1 - System, We Have a Problem

Bits of ceiling raining on my face woke me for the fourth and final time. Fine. Fuck you, sleep. I didn’t want you, anyway. I threw off my frayed quilt and got dressed to face the day. Well, the morning. It was still dark out, but it was probably, kinda, sorta, maybe morning. It would be, soon, at least. It’s not like I was going to get some real sleep, anyway. Not with my room literally slowly collapsing in on me. Material deterioration had been a normal occurrence for all of my seventeen years, but it had been getting worse in the last few months. Much worse.

Boots laced, I grabbed my fishing gear and set off towards my usual spot. I made my way down the cracked sidewalk and out of the city-proper, not seeing much more than a few dim flashes of light while the sound of wheels on cobblestone echoed from a few streets over. I didn’t blame anyone for being asleep, but I sure envied them. I passed more than a few dried up fountains and blobs in the darkness that looked like residential buildings that had collapsed in on themselves on my way out of the city, but that wasn’t a total shock. I was pretty sure there were a few more than yesterday, though. It was worrisome, but it wasn’t like I could do much about it.

Some people blamed the degradation on the abundance of sin. They claimed that Floor 0, or the Slums as it was known, was home to the Tower’s biggest sinners. As such, we were all being cursed by the Tower Gods to die slow, painful deaths and that we were to sit pretty and await the dismantling of the Tower to make way for a greater tomorrow. That was a wheelbarrow of shit, and everybody that had more than two brain cells and a bath mat to rub together knew it.

The real reason, or at least the one I believed was the cause, was that the Tower was overpopulated. Too many people lived in the Tower and too few people cleared floors, causing monster populations to explode. There wasn’t enough circle of life mana or whatever recycling to sustain the population and the Tower’s infrastructure, so it was crumbling. People were getting sick in ways never before seen, buildings and everyday items crumbled, deteriorating at an accelerated rate. The rich had ways of countering this, of course, but most people that had the means to live comfortably didn’t live in the Slums. They lived on higher floors of the Tower in supposed luxury and peace, making the entire problem all the worse. The Tower just wasn't built for peace.

After a few more minutes of walking, I arrived at my usual spot. It was a rickety bridge, barely being held together by rust, pieces of nails and a big dollop of the Tower’s pity. I walked onto the bridge, nihilistically not caring if the whole thing fell into the murky river or not. At least it would be quick.

Finding my usual perch by ingrained habit more than sight, I brushed a few scraps of paper off of my seat, sat back and cast my magnet into the “water,” holding tightly onto my fishing rod. After a few minutes of tugging and bobbing, I reeled it back in. I picked off all of the metal scraps from the magnet and plopped them into my bucket, throwing the magnet back into the sludge that passed for a stream.

After about half an hour of lazily fishing for metal, I saw some lights. It wasn’t the sunrise like I was expecting, though. It was coming from the wrong direction. A group of dark blots scurried out of the city and down the road, pushing a cart that clacked and clattered against the unmaintained cobblestone. Two of them were holding hooded lanterns, letting out barely enough light to make sure they followed the road… Or… No, they definitely weren’t using them to follow the road. With a shove, they ran the cart directly off the road and into the river. It smashed into the sludge with a splash and a disgusting sucking sound. My breath caught in my throat as one of the lanterns flashed three times in my direction. I stood as still as the grave, barely daring to breathe. Then, the lanterns went completely out, plunging the area once more into darkness. The sound of footsteps faded in the direction of the city once more, and were soon drowned out by the beating of my heart in my chest.

“What in the shit?” I mumbled, blinking away sweat from my eyes. It wasn’t necessarily unheard of for people to get bodied in the streets or for merchandise to go missing. But this? It stank of more than just sewage. It stank of plot. Because there was a plot afoot. Like, stuff was happening. Plotty stuff. Real main character energy kind of plotty stuff that only happened in the stories the old men in the taverns would tell during the longest of nights. The kind of stuff that normal people would ignore, but the heroic hero would swoop onto without a second thought and become a legend. I would become a legend.

As I stood, I felt my foot gently kick a piece of paper off of the bridge, hearing it scrape slightly before gliding off the edge and into the river below. I ignored it and gingerly made my way off the bridge and down the bank of the river, careful not to tumble ass over tea kettle into the murk. It wasn’t the kind of toxic sludge that would leave you with quirky mana skills. No, too much of that stuff was bound to make you grow extra toes, and not in a fun way. When I finally approached the wreckage, I had to wrap a piece of cloth around my mouth and nose. The smell was horrifying. The accelerated deterioration of sewage mixed with whatever the hell else was thrown into the sewers increased the smell exponentially until it was almost unbearable.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

I looked around, trying to find something to help me cross the few feet from the bank to the cart. The sun was just barely starting to rise, giving me a bit of light to work with. I found a wooden plank off to the side, sticking out of the dirt, and a piece of rope. I looked between both for a few seconds then ultimately locked my eyes onto the plank. I grabbed it, ignoring the inch of grime, and threw it onto the sludge between me and the cart. I took a deep breath before running across the plank. Step, step, step, squish. It started sinking with all of my weight on it. I reached forwards and grabbed one of the only things that was still above the sludge and still on the cart: a very fancy slim black box.

Loot in hand, I scrambled back to shore. My shoes were covered in ick, but all in all it was a pretty clean run. The sucking sounds intensified as the rest of the cart submerged into the river, finding its forever home. I scrambled up the bank, suppressing the urge to gag. I went to resume my perch on the bridge, but decided against it. If whoever dumped the cart into the river came back and saw me, I’d probably be in big trouble.

I didn’t want to walk back home covered in ungodly horrors while holding a suspicious box of unknown contents, so I decided to go to the next safest place. Crossing the bridge, I made my way to the treeline and down a game trail. After a few minutes, I arrived at my safehouse. Well, our safehouse. It was more of a shack, but it had served as an escape from the city when my friends and I just needed some time to forget about the Slums.

Sounds from inside the shack made me freeze in place. Unfortunately for my stealth skill, I chose that exact moment to step on the loudest branch in the history of all International Branch Cracking Championship co-ed tournaments ever.

“Huh? Who’s there?” Oh thank the Tower. It was Pyro’s stuffy voice. I breathed a sigh of relief (mostly because my repertoire of relief indicators was bone dry) and I made my way into the shack.

“Just me, buddy,” I said, doing my best to wipe my shoes off at the door.

“Tower’s hairy nutsack, Théo! What in the scrote that birthed the world are you doing walkin’ in smellin’ like that?” Pyro recoiled at my stench. I didn’t blame him. The man drew back, pressing a pair of shorts into the scraggly black beard on his face to mask the stench. I really wished he’d put them on, instead. But, alas, the situation was my fault. I guess I didn’t have the right to complain.

A different, lower pitched gag sounded from a pile of clothes off to the side.

“Oh, gods no.” Retching came from the corner of the shack. Thwain, a much thinner, much paler teen, wasn’t having any of it. “Please, tell me this is the nightmare where I get eaten by sexy cannibals and not real life. Anything but this.”

“Uh, yes?” I attempted, putting on my best faux-sexy cannibal voice. “Mmmm, Thwain. Your ligaments taste so goooood.”

“Nope, not doing it for me,” he replied, spitting out some excess saliva.

“What're you doin' here before the sun, Théo? And why do you smell so bad?” Pyro asked, slipping his shorts on.

“This!” I held up the box proudly. “I just saw some goons drive a cart into the sludge. I nabbed this from it before it sank completely,” I said, finally realizing a portion of the absurdity of what I had done.

Both Thwain and Pyro froze. “You did what, now?” Pyro asked. “Théo, you Tower-damned idiot, don’t tell me you’re serious.”

“God damn it, Théo,” Thwain muttered, putting his face in his hands.

“Whaaaat?” I asked, trying to sound reasonable. “It was there, ok? And it was dark as shit. And they ditched it for a reason. I just… Wanted to figure out that reason. Look, if it sucks, we ditch the box. If not, well…” I shrugged and held up the box. “Maybe we eat better for a few days.”

“Faaaack, fine,” Pyro said. “Table.” He sank into the only chair and cleared off a space on the table. I gingerly placed the box down and tried flipping the latch. Locked.

“Great,” Thwain said. “Back into the river it goes!”

“Hold up, hold up,” I protested. “We have… Tools…” I looked around for something to use.

Thwain sighed theatrically before going out and behind the shack, returning with an old, rusted pickaxe. “Step back, I’ve got it.” He reared back to take a swing.

“Wait!” Pyro shouted. “Outside, dumbass.”

Thwain sighed once more, then picked up the box, brought it outside and swung. The box ripped open with a screech of metal and cracking wood.

We all crowded around to see what was inside. Pyro grunted. Thwain swore. My face went as white as a clean white sheet.

There were three unassuming objects in the box. Three completely white, super duper ultra mega rare, completely round marbles.

“Yup. We’re dead. Murdered. Beheaded in the desert. Drowned in muck. Even our families are probably dead, too.” Thwain paced as he spiraled more and more.

“Théo… Don’t tell me. Don’t do it. Don’t tell me. But, like, are those…” Pyro seemed to be forcing himself not to reach for the marbles.

I gulped, both for dramatic effect and to clear my throat. I couldn’t leave him hanging. Not after that perfect setup. “Yeaahh, Pyro. Those are Awakening Stones.”

Pyro faked a faint, landing on the ground in a semi-boneless heap with a thump.