CH 9 - Fickermouse Slime

Corkner led the way to the training dungeon. It was in a far back corner of the compound and was dimly lit, the years of dust and cobwebs accumulated to great effect. They turned a corner though and were me by Crobalt slowly walking through the training ring, lighting the cobwebs on fire, and watching as they snapped into brief sparkles of dust.

“Good,” Crobalt spoke to the newcomers without turning, “I can finally be rid of this thing.” He set down a clear, jar-like container in the middle of the training floor and beckoned them closer with his hand.

As Malthus came closer his face screwed up in recognition, “A Flickmouse Slime?!” the incorporeal jelly wiggled and pressed itself again the edges of the jar. It was purple and mauve, with little wings protruding from its back that could not sustain its weight for flight. Yet the little tenacious slime thrummed against the jar levitating in place against the lid, pushing up with all its might.

“Ah, so you a sharper than you father gives you credit for Malthus,” Crobalt smiled at him, “He’s a rambunctious little guy. You ready?”

“What do you mean,” Malthus looked up at Crobalt in awe of what he had just implied, “am I to merge with it?”

“Again, not as thick as I thought you to be,” Crobalt chuckled, “Maybe I’ll be lucky to have you in my order after all.”

“The order of the Bat? Slimes are only reserved for recruits and even then no one knows how to get in touch with the order,” Malthus tried his best to sound knowledgeable.

“Well see, when it comes to secret orders, it’s about who you know,” Crobalt winked at him and then sat down next to the jar. He unlatched the lid, and held it out before him, “This will sting, but you’ll also like it.”

“Really?” Questioned Malthus.

“No,” Crobalt laughed once more and launched the contents of the jar at Malthus.

The slime shot through the air thudding with a jelly-filled whalop on Malthus's face. The initial shock threw Malthus off his feet and he stumbled backward onto the ground. The ephemeral goo forced tendrils into Malthus's nose and mouth. The wings wrapped around Malthus's head and helped leverage the slime as it continued to invade Malthus’s orifices. Malthus’s shouts quickly turned to gurgles until he faded into a deep, velvet mauve of unconsciousness that slowly enveloped him.

Next Malthus appeared in front of the slime, the same mauve background that went on forever in all directions, an infinite dreamscape.

“Fly,” chuckled the slime, already hovering forward.

“Uh, sure,” Malthus willed himself to levitate next to the slime. He felt like he was in a dream the way he willed himself into the air. The slime flapped its pseudo-limb wings that somehow kept it aloft. They both picked up speed, flying through the darkness of Malthus’s mind. They raced along like that until they both sensed a small silver insect flittering across their path.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

“We hunt,” and the slime divebombed the silvery nimbus. Malthus followed its lead, instinctually smelling the insect and tracking its glinting wings in the dark. The slime reshaped its small mouth like a snake unhinging its jaw and completely encapsulated the bug in one audible gulp. The moment the insect was digested, sparks of silver streaked through the slime, and scenes of Malthus replaced the unending darkness that had surrounded them just a moment ago.

One scene was Malthus hiding from Corkner, afraid to go to the academy for classes, “but what if they try to poison me Corkner,” he complained as Corkner physically dragged him out from under his bed.

Another scene was Malthus getting beat up in a back tunnel, he wasn’t fighting back. Elnn came on the scene though, his would-be savior. He got a few critical hits in, but the odds were always against him and he soon joined Malthus in getting beat on.

The next scene to play out wasn’t even a memory. It was Malthus’s father upon his throne, but covered up to his chin are cascading globs of snot and bile. He was rambling, “...eye’s like those… we were doomed from the start. Never had a chance... how did I… how did I ever produce such weak ilk.”

The slime turned to Malthus, “What are you afraid of?”

Malthus was stirred from his thoughts by the question, “Death?”

“No,” the slime stared at Malthus, not breaking his gaze, “you are afraid of Life. You fear death so you cannot live.”

Malthus thought about it for a few moments. He was always worried something would happen to him, he couldn’t ever really enjoy anything. He thought about it some more. The only time he enjoyed things was when he was concerned about Elnn. His friend, although tenacious, had the worst luck. When Elnn was worried about him he wasn’t worried about himself and he could enjoy whatever it was they were doing.

He thought back to the scene of him getting beat up. Afterward, Elnn and he had absconded down an abandoned tunnel and found a hot spring that had recently precipitated there. They had fun playing in the warm mineral waters, chasing after translucent prawns, and then cooking them over the vents when they had enough for a feast.

“Holy Shitake mushrooms,” Malthus mumbled at his musings. Way to hit me deep there, he thought.

Just as quickly as he had entered the dreamscape, Malthus came to the training ring floor. He was covered in his throw-up and dust, and his hair was matted with sweat and residual goo from the Fllickermouse Slime.

Malthus came to just as Crobalt said, “Bloody Hells!”

“What,” Corkner was wringing his hands, hovering over the young master, “He’s dead, isn’t he? I knew he was too weak. This generation, I tell you, they don’t have the strong stuff we are made of!”

“No, he’s alive,” Crobalt shook his head, “I was just hoping for a better outcome.” Malthus began a coughing fit, spitting up more residual goop. “You see,” Crobalt continued, “there are three possible places a Slime can attach; the animus, the phasma, and the sapience slot. Like myself, I would have preferred the slime to connect with him on the Animus, but it appears Malthus lacked spirit most. The slimes, attach to the weak point of ourselves,” Crobalt pointed out, “I was a sickly child, Corkner, but I sure as hells didn’t lack spirit.”

Crobalt walked out of Malthus's slowly returning vision, “Clean him up Corkner, he stinks.”

“Yes, sir!” Replied the dutiful manservant as he sloshed a bucket of cold water onto Malthus. The young man groaned at the waves of cold sloshed over him, each one cutting deep into his core. But with each wave, there was a brief sensation of relief, a coolness that permeated his pores. He felt cleaner after each bucket of water. The muck of his soul had been physically exuded from his body. Each wave felt like redemption, and when he was done, Malthus was a completely different person than when he woke up this cycle.