Our steps echo off the grime-coated walls as we tramp through forgotten passages and dead rooms. I munch absently on a meal bar of some sort that Melcor produced from a pouch at his belt, carefully wrapped in wax paper secured with string and probably home-made. The silence is broken by the boy’s rambling voice as he shares whatever crosses his mind, though as my own mind wanders I find I’m discerning less of his words than when I concentrate. He offered to let me ride on the sled used to transport the spoils from this expedition, but I declined. Walking, getting my blood flowing, helps keep me grounded.
Glancing up from my meal, I consider the figure before me. We’re just about the same height, though without a reference point and with an unfamiliar body it’s hard to tell exactly. Probably a tad over five feet, maybe five and a half. He’s clearly not an adult, at least if he ages like a human, and I wonder how old my new flesh puppet is in comparison. I nearly giggle at the wording my mind has leapt to, but even with Melcor’s constant good-natured jabber I’m loath to break my own silence. This place still feels like a tomb to me. I’m certainly glad for the company, and eternally thankful that he’s friendly. Now if only Theramiel would return. I have some pointed questions to ask that asshole.
From what I can parse of Melcor’s meandering, one-sided conversation, we’re in the bowels of some vast city I didn’t catch the name of. The underground is apparently full of disused facilities and forgotten ruins, ripe for the picking for an ambitious young scrapper—if one can avoid the unspecified dangers—which is different from a scavenger, though he’s hesitant to share why exactly and I don’t bother asking. He uses the term scav in place of scavenger a lot, and a memory of that emotionally-traumatic cyberpunk anime from a few years back tickles my brain. Yes, definitely glad he’s not a scav.
According to Melcor the city is massive, but he’s never been beyond the undercity where he lives with his sister, never actually seen the sky for himself. And the underground—where we are—is not the undercity. It’s all a little confusing, especially when his words devolve into that unintelligible gibberish. I really need to ask Theramiel about the language here. Why can I only understand it some of the time? It wouldn’t make any sense for this world to be using English, and certainly not half-English half nonsense fantasy twaddle. Of course I was promised cheat powers, but Theramiel didn’t mention anything about language and precisely none of his promises were delivered in any case. I’m too tired to think about this.
After about a quarter-hour, the abandoned tunnel we’ve been ducking through opens into a wide open space. Are those train tracks? This world has– had a subway? Neat! The platform is covered in dust and small rubble, but overall appears more abandoned than destroyed. In the distance, I can hear a low rumble growing fainter, echoing through the tunnels. Melcor’s little helmet light pierces the darkness as he glances around but it’s not strong enough to illuminate the entire room, leaving the far tracks obscured. Apart from his journey in and our return steps, the dust on the ground around us is completely undisturbed.
We reach the edge of the station platform and I gaze down at a little jury-rigged handcart, clearly cobbled together from scrap with a little pump handle to get it moving. Melcor puts his hands on his hips and beams at me, the pride in his creation obvious. “What do you think? Built it m’self!” This time I’m helpless to resist my giggle at his enthusiasm. I can’t help but smile wider at the sound of my own voice. “Come on, wait a bit for me to get it loaded and we’ll be out o’ nin cordotha’we in no time.”
The boy carefully maneuvers his scrap sled across the gap between the platform and his cart, parked on the closest set of rails. He secures the load in front of the pump handle with a few ropes and mismatched straps, then beckons me to join him on the back of his contraption. I carefully gather my canvas cloak around me and step across, folding it underneath me as I settle down. Melcor throws a lever forwards—probably a direction selector or maybe a handbrake—and with a squeal of poorly-greased wheels we’re off. I feel a flutter of relief in my chest as we leave this place behind, even as the journey takes us deeper into the dark unknown of the tunnel before us.
I close my eyes with a small smile as I feel the wind on my face. The air down here is still stale, dusty and dead, but cool and dry and the induced breeze of our passage is pleasant. Melcor has respected my reticence to speak and not asked me any more questions since we exited the large room of our first meeting, and the effort of pumping the handcart has brought silence from him as well. It would almost be relaxing were it not for how uncomfortable I am covered in grime and wearing nothing but a dirty canvas sheet. Once we’re up to speed—barely faster than a jog—he lets off a bit, only needing to pump every half-minute or so to maintain the pace as a large flywheel attached to the lever keeps us going.
“Feelin’ a little better, na?” I’m brought from my reverie with a bit of a jump—and definitely no squeaking—as Melcor’s face peers into my field of vision. His goofy grin is entirely disarming.
“I– yes, I am, thank you.” I pull the canvas a little tighter around my shoulders. “Does it get a little warmer once we reach the under– the undercity? Is that right?”
“The Undercity, na. Down below the rich houses and towers of the proper elduin fancy-folk.” He lets out a little snort and shakes his head, ears waggling gently. “But ‘tis warm, na, warmer than here, ‘least round the boilers. You’ll–”
His words are aborted by a loud, echoing screech, and for a moment I think it comes from the wheels of our transport. But then I glimpse the look on Melcor’s face. Tension mixed with fear and determination. Suddenly he’s pumping the handcart with much more force than before, and our speed starts to pick up. Then I hear the scrabble of claws on stone and the patter-slap of bare feet chasing after something. Chasing us. With a grimace I turn to look behind. It takes a bit, but I think I’m able to make out three or four shapes moving in the thick shadowy soup of the dark tunnel. Right, yeah, of fucking course the monsters would be the one thing Theramiel got right. Of course. Shit shit fucking shiiiit I hope that’s not what I think it is!
“Ah, Melcor, what was that sound…?” I nervously lick my lips, my throat feeling even drier than before.
Jaw clenched, face tight in concentration, Melcor takes a moment to respond. “Hopefully nothin’. Prob’ly some gwan’da nothnin after something to eat. Preferably not us.”
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“Um, I don’t know what those are but there’s something out in the tunnel behind us. Can’t you hear the footsteps?” I swallow nervously. “And I think I can see something moving in the dark.”
Melcor pauses for just a moment in his pumping, cocking an ear and casting a glance to our rear. After a few seconds there’s a clatter as one of our pursuers knocks some piece of rubble around and his face pales. “Miette.”
I glance back as well. It’s difficult to tell but I think the shapes are closer than before. They’re gaining on us. Melcor is pumping the handcart with renewed vigor. I crawl towards the front of the vehicle, sweeping my gaze over the pile of scrap, searching for something. I spot a slightly bent piece of metal that resembles rebar, about the length of my forearm and pointy on one end. A weapon. I pull it free from the pile with a grunt. It’s dangerous to go alone, I’m taking this. A manic giggle escapes my lips and I turn to face the back of the cart again. I clutch my prize tightly in both fists, pressed close to my chest as I shuffle towards the edge.
For several tense minutes nothing changes. The darkness presses close, barely kept at bay by Melcor’s lantern that’s now affixed to a pole. I strain my eyes trying to catch glimpses in the black but can only occasionally catch movement. The silence is broken by my ragged breaths and occasional squeaks from the wheels of the cart, and as I listen I can hear the feet of whatever’s hunting us growing ever so slowly closer.
Then I catch a flicker of movement at the edge of our shallow pool of light. Then once more. A pale, leathery snout with a flash of sharp fangs and coarse whiskers. Uncomfortably long claws on knobby feet.
“Melcor! They’re right behind us now, I can see them!”
I look at the boy as he turns to face our assailants, drawing a wicked-looking knife from a sheath strapped to his thigh. Heh, not as long as mine. My brain is stupid but the humor helps keep me from fully panicking. I glance back just as something leaps out of the shadows. Someone screams. It’s probably me.
I wasn’t lying when I told Theramiel I’d never been in a fight before. I could probably count on one hand the times I’d even yelled at anyone. I’m not used to the confusion that sudden violence brings. Everything happens so fast I’m not even able to piece it all together until after the fact.
First, adrenaline rushes through my veins like a bull through a china shop, smashing my composure and shaking my limbs. Every muscle tightens with the willingness to act right fucking now but without any clear direction. Then the leaping thing reaches Melcor as he stands to face it, one arm up in a block. He catches it just behind its forelimbs, leg already up to kick it away as its claws scratch at his face and chest. A slash appears across its vulnerable belly as the creature is knocked back. I didn’t even see the knife move.
Another scream is torn from my lips as I’m launched backwards with a sickening jerk, head impacting the cart and breath driven from my lungs. An awful weight is crushing my chest. I swear I can hear my ribs creak under the strain. Claws tangle in the thick canvas sheet of my makeshift cloak and a flash of pain lances down my side. My arms flail as I beat against my attacker, fists ineffectively impacting thick hide over dense muscle.
[Loose essence detected and absorbed]
Wicked needles rake across my stomach and I gasp in pain, vision going black for a moment. Is this what it’s like to get stabbed? Am I dying? I whimper as my sight returns, thankful I’m not yet dead. I can feel uncomfortably hot blood soaking into my cloak, dripping in rivulets down my flank.
[Foe defeated, essence absorbed]
[Loose essence detected and absorbed]
The weight pressed to my ribs stills but I refuse to cease my violent assault. I can feel the beginning of bruises all over my body and a pulsing ache pings the back of my skull. At some point I close my eyes, hot tears streaming across my face. Someone is shouting. The weight is rolled from my chest and something grabs at my wrists.
“Michelle!”
I stall the flailing of my limbs and open my eyes. Melcor has caught both of my arms and is kneeling over me, face wrought with concern. “Michelle, are you injured? It’s over.”
Why do people keep asking me if I’m fucking injured? Can’t you see the blood this time?!
“This looks too dark to be your blood, you good?” I nod dumbly at the question, too numb to respond in words.
Carefully, preserving as much of my dignity as possible, I peel back my cloak and look over my torso. I glance up at Melcor who’d been averting his gaze and can’t do more than just nod again. He lets out a long sigh. “We both got lucky then. You’ll be fine once we get ya’ to my sister, na?” He runs a hand through his hair and smiles. “Thank you. I don’ think I coulda taken three myself.”
“Bwuh?” I burble intelligently.
I sit up cautiously and look around, pawing at my body. I’m absolutely covered in blood, but I can’t feel any grievous wounds. I look to the side and blanche. Next to me on the cart is some horrible creature, like the bastard offspring of a naked mole rat and a wolf. Thick sickly-pale hide with not a trace of fur, all corded muscle and black veins spidering under the skin. One beady yellow eye stares unmoving at the ceiling, mouth open in a silent scream. Dark red, almost black blood pours from where the piece of rebar I found impales the thing near the spine, right through its chest. I must have speared it as it leapt on me. I didn’t even notice.
A wicked grin splits my cracked lips. I’m alive! I killed the thing and I’m alive and it’s not! Yeah fuck you guy! I’m the heroine and you’re just fodder!
I turn away from Melcor and take a closer look under my cloak. I’m not totally uninjured; there’s a shallow cut about four inches long diagonal across my belly, and a few scratches down my flank no worse than my cats used to give me. My cloak however is shredded in several places, thick gashes rent in the fabric. Fuck, I got lucky there. Jesus H. fucking Christ that was insane!
I run a hand over my face in an attempt to calm down and leave a streak of blood. My grin has turned manic. Well, it’s not much nastier than the gunk I was already covered in.
Melcor appears completely unharmed aside from some fresh rips and tears in the leathers across his chest. He’s breathing hard—but more evenly than I—and his hair is matted with sweat as he shoves our deceased passenger off the back and returns to pumping the handcart. Our speed picks back up a bit. “I think I got the other two. Hopefully that’s all, na?”
“Y-yeah, right. Hopefully.”
I try to reconstruct the events in my mind, the memories hazy through the fog of my crashing adrenaline. Is this a post-combat high? That’s a thing, I think…Wait, wasn’t there something about absorbing essence? Was that Theramiel again?
My mind is drawn to a staple of the countless reincarnation media I’ve absorbed. A trope so overdone as to be ridiculous, and clearly not something that should be present in the living, breathing, viscerally-bloody-real world I’ve found myself in.
Don’t fucking tell me…am I in some sort of game-like genre? Do I have a System? I pause to see if anything happens. Please, give me something to distract me from the adrenaline crash and the iron smell of blood. No? Eh, status. System. Menu. Skills. Uh, interface.
My eyes grow wide and a smug grin stretches my lips as my brain is flooded with information, circumventing my senses and injected directly into my consciousness. I am now sufficiently distracted from devolving into panic. Okay. I can work with this.