EPISODE 1.2
Panting. The man's gaze sharpened into a glare. A metallic tang of dried sweat radiated from his pits. With stale smell that mingled with the faded and worn-out contours of his expression. As serious as his face could be, he's something out of an action film big daddy with that well-kept graying hair, contrasting his rather pathetic, disheveled figure.
There was a faint gleam of reflective light that beamed onto my eyes; a silvery crest of a shield of some sort that added an embellishment to his tactical outfit—the former being a testament to a snobby way of saying 'I'm an authority'.
Of course. The PRU, or the propagandist scoopers preferred to dub them as 'one of Azurea's elite fighting force'. I never really understood the point of having them around, with a function quite identical to a certain law enforcement I know called as 'police', masked only as a pretentious blend of another phantom countermeasures organization.
They could’ve just trained the dog-cops better. Instead, we get this knock-off squad, leeching our tax money. Everyone I know sees them for what they are: a pointless drain. Just another excuse to throw our money away. Just another bureaucratic parasite.
And any further justification of their "importance" is nothing but a result of naive idiocy. Argumentum ad Ignorantiam.
The man's other hand—bloody, shaking—outstretched a finger, pressing it across his lips. I nodded in understanding and he slowly lowered his disgusting sweat-soaked palm off of my mouth. I grimaced. The said bloody hand clutched his bandaged abdomen, while a disgruntled groan seeped from his lips as he moved himself to the counter, where he leaned for a sturdy support.
We eyed each other for a moment at an awkward stance. The silence grew louder at each passing second. Sensing the growing wordless exchange the both of us had, he decided to break the silence, but with a stupidly generic question someone could possibly ask: "What are you doing here?"
"Uhm," I pulled back my raincoat's hoodie, "Because it's a store?"
The man replied, "Quit playing coy with me, punk. I'm not in the mood right now so just answer the damn question."
Bold words, I can say. Bold, yet a laughable attempt of browbeating somebody. Menacing! Just exactly what I would expect from a nib, who fancies shoving up their status around into everybody else's throats.
"Calm down." I held my hands out, with a charming face that I do everytime I'm making up bullshit, "I was just passing by to find anyone who could lend me a hand. You see, I'm just a poor fellow who had his car conked out. I'm actually leaving Runenbach to visit my ill mama in Sundsberg."
"'Passing by'. You really expect me to believe that?" the man snorted like the pig he was. "Every road that connects this particular area has been closed down by checkpoints, and you're telling me YOU'RE 'just passing by'? You've got to think of something more convincing."
"How should I know?" I shrugged.
CHARISMA TEST: Adept+ | Advanced = Success
SHOW STATS:
GENERAL INFORMATION
Name: Rolf Widmann
Profession: Doctor (Attending Surgeon)
Gender: Male
Mental Health: Distressed
Physical Health: Wounded
Underlying Factors: Anxiety
Strength: Beginner
Dexterity: Master
Intelligence: Master
Technical: Expert
Will: Adept
Charisma: Advanced
Inventory: Raincoat (×1), Pair of Prescription Glasses (×1)
Special Items: Nothing.
I added, "Do you really expect a junk pile of a car, more vintage that a grandma's tea set, could force its way through some barricades? That thing could barely go for a kilometer without busting its pipes off! Hell, I don't even have a bit of idea what checkpoints you're talking about."
"What?" The man's eyebrows creased. Jaw gaping. "So there are some people who managed to pass through. We were late."
The man turned to me, "You're lucky you managed to keep yourself intact on your way here."
"Sorry?" I blurted. "Excuse me. I know who you guys are and I've occasionally seen you on TV doing your awesome heroic deeds, but where the hell is everyone?""
I ran a hand through my hair, composing myself from the words that sounded like kissing ass.
The man's gaze darkened, "Isn't it obvious? There were no other people left in here by the time we arrived. And you can't leave just now. The PRU is currently commencing an operation around the area so you've got to stay here with me. The place is infested you know."
"Name's Samuel, by the way. What's yours?"
"Uh, Rolf. Just Rolf."
"Okay." Samuel chuckled, "Looks like we'll have to stick together for now, Just Rolf."
"No, actually it's—" I sighed, "Forget it."
Great. Just joined another niche party that I'm not even invited to. What are we supposed to do now? What am I supposed to do now, wait for rescue with this guy? This person with me could even barely stand!
To hell whatever's chaos this day's headed to. Or night. I don't care. Screw those who dragged me into this mess. The fat-ass cops. The two-faced snitches. The ungrateful patients. To hell with you all and I hope every single one of you are having your precious time right now because I will hunt you all down once I get back on track.
And fix you all into something even more.
All I have to find is a way out worth perusing.
Is that even possible? This man called Sampur Swaddler or whatever his name is, probably thinks he's my best shot right now. Though, what could he do with that state of his, aside of being a one-time-use human shield? It's simple to get rid of him anytime I want. I'm a doctor, yes, and he's wounded. Why would I waste an effort to someone worth disposing to, if it's just better to leave the dead to the dead?
My feet circled, churning the dust of my own unease. Samuel, playing king of the empty leisure waved me off with a lazy flick, like I was some sniffling mutt. "You can always help yourself out, you know. Nobody owns these stuffs anyways. Not anymore, I assume." he said, as if he owned the shelves and every crumb on them. So, I did. I prowled the aisles, picking at whatever junk food caught my eye—chips, biscuits, the kind of crap that would give a nutritionist a stroke.
ITEM ACQUIRED: Pouch of Cheese-Flavored Chips (×1), Pack of Butter Cookies (×1)
SHOW STATS:
GENERAL INFORMATION
Name: Rolf Widmann
Profession: Doctor (Attending Surgeon)
Gender: Male
Mental Health: Distressed
Physical Health: Wounded
Underlying Factors: Anxiety
Strength: Beginner
Dexterity: Master
Intelligence: Master
Technical: Expert
Will: Adept
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Charisma: Advanced
Inventory: Raincoat (×1), Pair of Prescription Glasses (×1), Pouch of Cheese-Flavored Chips (×1), Pack of Butter Cookies (×1)
Special Items: Nothing.
And why not? While I was at it, why not grab something for my new best friend here? Our bleeding hero, Mr. Tactical, with that gut wound he was nursing like a secret. I hadn’t gotten a good look at the cut—none of my business anyway—but if his intestines were punctured, well, that’s bad news. Leaking stomach acids, infection, peritonitis. A quick ticket to the grave. Still, maybe a bit of water, something easy on the stomach, would help. Thoughtful, right? I snagged a bottle of purified water and a cup of yogurt from the cooler, playing the Good Samaritan.
Uncomfortably quiet it may be but neither of us dared to intrude each other's spaces of sloshy, chewing tempo. Could be a charade from my side but he seemed to appreciate it though. Laid back, drooping, hazel eyes that stared into deep unknown. Vulnerable. Soft.
ITEM CONSUMED: Pouch of Cheese-Flavored Chips (×1), Pack of Butter Cookies (×1)
PHYSICAL HEALTH: Fine
SHOW STATS:
GENERAL INFORMATION
Name: Rolf Widmann
Profession: Doctor (Attending Surgeon)
Gender: Male
Mental Health: Distressed
Physical Health: Fine
Underlying Factors: Anxiety
Strength: Beginner
Dexterity: Master
Intelligence: Master
Technical: Expert
Will: Adept
Charisma: Advanced
Inventory: Raincoat (×1), Pair of Prescription Glasses (×1)
Special Items: Nothing.
I walked and there I was, feeding the trashcan of its empty, wallowing hungry pit with crinkled wrappers I had as I was fed. Stuffed. The ply of glass pane beside gave a see-through glimpse of my piteous self, a mocking reminder from the luxury I had behind. A reflection, vague but discernible. Once dressed with silky, cotton suits and pristine white coat, now donned nothing but a crumpled, weighty raincloth. Plastic polyester.
While fixing my entangled hair, a flash of light flared at a far distance. So abrupt you could barely make it out. But then, there it was. Again. And again. And again. And from the ominous woods nestled at the side of the road emerged a man in a cliché tactical action outfit as Samuel here, who limped to my side to get a view of the whatever.
Distressed. The man held a pistol in his hands, shooting desperately to the heart of the staring abyss. To enemies that only himself could see—or so we thought. Then, the gun was unable to shoot anymore. Emptied, expended. The man discarded it easily as if his life wasn't dependent on it earlier. Ungrateful, like most people. He then looked at us. We stared back. And he began sprinting to our direction. The store's direction.
"Shit, it's Ludwig." muttered Samuel. Then, there he went. He snatched the pistol holstered from his belt and trotted to the door. Shambling.
Ludwig was still on the run like a shitless prey—an animal escaping from the clutches of his predator. Then there it was, another creature. A thing of animalistic proportions crawling its way on all fours towards him akin to a coyote that starved to the bone; its eyes, glowed with bright, sunny yellow, remained locked to its scurrying victim. Relentless and had no intention of stopping.
Samuel remained by the door, keeping it open. Great, the savior of all. Why don't we just do it, no? Lend a hand to whoever you see and see yourself as the good guy. And endanger us. What the hell! I'm not playimg any of this Mr. Nice Guy anymore, not even in the first place had I had been any intention to. And enough is simply enough. So I walked to his side and scorned, "What are you doing? Close that door!"
"No, we need to wait for Ludwig." glared Samuel.
"That guy is already dead. Come on!"
Samuel flashed a stern look. Acting tough, authoritative. Typical bureaucratic scumbag. But I am not having any of it—not from him. In fact, I was the one doing the both of us a favor of saving our asses now that he couldn't. A saving grace of a god against the deteriorating cognition of an old, bleeding fool.
STRENGTH TEST: Adept | Beginner = Failure
SHOW STATS:
GENERAL INFORMATION
Name: Rolf Widmann
Profession: Doctor (Attending Surgeon)
Gender: Male
Mental Health: Distressed
Physical Health: Fine
Underlying Factors: Anxiety
Strength: Beginner
Dexterity: Master
Intelligence: Master
Technical: Expert
Will: Adept
Charisma: Advanced
Inventory: Raincoat (×1), Pair of Prescription Glasses (×1)
Special Items: Nothing.
And so I tackled him. But I underestimated his strength and a solid headbutt that rocked my cranium into dizziness was a testament to that. Samuel grabbed me by the neck and pinned me against the glass ply. His pistol aimed at me in point blank and commanded, "Now, stand down!". Just then, I realized that his ragged tummy was laid bare. And my hands were unrestrained.
DEXTERITY TEST: Adept+ | Master = Success
SHOW STATS:
GENERAL INFORMATION
Name: Rolf Widmann
Profession: Doctor (Attending Surgeon)
Gender: Male
Mental Health: Distressed
Physical Health: Fine
Underlying Factors: Anxiety
Strength: Beginner
Dexterity: Master
Intelligence: Master
Technical: Expert
Will: Adept
Charisma: Advanced
Inventory: Raincoat (×1), Pair of Prescription Glasses (×1)
Special Items: Nothing.
A quick jab did the work. Samuel staggered and hunched in pain, freeing me from his grasp. I sprang in motion, arms stretched out as I yanked the weighty door shut. The moment it closed, a sharp object grazed across its surface. Outside, it was another one of those creatures—or phantoms, as most people knew them by name— was crouched out there, and only these glass walls separated us apart.
Thin. It was as though stips of the thing's muscles and skin loosely dangled from its skeletal framework. It stared, side-eyeing me similar to the way a chicken commonly does. At this point, I was just waiting for it to barge through, with those long, sharp claws of its hand speared into my chest. But it didn't. It remained hunched out there. I moved a few steps to my side but its golden gaze didn't follow, and only then I realized its visual limitations. Dumb. Easily deceivable. Rotten to the brain like the creature it was.
Then, the phantom scuttled away. Ludwig, on the other hand, was nowhere near lucky. The phantom pursuing him had managed to catch up. It tackled him to the ground and the poor guy desperately tried to push it away as its claws started digging through his torso.
image [https://i.ibb.co/XxDVYvg/Glitch-Cam-20240830-173019155.jpg]
Then, another couple of phantoms crept up to him like a pack of hungry coyotes. They dug and pierced through him in a bloody feast until nothing was left but chunks and mounds of the unrecognizable.
Hauling what was left of Ludwig's cadavers, the phantoms scrambled back into the dark of the abyssal woods. Leaving behind nothing but a puddle of red palette.
That's what you get from playing the hero game. Serving higher masters who see you only as a disposable puppet. A pawn who carries out their work, paid with just an insignificant fraction of their income. No one would even remember you once you perish. Not them, not anyone. Your name doomed to be forgotten in some girdered hard drive of decaying, replaceable computers.
I turned back to Samuel, only to meet the momentum of his fist against my jaw. I could see the stars at that moment, and only then I realized lying on top of a tumbled shelf of snacks. His strength was no way comparable to mine despite his plight, almost commendable. As I lied there like a drunk idiot, he spat and snapped, "You bastard!"
I wiped my bloodied lips, trying to brush off the dizziness as I stood back to my feet. With a glare, I strengthened my posture and retorted, "There was nothing that we could do! If only I hadn't dragged your heavy ass back inside, we'd probably just end up like your Ludwig over there. Can't you just at least be grateful that I saved your life? OUR life?"
"Oh, I wish you didn't," said Samuel.
"What...are you saying?" I asked.
He just stood there, lips sealed tight, eyes refusing to meet mine. The only sound he made was a sigh, the kind that said, I've had enough with this crap. He shuffled back to the counter, slumping back into his own silent brooding session. Really? Now? The world was going down around us, and this guy was having his existential crisis? Give me a break, Mr. Tactical. You think you're the only one with regrets? You think you're the only one with something to lose? Hell, even I've got my reasons—Winston and Luna. So don't give me this woe is me act and pull your damn self together.
Because I can't continue going on like this.