Hocken hated the bright season more than anything. The constant drizzling pus that preceded it was miserable, and the deep chill that came after made his bones ache, but the constant pulse of lightning overhead was by far the least pleasant thing he had ever experienced. Each point of light drilled right into his head, even through his eye protection, like a malicious curse aimed right at his ability to think.
If there was a single good thing about having his guts taken out by a rot-blast – and there wasn’t, not really, but if there was – it would be that he got to experience the season with a nice solid ceiling between him and the sky. At least the middle chunk, anyway. The doc said that his regeneration was starting to really beat the rot down, so he would be out before they hit the fourth month.
So, just in time to catch the worst of it as he trekked back to the front. Great. Or maybe it’ll all be done by then. Junk Dog’s been pulling back from the east, so we might be hitting the swamp hard with everything at once. Might be the war’ll be over, and I’ll go back to mining.
He sighed. He had gone down that line of thought a hundred times already; there wasn’t anything new there to keep him occupied. Or maybe the ceiling’ll fall down right on my head while I lay here. Apparently there had been a quake earlier; Doc Don had barged in and woken him up, acting like they were all going to die, but then nothing had happened. The sirens went off for a bit, but now everything was quiet. Boring.
Being injured was the worst, especially up here in the Bunker. At least down in the lower levels I’d have other people around. The only guy I’ve seen in three weeks has been the Doc, and he’s barely around either. There were some books stacked up on a table nearby, but Hocken had never learned to read.
So all there was to do was prod at his guts, and let his thoughts circle the drain while trying to sleep. Maybe Junk Dog will take the field himself. Maybe I’ll fight some strong guy and get promoted. Maybe Horrible Swamp have been fighting one-handed this whole time, and they’re about to fu-
“Hock.” Hocken jolted, his shitty wireframe bed scraping across the ground at the movement.
“Fuck! Shit, man, don’t do that!” Gonna pop a damn blood vessel.
The man – it was that one Raidboss, the old quiet one with the bland face – stood in the doorway, an unimpressed expression on his face. “Good, worried you might be sleeping.”
“Well I’m not now, jackass.” He flared his nostrils in a subdued snarl. That’s twice someone’s come in and interrupted my day. Not complaining, but it’d be nice if it was someone I give a shit about. “What do you want, anyway?” He definitely wasn’t visiting just because; the man didn’t get along much with anyone. Kept to himself, only talking to that engineer with the lightning gun.
The Raidboss was stone-faced, as always. “Your bike. It still work?”
Hocken’s lips parted a little more, showing tooth. “Why?”
“Sulphur needs parts for a radio. I’ll pay you.”
“Fuck off. I’m not letting you strip my bike, I need it to get back in the action!”
The man – what was his name? Dog-Something? – crossed his arms. “That’s rough. Stuff tends to go missing around Sulphur, you know? Might be you’re better off just selling it cheap.”
Power rushed into his limbs in tight spirals, some of it leaking away beyond his ability to feel. You threatening me, Dog-Face? I might have a hole in my gut, but unlike you I’ve actually got a few kills under my belt. Ignoring the pain in his lower torso, Hocken slipped out of his bed and stood tall. “You wanna repeat that to my face?”
The man didn’t move, only huffed out a breath through his nose like this whole thing was beneath him. “Nah. You heard me.”
His fists clenched. The two stood opposite each other for a moment, tension building, before Hocken decided that this posturing shit was stupid. He muscled past the Raidboss, shoving him into the rim of the door. “Your buddy wants my bike, he’ll have to go through me!” His wound pulled uncomfortably, but he wasn’t dribbling anywhere. I’ll just stash it in the doc’s room. That’s like only two flights of stairs, I can carry that easy.
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“[Could you explain the plan one more time? I got barely any of that.]”
The alien – whose name Bond was translating as ‘Competitive Eater,’ ‘Cannibal,’ and ‘Mother Dog’ seemingly at random – clacked his teeth. It was obvious that he was getting about the same experience that Bull was. I should have learned something better, stupidly long spellforms or not. Lu had sounded exasperated when describing the effect Telepathic Bond had on the locals, and a step removed it had been more amusing than anything. But now that he was experiencing it first-hand…
“[The bird flies under the forest’s boughs. Like dew, its life is short and beautiful.]”
…Sure, got it, makes perfect sense. They were trailing a shirtless guy with a horrible black wound across his midsection, but Bull was only maybe half-convinced he understood why. I’m pretty sure we’re going to knock him out once he does… something involving a cart. But everything else was a mystery.
At this point, he was going to have to wing it and hope he wasn’t wildly misunderstanding the situation. The wounded man – dying man might be a more accurate label, the wound was huge and obviously infected – passed out of Bull’s sightline, and he padded forward. His alien friend was being slightly more cautious, probably because he could actually see in this near-black gloom. At least this part of Hole City is mostly deserted. Makes sneaking pretty easy.
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The plan wasn’t complicated. Hock had a bike, a little one-person model that was built for endurance more than speed or durability. Not something Dog Eats Dog would have chosen, but it was available, so it would do.
Stealing it right out would be pretty easy, but also pretty stupid; the people working in the garage would be keeping track of the thing, and he didn’t want to get labeled a thief like certain other persons he knew. So they wouldn’t steal it out of the garage – Hock would take it out himself, then they would jump him on his way back.
Then he’d grab Sulphur and take his one-and-a-half person hoverbike, and the three of them would go out for a private chat. He didn’t care if it took days; he was getting a coherent explanation of where Lu went and what went down with Cobo and the general’s daughter. And since the foreigner was obviously not strong enough to have caused a whole-ass cave-in, helping him was technically not treason – as long as the guy didn’t attack, he was just some random Lonesome.
The biggest problem was that the guy’s telepathy was garbage. Ded couldn’t even parse out his name, and his tendency to bull forward when communication started breaking down wasn’t helping. Already he had needed to stop the guy from attacking too early, and he still didn’t know if he even understood there was a plan.
“[No, don’t move yet. He hasn’t turned.]” He had to hold the man back with his whole body – despite being over a head shorter, he was a solid mass of scar tissue and muscle, and could probably lift Ded over his head with one arm. “[Sharpie guts, can you really not see? I swear Lu wasn’t this blind.]” Or maybe Lu had a technique to see in the dark. Sometimes it seemed like he had a hundred of the damn things.
They somehow managed to get to the surface without tripping over each other. Hock didn’t suspect a thing – the man was entirely focused on not pulling his wound too hard, and Lu’s clansman was surprisingly stealthy once he understood the need.
Ded fished his goggles out of his pocket as they came up on the top of the ramp. “[You stay here, out of sight. Understand?]” An exchange of gestures and broken conversation indicated that yes, he understood the concept of ‘stay here’ well enough. “[When he comes back, I’ll get his attention. Then you knock him out from behind. Knock him out, don’t kill him. You get it? Nonlethal.]”
He spent another minute making absolutely sure they were on the same page, then Ded stepped up onto the sand. The desert was almost incandescent, lit from above by a mass of lightning that was straining to push the Sun back up as high as it would go. His goggles blocked out the worst of it, but it was still unpleasant.
Still beats the wet season. The garage was close, but it would still be a minute before Hock came back with his bike – and Ded didn’t want to have to explain what he was doing up here when he was meant to be on vacation, so he turned and made to take cover in a nearby supply tent.
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Bull knew a sum total of one concealment art, and it was too high a realm for him to cast as he was. So when footsteps came near his hiding spot, all he could do was cling to the cliff face and wait.
The top might be sand, but almost immediately it transitioned to something he would compare to limestone or sandstone, a white-pink substance that was rough and firm but not hard. The texture was a bit like extremely viscous clay, but much grittier and bone dry – in summary, very nearly ideal for climbing. Handholds almost made themselves, and he wasn’t worried at all about it holding his weight – and even if he was, Weight Reduction would take care of that.
The footsteps approached. Ten metres, give or take. Come on Dog Guy, don’t leave me hanging. Five metres. Three. Bull tensed his muscles in preparation, Apelike Strength already going. One hit to the back of the head. Wish these people had concrete realms so I knew how hard to go…
Whatever. If he dies he dies, not my problem.
Then a voice called out from above, and the footsteps faltered. “[The hawk is light; it hangs for a single second, immaculate, fearing no height.]”
…I’m just going to assume that was my cue. He heaved himself up, holding his breath to move as silently as possible. Coming up onto solid ground, he could see that he had misjudged the distance slightly; the man was closer to six metres away than three – but that was fine, that was close enough.
As he leapt, Bull had enough time for one extraneous thought. Why does he have that thing hoisted up over his shoulder like that? It has wheels, does he not know how wheels work?
Then he hit the man in the back of his head with a flying kick. He made a strangled noise like a vomiting cat, and landed on hands and knees, the two-wheeled cart-thing making a dull thump as it hit the ground and tumbled once. Damn, misjudged the appropriate amount of force. Mental effort crafted the spellform for Lightning Palm in his head. These people are tougher than they look.
Gut Wound looked wildly back and forth between him and Dog Guy, who was running down the ramp towards them. He yelled out one syllable of their monster language before Dog Guy’s foot slammed into the bottom of his chin, sending him backwards as an arc of blood with the tip of his tongue punctuating it spiralled away. He landed right in Bull’s arms, so he clamped a hand over his mouth and let the lightning do its job.
“[Good plan, Dog Guy.]”
He didn’t actually think it was anything special, but he felt the need to be polite seeing as the man was going out of his way to help him.
They were in a tent, the light tan canvas-and-rope construction immediately recognisable even across realities. I wonder where they get the fabric. There are a lot of tents here; can they actually grow this many fibrous plants underground, or did they take all of this from somewhere else? He was sitting on a crate, while Dog Guy was leaning over Gut Wound’s unconscious body, presumably making sure he wasn’t about to choke on his own blood or something. “[So are we good to go? Looks kind of small for two people, but whatever.]”
The vehicle was small, no larger than his torso, though it was made much longer by the front wheel, which was sticking out all by itself. The way it was shaped, he figured you were meant to ride it very low to the ground, almost lying down, with your feet on two little nubs that came off the wheel well. It obviously wasn’t built for a passenger, and they would need to sit precariously on the back with nothing to hold on to.
“[Nope.]” Dog Guy stood up, apparently satisfied about his countryman’s condition. “[Stay the course, gimme the vibes.]” He pointed to Bull, then the ground.
The charades were familiar at this point. “[Stay here? Fine.]”
Dog Guy nodded, then hoisted Gut Wound up like a sack of flour and left the tent. Bull was alone. So, lacking anyhting better to do, he settled down out of sight of the entrance and began to meditate.
I swear, if he’s double-crossing me I’ll break both his legs. Not that he thought that was likely; the man seemed really invested in hearing more about Lu, to the point he had just helped take down one of his own guys, so he was probably not about to stab Bull in the back.
But I’ve been wrong about people before, so let’s not take anything off the table.
It had been at least ten minutes since he had left, and Bull was beginning to worry. He left the cart-thing. I could just take it and get out of here… after I figure out how to make it go. He didn’t feel any of the normal controls that a movement treasure would have when he ran his sense over the thing, so it was probably one of the mechanical toggles on the ‘face’ above the handles.
…No, I’m just being impatient. I waited for weeks to hit a guard rotation I thought I could beat, I can wait an hour or two to have an actual guide. Lu’s coded map was all well and good, but this place was huge and empty; if he was unlucky he could go for months before hitting a landmark to orient himself with. I don’t even know how to tell directions here. There’s no sun, and I don’t have a compass – or know how to read a local compass, even. I’ll keep waiting.