on all fours and started shifting a bunch of rocks around.
Another lesson Rory had learned from the old man was about his gear. Obviously, someone would steal and either use or sell anything they found, so Rory had been told to, “Make it hard to find! Use the tunnel itself. Nobody looks under every rock.”
Rory dropped his school jacket, worn dress shirt, and pants so he was just in the hole-filled and stained too-tight t-shirt and shorts he wore under his school slacks that had at some point been someone else’s pants.
Henry finally retrieved his scavenging gear, which was a bag with two straps that he wore on his back. It contained various things inside and sticking out of the top as well as a lamp with a turning handle. Grunting with the effort and pain, Rory put the bag over his shoulders and painfully followed Henry deep into the tunnel, the only sound the winding of the lamp in the old man’s crooked fingers.