One of my desires is to perch somewhere safe and quiet when this imminent power struggle ensues. I have no need for dominance or adoration, but most people view it differently. Moreover, considering that most of the population despises clans much more than any social group on Earth, a war is bound to erupt. Or perhaps a massacre. On the other hand, all these clans, with their presumption of superiority — "we are shapeshifters, and you are merely second-rate humans worthy only of kissing our heels" — have long deserved a thorough shake-up. Regardless, I aim to steer clear of the whole mess!
I was only delving into all this information to profit from other people's illicit activities. Yes, I need money! The funds that Melanie bequeathed to her son might have sufficed for Izao, but they hardly satisfy me.
Ah, if it weren't for "Purity," I would have resolved all my financial woes by now. The question of money should theoretically be moot for someone capable of passing through bank vault walls and doors. But this tiny blade refuses to let me capitalize on the opportunities at my disposal! As soon as I consider theft, robbery, or any other illegal method of acquiring funds, my left palm sears with the heat of a red-hot iron! Curse Izao and his youthful zeal, coupled with his sense of right and wrong, which is influenced by heroic fantasies and superhero cartoons and comics!
If the Pest clan suffered at the hands of young vigilantes, I could scour their stashes, especially given that the addresses of their underground clinics aren't too challenging to find. Yes, the plan is somewhat reckless, but if successful, it could allow me to forget my money troubles for a good while. I don't need much: revamp my wardrobe, purchase a used motorcycle to "legitimize" my costume, acquire two or even three untraceable phones with fake registration, afford decent meals rather than the crap I can currently eat. That's about all I need. Although... I might consider hiring a cleaner, but I'm not Izao, who resigned himself to tidying up a 200 square meter studio apartment and dusting all his mother's numerous "masterpieces."
A week ago, I contemplated robbing an illicit dealer a couple of blocks away. But even this was vetoed by "Purity"! The accursed blade balked at the mere thought of confiscating funds from criminal elements. However, when I consider retrieving hidden assets from deceased owners, it doesn't cause my hand to burn or even twitch!
Perhaps it's worth a try? True, the search will be time-consuming and might ultimately prove fruitless, but the potential profits from unearthing an illicit clinic's or drug dealer's stash seem quite alluring!
Hmm...
Oh, no!
Hold on.
I almost blundered into danger like a naive child. As soon as they discover the bodies in the hangar, they'll call in the raigs from BKDW for consultation. Naturally, they'll also link the Pest clan's troubles to the Break Knights. Consequently, if I were to materialize as a projection anywhere remotely associated with the rat clan, I'd likely encounter raigs assisting in the investigation. Do I need that? Absolutely not. I'd prefer to endure eating scrambled eggs and sausages rather than take such risks.
Why didn't this simple realization strike me earlier? I wasted so much time, squandered on devising plans and gathering information that turned out to be unnecessary.
Recalling the matter of food, I approached the refrigerator. Upon opening the door, I surveyed its contents for about a minute: eggs, sausages, tomato paste in a glass jar, a couple of canned fish, and a meager portion of the cheapest cheese. A trip to the store for supplies had been long overdue, yet I kept putting it off. Several dishes could be whipped up from these scant ingredients, but none of them appealed to me today. I've grown weary of them, having consumed the same meals all week.
Today already wasn't the most buoyant and joyous of my days, and the thought of further souring my mood by forcing down tasteless food didn't seem the least bit appealing. At this rate, I was on the precipice of sinking into depression. Moreover, I had lingered within these four walls for far too long. I hadn't left the apartment except for my jaunts into the Break in over a week, and social adaptation seemed a distant dream at this pace. Additionally, Izao's spirit conjured memories of the delicious, reasonably priced dish served at the Tourist Quay, a mere five blocks away. Small meatballs stuffed with a rich mushroom julienne, accompanied by a fresh vegetable side dish. The vivid recollection alone was enough to make my mouth water. Was it truly that scrumptious? I'd never savored anything like it in my previous life. In general, I'm not particularly fond of the local cuisine, which primarily consists of rice and seafood. Even the taste preferences of my new body couldn't shift my dietary habits. But with this dish, our tastes align quite nicely.
Considering everything that has transpired today, do I deserve a treat? Sure, I don't have a lot of money, but a single visit to a cafe won't break the bank. Indeed, it's high time I ventured outside and abandoned this hermit lifestyle. It's an inevitability I will have to face, so why not start today? Even right now? Nothing prevents me from doing so, except perhaps my paranoia. Nothing, but Izao's wardrobe. How can one be so fanatical about something? There isn't a single article of clothing devoid of robot imagery, with a particular bias toward cartoon or anime-style robots! Even the sneakers are adorned with robot series logo art, not to mention the caps, t-shirts, and jackets. The thought of making a public appearance in such an ensemble drives me to the brink of madness due to Izao's tastes! But I have no choice. I've avoided the clothing store for a whole month, so the blame lies squarely on me.
The clock read half-past three. Given it was the height of summer, mid-July, and Wilflaes sits on the same latitude as Delhi, the outdoor temperature was a scorching thirty-five degrees in the shade. Typically, the capital of Novilter experiences cooler weather due to its coastal climate, but it had been blisteringly hot for two weeks straight without a hint of rain.
Regrettably, the wardrobe contained only a single white cotton T-shirt with artwork so overwhelmingly adorable it brought tears to my eyes. How could a guy purchase a T-shirt featuring two giant humanoid robots hugging each other? Izao did. And now, with nothing else to choose from - all his other T-shirts are black or dark blue, completely unsuitable for this heat - I had to wear it. The light beach shorts were quite decent, merely featuring a few robot images on the pockets, and the sandals appeared quite standard if you didn't examine the clasps too closely. The cap was nearly normal; the logo of one anime series, strikingly similar to the Autobots symbol from the Transformers series, even seemed rather fitting.
After getting dressed, I didn't dare look at myself in the mirror, well aware I wouldn't be fond of the reflection. Stuffing the keys and money into my shorts pockets, I pondered for a couple of minutes where to place the mobile phone. In contrast to Mateo's device, Izao's phone was a cheap model, brick-like in appearance and weighing a hefty four hundred grams. Not feeling inclined to carry a bag or a backpack, I decided to leave the phone at home; besides, apart from Melanie, no one called it anyway.
Taking the elevator down, I opened the front door and stepped onto the street. The heat wave that greeted my face prompted an almost immediate desire to retreat to the cool, air-conditioned confines of my apartment. But a stomach growl, a guttural reminder of my hunger, quelled this momentary temptation.
At a casual glance, a stroll around Wilflaes wouldn't give the impression of being in another world. Buildings, people, vehicles, and signs all seemed strikingly similar to those of my Earth. But upon closer inspection, paying attention to the minutiae and subtleties, the differences quickly became apparent. They were not fundamental differences, but ones of detail. For instance, one wouldn't see a person smoking here, as smoking never gained widespread popularity and remains the habit of a niche group of enthusiasts. Likewise, there are no excessively bright or noisy advertisements. The air is surprisingly clean and fresh for a city of over a million inhabitants, as all public transportation is electric and most private vehicles run on natural gas rather than gasoline. However, these differences do not stem from environmental or ecological concern but rather from social considerations.
A young lad was running toward me, his stride effortless, seemingly impervious to the sweltering heat. He appeared to be a typical fourteen-year-old teenager, but in reality, he was a second-stage shapeshifter, his nasal filters a clear giveaway. I'd learnt to notice such nuances. These shapeshifters were responsible for many of the unique characteristics of this world. Especially at the lower stages, the first and second, their senses, their perception, were much sharper than that of an average person, and they hadn't yet fully mastered control over themselves. Intense smells and loud noises irritated them. Given that clans in this world occupied the status of aristocracy - not the archaic type we were familiar with, but a powerful and influential elite - it was for their benefit and at their behest that this world placed much more emphasis on clean air and nature conservation.
I often spotted this runner from my window. He was somewhat of an anomaly. Clan members usually resided in the north of the city, on the other side of the bay, in upscale neighborhoods nestled amidst greenery, located on the slopes of a gentle hill crowned by the grandiose ducal palace.
This boy was the sole shapeshifter I had ever seen in this vicinity. Naturally, curiosity led me to follow him once during the Break. Having scrutinized his apartment, I learnt quite a bit. His life was strikingly similar to Izao's - a single mother, a former mistress, an absent father, and funds transferred from a law firm. However, unlike my case, this boy had inherited more traits from his father's side and had become a shapeshifter.
Such a circumstance is not uncommon in this world. Given that the birth of a shapeshifter is fraught with difficulties and often results in the mother's demise, this form of surrogate motherhood is prevalent. Clan men find women, seduce or purchase them, and once they become pregnant, they abandon them but continue to provide financial support. This expenditure is not in vain. Shapeshifting abilities in children may not emerge immediately. Instances of initiation have been reported as late as fourteen years old. The clans keep tabs on these illegitimate offspring, and if the child's inherited bloodline manifests itself, they are welcomed into the Family. This is usually what happens, but this boy hadn't left for the clan. He clung tenaciously to this place, remaining by the side of his ailing mother.
Izao might very well be one of these illegitimate children; it's almost certain given the many coincidences. From what I understand of the statistics, the probability of a half-blood acquiring shapeshifter abilities is quite low, one in ten if not less. Hence, it's reasonable that Izao didn't become a shapeshifter. However, it's puzzling why the law firm still sends money. Usually, the funds cease when the child reaches fifteen, when it's clear that the bloodline won't awaken. But my understanding of "usually" doesn't rely on a significant statistical sample. This matter likely harbors hundreds of subtleties that an outsider will never comprehend.
Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
As I watched the runner, a part of me wished I possessed the abilities of a shapeshifter. The heat didn't bother him, whereas it bore down on me, making me feel heavy. Of course, it's foolish to envy shapeshifters, given that I'm a raig, but in these "mundane" aspects, I'm no different from an ordinary person.
A trolleybus hummed past, its tires almost noiselessly traversing the heat-soaked asphalt. The first time I saw this mode of transport, I was taken aback, as it bore an uncanny resemblance to what I was familiar with in my past life. The thought of hurrying to the stop and catching a ride crossed my mind, but running in this heat was beyond my capabilities. Besides, a leisurely stroll was appealing. So, I walked, seeking the shelter of tree shade, observing my surroundings, noting the details. The streets were mostly empty given the scorching heat and it being a workday. I saw mostly youngsters and mothers pushing strollers. Even the children moved languidly, drained by the heat. I wasn't the only one sapped by the sun. However, there were exceptions to this prevailing lethargy, like a young woman, about twenty-five, who darted past me in a light, green polka-dot dress. Her movements were swift and energetic; she was clearly in a hurry. Her pallid skin suggested she wasn't a local, likely a guest from the hotel half a block away. I deliberately slowed my pace to admire the lovely view of her slender legs. Even her wide stride couldn't detract from the appeal. No, this walk wasn't in vain! Had I stayed at home, I would undoubtedly have wallowed in introspection and concern over the hangar incident. Instead of that self-reproach, here I was, delighting in the sight of a beautiful woman's hastened strides.
My state of relaxation proved to be a treacherous one. After all, I should have immediately noticed an electric scooter that abruptly veered into the oncoming lane, cutting across the nearly empty road. Moreover, the rider's decision to wear a helmet and gloves despite the sweltering heat should have alerted me. However, instead of identifying the impending trouble and making a swift exit, potentially through the bushes, before my "Purity" kicked in with a heroic impulse, I remained entranced by those beautiful legs.
My neighborhood is typically tranquil, unlike the bustling residential or port districts. Nestled near the city's historical part, it's a popular destination for tourists. Rarely do hoodlums linger here, and those who do seldom venture beyond their yards, as the police respond rapidly to any call. However, brazen, swift robberies of tourists can occur.
Due to its electric motor, the scooter moved rather quietly for the speed it had attained. The woman, whose legs had so thoroughly captivated my gaze, noticed the impending danger too late to secure her purse. The scooter mounted the sidewalk, its tires screeching as the vehicle lurched forward, causing a flurry amongst a group of young mothers with strollers. The rider drew near the woman in the short dress and, with a swift motion, snatched her purse from her shoulder before accelerating away. The scooter skidded slightly on the cobblestones due to the excess momentum, before darting along the sidewalk, seemingly planning to veer into the side streets to escape.
As soon as the robber seized the woman's handbag, a sensation akin to being splashed with boiling water surged through my left hand, compelling me to intervene and apprehend the culprit. What irked me most was that Izao himself, despite his heroic convictions, was inherently a coward. I was utterly certain that he would feign ignorance if he found himself in a similar situation. So why did "Purity" spur me towards these heroic deeds so insistently?
With a concerted effort, I quashed this alien urge to play the hero. I had no desire for such spontaneous adventures. Curse "Purity"! It's largely because of it that I stay homebound, for I had an inkling that it would land me in trouble!
The struggle with my blade took mere seconds, but the precious time lost meant that I couldn't avoid the oncoming scooter. The rider had assumed that a young man in a T-shirt featuring embracing robots would promptly clear his path, but when he saw me standing my ground, he attempted to swerve. All I managed was to extend my arms in hopes of mitigating the impending collision. Yet, the impact never came. The electric scooter, being nimble, barely missed me by a few centimeters. Or rather, it should have missed me entirely, but unbeknownst to me, my outstretched left palm seized the robber's jacket with an unyielding grip.
A sudden jerk.
Instantly, my feet lose touch with the pavement and my surroundings spin into a wild whirl.
By the time the scooter and I intersected, it was going at approximately forty kilometers per hour. Despite Izao's slight fifty-five-kilogram weight, it was enough to drastically shift the center of gravity. The scooter skidded, spiraled, and since my hand had no intention of releasing the thief, I was launched into the air. After several somersaults, punctuated by jarring blows to my elbows, knees, and tailbone, I collided forehead-first with a tree trunk. It was fortunate the speed had significantly reduced from forty, otherwise I would have perished instantly. Upon the final impact, the world ignited in a myriad of brilliant sparks. I never imagined pain could be so vibrant, so luminous. Then everything sank into utter darkness...
When I came to, my first coherent thought was, "I expected it to hurt more." In my previous life, I once flew off the footboard of a "Tiger"[1] that braked abruptly on sandy terrain at forty kilometers per hour: a fractured elbow, numerous bruises, and near-constant agony for a fortnight. Now, while there is pain, it feels distant, somewhat subdued. Even the pounding in my head feels as though it's muffled by a cushion. I attempted to open one eye, only to swiftly shut it again as even the dim light amplified the discomfort. A clear indication of at least a moderate concussion.
It appears I'm in a hospital. A private room on the second floor, with a large window offering a view of a well-maintained courtyard. Judging by the sun's position, it's early evening, meaning I was unconscious for about two hours. Clearly, the accident was not mild.
The absence of life-support equipment in the room is likely a good sign. Through the entrance, I discerned three figures, one male and two female. They seem engaged in a conversation, but their whispers are hard to distinguish, due to both the buzzing in my head and their low volume. I attempt to listen through the throbbing pain.
"Ladies," a self-assured young man's voice says, "I repeat, our Seer has examined the young man. We've administered pain relief, and he'll be fine. He's got some bruises, a cracked rib, and a concussion. A week's rest here, and he'll be as good as new."
As the likely doctor spoke, my mind focused on how to inconspicuously slip into the Break and return swiftly. The predicament is that if I heal this way, such a miraculous recovery within a medical facility will inevitably attract scrutiny, something I wish to avoid, especially given this hospital employs a Seer. The presence of a sensum of this rank indirectly suggests that this isn't a cheap healthcare facility. Moreover, it's a private room. The question arises: will my insurance cover treatment in such a pricy establishment? Additionally, I need to get into the Break as soon as possible. The longer I remain sick or injured, the more the spiritual image of the projection adapts to the body's state. This lag can result in the illness or injury becoming ingrained in the projection, and healing simply by passing through the Break might no longer be possible.
"Still, I would like to give it a try," a melodious female whisper interjects, disrupting my thoughts. There's a kind of sadness, or perhaps exhaustion, in her voice. If I haven't lost my ability to gauge age by voice, the girl who spoke is about Izao's age.
Oddly enough, I recall the woman in the green polka-dot dress being older.
"I must remind you that external interference isn't necessary," the doctor replies. "However, if you choose to use your abilities, I won't object." There's a clear note of curiosity in his voice, which frankly unnerves me.
Being a test subject is the last thing I want! Thus, pushing through the pain, I pry my eyes open. This time, it's not as excruciating.
Surveying the room, I find my deductions were correct. The man donned in a white coat with a stethoscope draped around his neck is unmistakably a doctor. Farthest from my bed, closer to the exit, stands the woman whose purse caused my current predicament.
Beside my head is a very young girl. The first thing that strikes you about her is her long, shoulder-length hair, obviously bleached with peroxide, and her huge, round, attention-grabbing glasses. However, they don't fool me. I can see that these glasses are non-prescription, a mere accessory. Her face is pleasantly rounded with small dimples in her cheeks, which I'm certain make her incredibly charming when she smiles. The shape of this young visitor is hidden by a thin, light-fabric poncho with a surreal pattern draped over her shoulders, thwarting any attempt to discern her proportions upon focusing on it. She could perhaps be considered beautiful if it weren't for the profound weariness etched on her face, an expression of immense fatigue that seems to have become her default. It's not so much physical exhaustion as it is emotional, as if she's been shouldering a heavy burden for an extended period, yearning to cast it off but unable to do so. I'm confident I've never met this girl before, yet for some inexplicable reason, I feel as if I know her. I'm certain I've seen her somewhere before, but I just can't remember where.
"Oh! Our 'hero' has awakened," the doctor's voice drips with unfiltered sarcasm. "How are you feeling, young man?"
"M-m-m-m...," I manage to croak out. My mouth is parched. "Head hurts... body too, but it's kind of... dull."
"That's to be expected. Don't worry, we administered an injection."
"What happened to me?" It's a question any young man would ask after hearing about an injection.
"Considering your situation, you're quite fortunate, young man," the doctor says. His tone suggests he's not fond of "heroes." He's likely seen enough boyish heroism and the trouble it leads to in his time. "A week of total rest under our supervision, and you'll be almost as good as new."
"A whole week?!" My shock might be overplayed, but the exclamation feels appropriate.
"Just a week," the doctor immediately corrects me. "Though, if dear Maya helps you, that period could be significantly shortened!" His eyes flicker to the girl with evident curiosity — a purely professional interest, no doubt.
"Help?" Could this girl be a Maker? If so, why does the doctor look at me like I'm a lab rat?
The young visitor interpreted my question as consent to proceed. She placed her palm on my arm and...
Wait!
What the hell?!
I almost got yanked into the Break! By sheer willpower, I managed to cling to reality!
But the girl... she vanished...
[1] TLN: modern Russian military SUV