(Strive 12:1)

“Three-of-a-kind.” Grak turned his cards over and laid them on the table with a toothy grin. “Read ‘em and weep.”

“Flush.” Krogz kept his face carefully composed, but the slight rise of one corner of his mouth betrayed his satisfaction.

“Motherfuck.” Grak pushed his remaining chips across the table brusquely. “Got me on the river, you lucky bastard. I’m tapping out. Enjoy yourselves.” He moved to stand.

Complaints rose up around the smoke-filled den. Security detail was always drab, with long stretches of monotony punctuated by rare moments of excitement. Gambling was one of the few ways they had to amuse themselves. Well, it was almost better to be trudging around the dank halls, skewering rats and making idle passes at the ladyfolk, than to be getting cleaned out of your whole paycheck by the likes of Krogz. Sometimes, you just had to know when to quit.

The obligatory accusations—being a pussy, lacking balls, et cetera—followed Grak as he retrieved his spear from the wall rack and stepped out into the hall. He flared his nostrils, snuffing deeply of the outside air. It was fresher here, away from that pipe smoke. Grak had never taken up the devil’s lettuce the same way most of the Sector B crew did. The way it smelled, it was more like the devil’s armpit, far as he was concerned.

Grak was congratulating himself on his wit when he found himself tumbling suddenly onto the floor. Hmm, that’s odd, he thought. Who is that in front of me, and where’d their head go?

With sudden horror, he realized that the well-muscled body in front of him was his own. He could see the ancient scar across his back, his own hand still gripping his well-loved spear. Blood spurted noisily out of the stump of his neck. Three humans were there, and a small gray-furred creature that was unfamiliar to him.

The muscled man in front wiped black blood off his fist with a fluffy white towel. He seemed like the leader, as he was the largest of them, and likely he’d been the one who’d decapitated Grak. Next to him stood another male, this one with softer features. He leaned on what looked like a plunger, seeming queasy as he spoke something in the human’s strange rounded language.

A female who looked similar to him replied. Well, all humans looked similar, but this one was maybe of the same… clan? Tribe? More similar than most.

The gray-furred creature chittered, and Grak decided this was the group’s pet. It was strange that they’d bother keeping something around with so little meat on its bones, and such an irritating voice.

The large human noticed that Grak was still conscious and barked a laugh. In a blink, a knife was sailing through the air toward Grak. There was a wet and final-sounding thunk, and the world went black.

----------------------------------------

“My little lancet,” Artem rumbled as he jiggled the knife out of the dead Common Orc’s head. “Good for us close-ranged fighters to keep a trick or two up our sleeves.”

“Good tip,” I said, trying not to throw up. It’d probably cost me a few strength points if I did. I stared at the headless body. Despite its green-tinged skin, the creature looked far too human. I made to steady myself against a wall, found it slick with an unknown substance, and reconsidered. “These guys aren’t sentient, right?”

“Nope,” said Artem.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“I don’t believe so,” said Selene.

“And if they are, they’re probably assholes,” said El.

“Right then.” I pinched my nose shut with my clean hand. “This corpse sbells really bad. Cad we talk shop sobewhere else? Why are you looking at me like that?”

I turned just in time to see a shadow looming over me. The orc’s headless body was still alive, driven by instinct or hatred or desire for revenge. It stabbed me with a dirty-looking dagger, and I felt immediately sick, before throwing a sloppy haymaker that pushed his body back to the floor, where it twitched and stopped moving.

You’ve been inflicted with Super-Tetanus! Your dexterity has decreased to Worm.

Suddenly, my muscles spasmed and I fell, arching my back. My plunger clattered to the floor. I could almost hear the rush of poison through my veins, as sweat drenched through my clothes.

Selene was at my side immediately, healing me, but the poison continued unabated. My fingers moved uncontrollably, and for a panicked moment, I worried I’d set everyone aflame by accident.

“Purge,” I managed through gritted teeth. According to the plunger’s namer, that weirdo outside the theater, it now had the ability to Purge me of afflictions. Was that ability tied to the weapon or to me? Should’ve tested earlier, I thought with a pang of regret.

I kicked the plunger toward Artem, and he picked it up, looking confused. “Purge,” I gasped. “Sign Purge.”

This time, he got it, spelling the word with his kada hand. Nothing happened for a moment, then I saw the mote of violet light drift over to the plunger’s haft. I could’ve cried in relief.

“Now what?” he said.

I closed my eyes. “Plungerize me, cap’n—”

A klaxon blare drowned out my voice, and red lights began to strobe across the metal corridor. Some kind of PA system buzzed and cracked with what sounded like harsh static. I realized that it was a sort of language, all hissed sibilants and guttural throat-sounds. I assumed they weren’t reading the weather report.

Two orcs burst out of a smoky room, and Artem stuck my chest with the plunger before turning around and swinging a Power Striked elbow that sliced through both of them. He gave the plunger haft two pumps, and I felt poison leach out of me. “Good,” I croaked. “More.”

He had to turn to fend off another band of orcs, and Selene took up plunging duty. For how suggestive the situation felt, it was incredibly unromantic. She stood over me, and each pull of the plunger siphoned another stream of poison that looked like black tar as it dissipated. “How much longer?” she said.

“Almost there, I think.”

El was cackling as she ignited a circle of explosions around us, turning multiple orcs into a mess of flying limbs, but more closed in. Artem was almost surrounded too.

You’ve been cured of Super-Tetanus! Your dexterity has returned to normal.

I got up shakily, my face flushed. “Thanks,” I said to Selene. “I owe you one.”

“Later,” Artem shouted, indicating the oncoming mob. “Now, we run.”

El sent one last roll of thunder at the horde before we bounced. We didn’t have time to loot any bodies; doors were slamming open all around, and shouts echoed through the maze-like passages.

“So you were a doctor, huh?” El said to Artem. “How’d your former patients rate your bedside manner? I think ‘looming’ would be the word I’d use.”

“Gray midget bear, if you have breath to talk, you aren’t running as fast as you should.”

“The fuck’d you call me?”

Artem seemed to know where he was going. He took us through side-alleys, up spiraling stairways, and past narrow passages. Many times, we had to press against the wall and wait for orcish patrolmen in cruel spiked armor to pass. But slowly and surely, the tramping of boots and sirens fell behind us.

“One last turn,” Artem said, and we rounded a corner into a wide open space. But there was no elevator to be seen. It was a wide open room, some kind of cafeteria or mess hall, the smell of roast chicken filling the air.

“I don’t think this is the right way, coach,” I said, as a hundred muscled orcs turned from their lunches to stare at us.