《The Sins of Their Father [Cyberpunk/Steampunk Progression LitRPG]》


 Chapter 1 - The Void

    I wake up slowly to the world spinning. It feels like an eternity and a moment since I was last conscious. My gut is protesting against this unintended carnival ride and the space where my head should be pounds out a staccato rhythm. What even happened last night? I never get a hangover. Did I drink too much? Did I drink anything? Oww¡­


    I roll over in bed and attempt to pull the blankets up to cocoon myself with an undignified grunt that makes no sound. I can never remember to close the curtains before I go to sleep, and the sun is being exceptionally annoying today.


    But I can¡¯t roll over. There¡¯s no blankets with which to cover my aching head. No matter which way I turn, the light peels through my closed eyes like a shiny icepick. Did I kick the blankets off the bed again? Why am I not freezing?


    I try to open my eyes, and for a brief moment confusion sets in as I find that I do not actually have eyelids.


    Then comes the panic.


    What the fuck! I try to scream, but no words leave the lips I do not have. I can¡¯t feel my face! Ahhh shit fucking fuck I can¡¯t feel anything!! I continue to look around, bizarrely without the aid of anything resembling eyes, or even a head or neck, and a slow realization dawns.


    Am I¡­dead? Oh god I hope the cats are ok. I did remember to refill their auto-feeder and water fountain¡­it was yesterday, right? I definitely emptied the robo-litterbox. I take a moment to try and calm myself down, which strangely seems much easier than usual. Perhaps due to the absence of any sort of autonomic nervous system ramping up my panic response. Okay. So, big white glowing void, no body I can perceive, thoughts too clear to be a dream¡­what the fuck. I¡¯m dead. Goddammit, I just got my depression under control. I found a new therapist and everything! And now I¡¯m dead? I didn¡¯t even get to do it myse¨C I forcefully stop the reflex to emotionally self-harm and try to chuckle¡ªdark humor being the number one contributor to any sort of balance in my recent mental state¡ªbut yet again nothing audible breaks the eerie silence. I spend some time just floating in the void, perhaps an hour and perhaps an eon, my non-head headache slowly fading.


    ¡­I really hope my cats are okay.


    NEVER FEAR, THEY SHALL BE WELL CARED FOR.


    Holy fuck! The sudden burst of a deep, booming voice in the void startles me. I jerk my gaze around rapidly, trying to refocus on the source of the¡­was that a voice? There was no actual sound, yet I perceived it clearly. Everything remains a stark white nothingness. Somehow, even without eyes I¡¯m able to direct my attention in various directions, but can¡¯t find the source of the voice.


    ¡­Hello? I venture timidly into my own mind.


    GREETINGS, MORTAL.


    The non-sound of the voice is overwhelming in volume, terrifying in its intensity, blaring against my consciousness like the roar of a spectral jet engine. I feel like my hair should be whipping in the wind it creates, if I still had any hair or anything as mundane as ¡®air¡¯ existed in this space.


    Uh, greetings yourself. I pause for a moment, trying to collect my scattered thoughts. Where am I? Who are you?


    YOU HAVE PASSED ON FROM YOUR ORIGINAL LIFE, MORTAL. YOU HAVE BEEN SUMMONED HERE TO FULFILL YOUR NEW DESTINY. I AM A MESSENGER OF THE ONE TRUE GOD, HE WHO IS FATHER OF THE WORLD, ¨C


    What follows, I cannot properly describe. There is no noise, but the name carries the sound of a thousand-thousand trumpets. No change in the stark light around me, but a rainbow kaleidoscope of impossible colors subsumes my vision. Barely a moment passes, but I feel the age of countless lifetimes. The weight of a world presses down upon my mind, crushing me into welcome oblivion. I am an insignificant insect before an otherworldly existence beyond my ability to perceive, let alone comprehend, and just as suddenly it is gone.


    ¨C AND YOU MAY CALL ME THERAMIEL. REJOICE, MORTAL, FOR YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN.


    My mind reels as I slowly get over the shock of being exposed even indirectly to the divine. I don¡¯t think mere mortals were meant to hear the true names of gods. It takes several minutes to piece together the fragments of my psyche, and then the words of the messenger, Theramiel, hit home.


    Wait, original life? Summoned? New destiny? Is this one of those isekai scenarios I definitely don¡¯t spend too much time reading about online? I hesitate briefly before continuing. And is there a name that mortals call your god, by chance? The one you used kinda hurt, and I don¡¯t think I could pronounce it if I tried.


    The booming non-voice comes again, somehow louder and more overwhelming than before.


    HE IS THE ONE TRUE GOD, MORTAL. HE IS NOT MINE. HE IS THE BEGINNING AND THE END. THE CREATOR OF ALL THINGS. THE FATHER OF THE WORLD. KEEPER OF LIGHT. HERALD OF INFINITY. CARETAKER OF SOULS. BASTION OF ALL THAT IS WORTHY AND GOOD.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    The voice pauses, then continues in its usual, yet still-too-loud tone.


    ¡­AND I HEAR THE MORTALS SOMETIMES REFER TO HIM AS ODAOS.


    I float there for a moment, letting the force of Theramiel¡¯s diatribe on the divine wash over me. At least being yelled at doesn¡¯t shatter my mind like glass the way the name of a god apparently can. As I slowly recover, I¡¯m about to request clarification on my other queries just as I get another response.


    YOUR LIFE ON YOUR PREVIOUS WORLD HAS COME TO AN END, MORTAL. AN UNFORTUNATE BUT PAINLESS ACCIDENT IN YOUR SLEEP. YET YOU HAVE THE SOUL OF A HERO, ONE CHOSEN BY HE WHO COMMANDS DESTINY. IT IS YOUR DUTY TO DEFEAT EVIL, SAVE THE MORTAL REALMS, AND SUBSEQUENTLY BASK IN YOUR JUST REWARDS.


    Oh, wow, another title that is Definitely Capitalized. How many does this Odaos guy have? I revert to sarcasm, my oldest and dearest defense mechanism, though I do my best not to ¡®say¡¯ that thought loud enough to be overheard. Theramiel seems a bit touchy on that topic and I¡¯m not sure how far this whole mind-reading conversation goes. Best not to dwell on it.


    Uh, Mister Theramiel, Sir, as much as I like reading isekai shi¨C uh, stuff, I¡¯m not sure I¡¯m the best person to actually live it. I pause, trying to put this delicately so I don¡¯t get yelled at again. I¡¯m not sure how much of my previous life you¡¯ve seen but I¡¯m most definitely not a warrior or hero or whatever. I¡¯m just your normal depressed office drone with an anxiety disorder. I¡¯ve never even been in a fight! I don¡¯t think I¡¯m meant for a life of defeating evil.


    The silence stretches on just a bit too long to be comfortable. I get the feeling Theramiel is watching some kind of highlight reel while I wait, which is more than a bit embarrassing. I¡¯m starting to think that this isn¡¯t entirely normal; as far as dying and talking to the messenger of a god and having my psyche break apart from hearing a name all for the purpose of possibly getting reincarnated can be normal, that is.


    ¡­BE THAT AS IT MAY, YOUR SOUL IS ONE OF A HERO. IT IS YOUR DESTINY. NEVER FEAR, MORTAL. ALL HEROES ARE GRANTED BOONS TO AID IN THEIR QUEST. YOUR STRENGTH SHALL BE THAT OF TEN MEN, YOUR FEET AS SWIFT AS THE WIND, YOUR MIND SHARP AND YOUR GAZE PIERCING. YOUR ARCANE PROWESS, GIFTED TO YOU IN EXCESS OF OTHER MORTALS, SHALL BE THE DESPAIR OF EVIL SO THAT NONE SHALL IMPEDE YOUR JOURNEY. DO NOT FORSAKE YOUR DESTINY FOR FEAR OF WHAT IS TO COME, FOR THOSE STANDING WITH EVIL SHALL FEAR YOU IN TURN. COME, LEAVE YOUR PREVIOUS LIFE BEHIND AND EMBRACE YOUR NEW PATH.


    Oh shit, cheat powers! That definitely makes this easier. I think I could actually do this if everything is as-advertised. And at least I won¡¯t be going back to¡­well, anyway. I¡¯d already resolved to turn over a new leaf, this just happens to be a bit newer than I expected. I wonder what kind of world I¡¯ll get? Theramiel did say something about arcane powers!


    Could I get some more info about this whole evil business? Earth has definitely had its share of truly evil regimes, but also a lot of crusades that brought violence to those that were just different and not bad, let alone capital-E Evil. And, ah, where exactly will I be going? What kind of worl¨C


    My thoughts are cut off as images assault my mind once more, though more gently, at least at first. I¡¯m shown sweeping vistas with dazzling sights, a bountiful world spread before me for the taking. Medieval-looking cities with impossibly grand architecture. People in flowing robes casting wild spells and knights in shining armor fighting slobbering beasts and cackling devils. Ancient ruins holding dark secrets and forgotten treasures. Fantastical creatures of wonder and magic. Then shifting darkness, and a palpable sense of burning hatred. Two glowing, red, serpentine eyes below sharp, deadly-looking horns. The flash of a sneer hiding needle-point teeth. Those eyes burn into my soul and dread suffuses my very being. Just as suddenly, the images vanish, and I feel like I¡¯d be gasping for breath if I still could.


    SELLENIA IS A WORLD OF WONDER AND MYSTERY BEYOND YOUR CURRENT UNDERSTANDING. IT IS A DOMAIN OF MAGIC, YET BESET BY DEMONS AND MONSTERS. IT IS YOUR SACRED DUTY TO DEFEND THE INNOCENT FROM THIS EVIL, AND TAKE THE FIGHT TO THE LORD OF BEASTS SO YOU MAY END THE THREAT TO ODAOS¡¯ PEOPLE ONCE AND FOR ALL.


    Beyond my understanding? Looks like your standard sword and sorcery world to me, they¡¯re a dime a dozen¡ªat least in fiction. I can definitely get behind a classic fantasy adventure story though. Fight monsters, kill demons, rescue the princess¡ªmaybe smooch a little if she¡¯s interested¡ªand live happily ever after and all that. I¡¯m in!


    Alright, I guess I can do that. I¡¯d be smirking if I could. So, how does this work? Am I getting a new body? I don¡¯t seem to have my old one anymore, and I was definitely not too fond of it anyway. I¡¯d most assuredly be blushing at this next part if it was still possible, and I lower my gaze before continuing. Not that I was actually looking at Theramiel in any case, wherever he is. Could you, ah, make me hot¨C ahh! I mean, uh, beautiful, this time?


    WORRY NOT, MORTAL. A NEW VESSEL SHALL BE CONSTRUCTED FOR YOU IN ORDER TO CONTAIN YOUR DIVINE BOONS. YOU SHALL BE BORN ANEW, STRIPPED OF THE CHAINS OF YOUR PAST LIFE, RAISED WITH CARE BY ODAOS¡¯ SERVANTS, AND TRAINED FROM CHILDHOOD TO FULFILL YOUR DESTINY. YOUR VISAGE SHALL BE THE WONDER AND ENVY OF ALL; ANY WHO GAZE UPON YOU MOVED BY THE GLORY OF THE DIVINE APPARENT IN ITS CRAFTING.


    Fuckin¡¯ sweet, finally! Heck yeah Theramiel, let¡¯s do this thing! That sounds¨C wait, that sounds like I¡¯d be reincarnated without memories. That¡¯s basically the same as dying! And I have absolutely no desire to relive childhood, even if puberty goes right this time.


    Ah, hold on a moment, I don¡¯t want to forget¨C


    COME, MORTAL, YOUR DESTINY AWAITS.


    No wait a sec! And what about my cats¨C


    My thoughts are cut off as the white void fades to blackness, and my consciousness slips away.

 Chapter 2 - The Vessel

    This time, consciousness returns to me like a lightning bolt. My body jolts, and my eyes shoot open. A sudden need to cough, to vomit, to expel <i>something</i> from my lungs overwhelms me and I start to spasm violently. Whatever is causing this feeling, I¡¯m unable to actually do anything about it. My legs knock into a wall of some sort quite close to me. The space I find myself in is dark, pitch-black, and I seem to be suspended in viscous fluid. I reach up to my face in a panic, and my hand bumps into a mask covering me from nose to jaw with a thick, corrugated tube leading out of it. I can feel the tube continuing down my throat as well.


    The urge to get this thing out of myself fills my mind. Panic floods my grey matter as synapses fire into overdrive. I grab onto the tube, about to yank it out and away from me, until some dim portion of my brain reminds me that it¡¯s likely the only thing keeping me breathing, submerged as I am. Frantically I fumble around in the blackness, slowed by the fluid, and feel a glass-like enclosure surrounding me. <i>Am I in some sort of test tube?</i> The thought flutters through my brain, vague and unimportant in my current state. The need to get <i>out</i> and to <i>expel</i> the things invading my body is overwhelming.


    <b>[Odd.]</b>


    Continuing in my frantic search, I reach above me to feel another tube, or maybe a bundle of cables. Following it up with my hands, I find it terminates in the ceiling a few inches above the top of my head, right next to the corrugated breathing tube. Reaching back down, I find the other end, and freeze. My panic ramps up even higher. The other end of the cables lead to a small metal plate, embedded directly into the base of my skull.


    <b>[What is this place?]</b>


    Faintly, I hear what sounds like an industrial alarm blaring for a moment, then a much louder mechanical thunk echoes like a physical wave through the liquid encasing me. Suddenly, the cables in my hand detach from my neck, and the tube comes away from my face mask. I start to fall, the fluid around me draining away below me, but I grab onto the cables with my other hand as well and haul myself up. My head breaks the surface of the fluid, and I take in a shuddering breath through the tube still in my throat.


    As the fluid drains away, my feet come into contact with the curved bottom of my glass prison, my heels sliding along it to hit the metallic edge of a circular hole. Shakily, I lower myself until my naked backside sits on the other side of the opening and then I fall sideways against the glass wall. I let go of the cables and reach down to <i>rip </i>the mask away from my face, then slowly, agonizingly, pull the tube from my throat as I gag repeatedly. I can <i>feel</i> something slipping out from both my esophagus and my airways, and with a disgustingly wet <i>pop</i> the tubes pull free. My body is wracked with wet, hacking coughs. I definitely got some of that gunk in my lungs when the breathing tube disengaged.


    I jolt in surprise again when a stilted, automated voice, clearly audible now that the surrounding fluid has drained away, reaches me through the opening below.


    ¡°<i>Sid?os riennfe sutansina ne¡¯gwinnan de. Hw¨¥fanna</i> <i>bedna</i> purge <i>vodfinne</i>. <i>Yosadnna </i>reset <i>ne¡¯bwanna din.</i> Warning: <i>sedn¨ªs de hw¨¥fanna</i> vessels <i>nin¡¯bwe</i> purge process. Error: system reset <i>f¨²ntanna</i>. Blockage <i>nin cort?nwa</i> containment vessel. <i>Cl¨ªnte¡¯ya nin cort?nwa </i>disposal chute. Please manually <i>sedn¨ªn</i> blockage to continue automated reset procedures.¡±


    An amber warning light flashes weakly into being beyond the glass confines of my prison. I take in a shuddering breath and slowly exhale, trying to regain control over my frayed nerves. <i>What the hell is going on! What the fuck language was that? Why is only some of it in English?!</i>


    <b>[Mortal, are you injured?]</b>


    My breath hitches in my throat as another voice filters into my mind. No, not a voice. There¡¯s no impression of sound like with my last¡ªand only other¡ªmental conversation. It¡¯s as if the words were imprinted directly into my brain, all at once, bypassing my senses entirely. ¡°...Theramiel?¡± I croak weakly, ¡°Is that you?¡± I latch onto the possibility that maybe I¡¯m not alone in this nightmare.


    <b>[Indeed. This is most unusual.]</b>


    After ages, or more likely a few minutes, I manage to sit up with my back pressed against the glass wall of the test tube containing me. No, not a tube. It¡¯s more bulbous, not quite a sphere in shape. My back is arched outwards and my neck forwards in an uncomfortable position, so I gently lower myself again to lie awkwardly on the cold metal lip around the open hatch. Through the intermittent glow of the warning light, I¡¯m able to see beyond the confines of my prison and I take in my surroundings.


    The room outside seems large, and is still quite dark aside from the flashing amber light. I can barely make out what looks like additional containment vessels on either side of me, a vague shape visible within the one to my right. Ahead of me, in front of the vessels, is a metal walkway that continues left and right beyond my line of sight. Looking below, through the only opening in my prison, I can see an open metal iris around a very dark hole. There¡¯s a bit of a gap between the bottom of the vessel and the iris.


    While I wait to catch my breath between coughs, I try to collect myself. ¡°What the <i>fuck</i> is hap¨C¡± I¡¯m interrupted as hacking coughs wrack my lungs again. <i>Right, </i>I think ¡®aloud¡¯,<i> let¡¯s try this again. What the </i>fuck<i>, Theramiel? What¡¯s happening!?</i>Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    Silence. <i>Theramiel, you there?</i> Again, nothing. ¡°...Theramiel?¡± I gasp.


    <b>[I am with you, Mortal. Are you injured?]</b>


    <i>Wait, can you not hear my thoughts anymore?</i> I wait for a moment with no response. <i>Fuck you Theramiel! What the actual fuck!? What did you do to me? What the fuck is wrong with you and your piece-of-shit god!? Raised with care my fucking ass! I was promised sword and sorcery not grimdark body horror! </i>More silence. <i>That¡¯s probably a good thing, I guess. </i>¡°I don-n-n¡¯ think I¡¯m injured,¡± I continue aloud, in a weak voice. ¡°But I-I¡¯m definitely not¨C¡± more hacking. ¡°Not w-well. Wha¡¯ hap-ppened?¡±


    <b>[I know not, Mortal, this is most unusual. Have you retained your memories?]</b>


    <i>Yeah, </i>I think to myself, <i>and thank fuck for that. You didn¡¯t even give me a chance to talk about that part before you kicked me here! </i>I pause then, focusing on a particular word that Theramiel definitely keeps saying with a capital letter. Any excuse to take my mind off this new horror story.


    ¡°Um, Th-theramie-el? You keep¡­kee-ep calling me Mortal. Do you no¨C¡± <i>cough </i>¡°¨Cnot know my name?¡± There¡¯s a long pause, the silence filled with nothing but the sound of my slow, wetly rasping breaths.


    <b>[You were to become a new being. I did not think it of much import.]</b>


    I do not respond, stunned at the sheer audacity.


    <b>[Or perhaps you could choose a new one.]</b>


    <i>¡­Damn, what an asshole¡­</i>


    <b>[You¡¯re familiar with the concept.]</b>


    ¡°Wow, you know <i>tha-at</i> but didn¡¯t bother to l-learn my name?¡± I let out a weak huff of air and wrinkle my nose in irritation. At least speaking is getting easier. ¡°No, my name¡¯s Sarai¨C No, wait, I-I mean it¡¯s Sarai.¡± I blink, nonplussed. ¡°That¡¯s no-ot my name. Why¡­why can¡¯t I remember my name?¡±


    <b>[Sarai is the name of the Heroine, your name.]</b>


    That¡­that can¡¯t be right. Sarai isn¡¯t my <i>true</i> name, the one I chose, that I know for sure. But it <i>was</i> the ¡®fantasy¡¯ name I always used for my Dungeons and Dragons character or in RPGs. <i>What the hell is going on¡­soul of a hero, I guess? Fucking bullshit. </i>I huff again, rolling my eyes, and haul myself upright. My head bangs weakly against the curved upper wall of the containment vessel, and I grunt in frustration. Tears fill my eyes and I take a few moments to breathe and calm down.


    ¡°Whatever. Just don''t keep calling me Mortal,¡± I gripe.


    <b>[As you say, M¨C Sarai.]</b>


    Casting my gaze down, I can see that the metal iris below me is still open, but if I¡¯m careful I can probably step on the lip around it. Anything to get out of this glass prison. I¡¯ve never been terribly affected by claustrophobia but I <i>need</i> to get out. I warily gauge the distance down, it¡¯s perhaps just a bit longer than I am tall. Slipping slightly as I¡¯m still coated in whatever fluid was used to suspend me, I turn around to lower myself down, rather than just jumping. As I try to transition from supporting myself with my elbows to my hands, I lose my grip and fall with a yelp.


    My heels hit the metal lip below, my upper back and shoulders slamming into the other side with a dull clang, and I wince in pain. <i>That¡¯s definitely going to bruise.</i> My limbs still shaking slightly, I quickly move to the side, away from the hole. I spend a moment to recover my strength, then cautiously stand up with a glance upwards. <i>Okay, maybe more than a bit further than I am tall. Or am I shorter now?</i> It feels like I¡¯m beginning to dissociate. My brain is desperate to ponder something as mundane as my height.


    Shivering, I stumble a single step to a metal railing in front of me. I use both arms to support myself and take another moment to look around the room I¡¯m in. I find myself standing in front of a T-shaped metal walkway, a solid-looking door with a complicated locking mechanism almost directly in front of me at the base of the T. Above it, that flashing amber warning light continues to spin almost angrily, emitting the only illumination. Next to the door appears to be some sort of control station with a number of buttons, knobs, switches and gauges. Metal pipes of differing sizes exit the console and flow in various directions into the wall and around the room. I turn around to take in my former prison, but before I turn fully I freeze, my eyes widening in horror at the sight.


    Now looking through only one glass wall, I can see more clearly into the other containment vessels that neighbor my own. There are at least eight vessels in total, fading into the darkness in a row. It¡¯s difficult to make out between the flashes of the warning light, but I can vaguely see figures huddled in the fetal position, at least in those vessels that aren¡¯t cracked and broken. Each is suspended in the same viscous fluid that still covers me in a cold, slimy layer with a tube attached to their faces and a thick bundle of cables exiting at the base of every skull. I reach up to slowly feel the goop-coated metal plate at the base of my own bald head.


    I shudder, unnerved, and turn away. ¡°Any chance you know where we are?¡± I ask in a timid voice.


    <b>[I know not your location. I am¡­not present, yet connected to you. This is unusual, but it has been some time since I last graced the Mortal Realms directly. What is¨C Hmm¡­this is most unusual indeed. A moment, Mortal, Sarai, while I investigate.]</b>


    ¡°Wait, hold on, Theramiel. It¡¯s hard to follow when you send so much all at once.¡± I take a moment to collect my thoughts. ¡°When¡¯s the last time you, ah, ¡®graced the mortal realms¡¯?¡± Silence greets me, of course, but there¡¯s no response from my divine passenger either. ¡°Figures,¡± I grumble.


    Shivers continue to wrack my body as I gaze around. I don¡¯t want to be alone in this mad science lab, unsure when Dr. Frankenstein might return to continue his insane experiments. In front of me, below the walkway, the room disappears into darkness but I can make out the vague outlines of pipes and tubes and more esoteric machinery below the metal mesh. The only exit I can see is that door ahead of me. <i>I need to get out of here. I </i>really<i> don¡¯t like the sound of a ¡®disposal chute¡¯ or ¡®purge process¡¯. I need to get out and figure out whatever the hell is going on. </i>I glance down at my body, slick with that cold, viscous goop, while rubbing my arms for warmth. <i>And find some clothes.</i>


    Mentally preparing myself, I try to heave over the railing onto the walkway, but vastly misjudge the strength in my limbs. I fall back on my heels, but the goop still coats them and my traitorous feet slide right out from under me. Time seems to slow and my eyes grow wide as I tumble backwards. The railing slips from my slick fingers. Arms flail wildly. The gut-wrenching sensation of freefall. Then the back of my head hits the lip of the disposal chute and stars burst in my vision. I reflexively crumple into a ball, which is the exact worst reaction. I find myself quickly swallowed in darkness, the dim flashing of the amber light fading into a pinprick above before I vanish into blackness.

 Chapter 3 - The Furnace

    Pain. My whole world is agony. My head throbs, a deep ache permeating my skull, radiating from the back until it rattles around behind my eyeballs. Sharp. Something painfully sharp pierces my side. A rasping groan escapes my lips. My eyes flutter open to near-total darkness. I¡¯m lying on something slick and wet and jaggedly pointy. ¡°Wha¨C wha¡¯ happen¡¯?¡± I slur.


    I tense my abdomen to try and sit up but gasp in pain and pause. Lying still, I fumble around in the darkness and grasp <i>something</i> impaling my side. With a jerk I pull it free, and my vision tunnels at the feeling of the object scraping against a rib as it dislodges. I bring my shaking arm in front of my eyes, squinting to make out the offending object in the darkness. <i>Is that¡­fuck is that a bone?</i>


    Barely illuminated in a soft green light, I can make out the outline of the knobby end of what looks like a human femur. The opposite side is cracked and broken to a jagged point, an inch or two slick with my blood. Horrified, I drop the bone and it clatters to the floor. Without moving my still-ringing head I glance around. My new prison appears to be made entirely of some dark metal, black and roughly textured. Dim green illumination streams from a grate to my left, midway up the wall. I don¡¯t dare look at what I¡¯ve landed on, sprawled painfully on my back.


    Pressing my hand at the blood oozing slowly from my side, I again try to sit up, this time to some success. I crawl off my macabre bed, wincing at every crunch. Slowly, agonizingly, I rise to my feet, hunched slightly from the low ceiling. Once again, however, I slip and fall, but this time I manage to catch myself against a rough, cold metal wall.


    <i>Stupid. Fucking </i>idiot<i>. That¡¯s how you almost got yourself killed last time. Be more careful Sarai¨C</i> My train of thought comes screeching to a halt as the reminder that I don¡¯t even know my own name nearly overwhelms me. I take several halting steps away from my landing zone and slowly sink to my knees, tears in my eyes. <i>God fucking </i>damn<i> it! Some fantasy adventure, huh?</i> A sob hitches in my throat and the weight of my pain¡ªmental and physical¡ªpresses upon my back until my forehead touches the floor. Another sob wracks my body before I get my breathing back under control.


    <i>Come on Sar¨C come on, girl. Get yourself together. You¡¯re still alive, and you won¡¯t die here. You can¡¯t let yourself lose to that darkness inside again. You¡¯ve gotta prove ¡®em all wrong, yeah?</i> With tremendous effort, I raise my head. The grate is in front of me now, and that soft green light shines directly into my eyes. I squint again and turn aside. In the dim light, I can make out what looks like a door in the wall, with the grate at its top. A needle-thin crack of that same green light peers through on one edge.


    I shuffle forward, still on my knees, cautious of attempting to stand again, one hand still pressed against the wound in my side. Slowly, I make my way to the door. I lean my forehead against the cold metal, breathing hard from the effort. My body feels feeble and weak. As my heart rate comes back down, I sit up straight and place both hands against the door. With all the strength remaining in my limbs, I attempt to push it open. A ragged scream bubbles up from my throat, but the door is unmoving. I rise to a kneeling position, bracing one foot on the floor, and try again to no avail.


    I gulp down air, taking deep, gasping breaths. My arms are on fire. <i>I don¡¯t have the strength. I can¡¯t be trapped again, I need to get out!</i> I swallow my panic and look around for something to pry open the door with, and my gaze passes over the pile of detritus that cushioned my fall. Careful to not look too closely¡ª<i>bones, blackened and cracked. Viscous goop. Is that part of a jawbone?</i>¡ªI avert my eyes and shuffle back to grab the bone I had tossed aside. I turn once more, and shove the bloody, pointed end into the crack in the door. I use my entire body weight to jam it in as far as I can, then press my back against the door and lever the femur forward.


    A painful screeching noise of grinding metal assaults my ears, and the portal inches ever so slowly open before the bone breaks with a loud snap. I almost bash my head against the floor once more, but manage to catch myself on my forearms. I suck air in through my teeth to fight through the resulting pain. Straightening up, I shove the now less-pointy end of the femur into the door again. A scream bursts from my lungs. With all the strength remaining in my feeble body, the door opens with a sharp crack of shattering rust and the gap widens considerably before the hinges seize again.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    I take a few moments to catch my breath. Glancing at the opening, it appears to be just enough for me to squeeze through. It takes several minutes of painfully scraping my skin against the rough metal, but finally, I crawl free. I roll over onto my back, spread eagle on what feels like cool stone, and gaze upwards.


    Pale green light suffuses the room, barely enough to see but much brighter than I¡¯ve encountered so far in this world. Thick metal girders cross under the ceiling high above me, with innumerable pipes wrapping around and through them, criss-crossing and tangled, like the roots of a great metal tree. <i>What is this place?</i> I cast my eyes around and see nothing but ancient machinery, rusty metal pipes, and cold stone walls. I roll to the side before sitting up on my knees, careful to support myself with both arms, but quickly clutch at my side again with a wince. In front of me, my gaze falls to my metal prison. An industrial-sized furnace made of blocky cast iron, connected to the wall by an enormous metal tube at a steep angle. <i>I suppose that¡¯s where the ¡®disposal chute¡¯ leads. Fuck, I¡¯m glad it¡¯s cold. Nothing here looks like it¡¯s been used in ages. </i>


    Somehow, I find the strength to stand on trembling limbs, careful of falling once more. <i>I can¡¯t stay here. This place is dead and it¡¯ll be the death of me too. </i>I look down at my hands, and they¡¯re covered in soot. In fact, my whole body is covered in soot where it¡¯s not already coated in that slime from my containment vessel. I shuffle over to some angular object draped in dusty canvas and collapse onto an ugly rusted chair in front of it.


    <i>I hope this whole world isn¡¯t dead. If I¡¯m still on¡­Sellenia, right? If I </i>was<i> still sent to Sellenia, it¡¯s definitely been a long, </i>long<i> time since whenever Theramiel showed me. And where the fuck did he go?</i>


    Off to one side, directly across from the furnace, I notice a wide-open door, looking almost like a hatch in a submarine. The source of the pale green light is somewhere beyond, the only illumination in the room. <i>Alright, you can¡¯t stay here. Get the fuck up and get moving. Fucking get </i>UP<i>! </i>With a pained groan I¡¯m on my feet again, and I take a moment to brush the worst of the dust off the canvas covering with the hand not clutching my wound before slipping it around my shoulders. There¡¯s nobody here to protect my dignity from but I¡¯m tired of being naked. The canvas was protecting what appears to be some sort of control console, probably for the furnace. Most of the glass covering the dials and gauges is cracked and broken. I glance down at the floor, but fortunately don¡¯t see any glass shards, just a thick layer of long-undisturbed dust.


    Beyond the door is a short hallway, with two closed hatches across from the one I exit through. I don¡¯t even bother trying to check them. The hall terminates on one end in a blank stone wall, maybe concrete? It¡¯s hard to tell in the green-tinged illumination, which shines from wire-caged strip lighting in the ceiling. Only one of several lights is currently working. At the other end of the hall is a metal staircase, turning to the right after a short flight. Everything is covered in dust. <i>Up it is then. No point in staying down here. </i>


    Dragging my canvas cloak along the ground, I slowly make my way up the stairs. I spare one bloody hand for the railing, the blood on my ribs mostly coagulated now. I try not to dwell on the possibility of infection. The silence is filled with the creaks and groans of aged metal as I plod upwards. I stop to catch my breath at every landing, the stale air turned to fire in my lungs. I find several more hatch-covered doorways, but aside from one already open and leading to what looks like an empty storage closet, the door levers I try are rusted in place, unmovable with my pitiful strength. <i>Strength of ten men my ass. </i>


    The stairs terminate at the fourth such landing, and I¡¯m greeted by another metal door, this one rectangular and not so hatch-like. The handle flakes off in my hand and clatters to the floor in a shower of rust. I throw my weight against the door once, twice, and the lock breaks with a sharp snap. I tumble through and land in a sprawl, my makeshift cloak fluttering over me.


    I take a moment to collect myself, one cheek pressed to the dusty stone flooring. Somewhere in the middle distance I can hear the slow dripping of water on metal. I sniff, tears pooling unbidden in my eyes. ¡°I miss my cats. Why did I ever think this would be some fun adventure?¡±


    A timid voice echoes back to me, ¡°...<i>Enna, ven¡¯we </i>someone there?¡±

 Chapter 4 - The Scrapper

    My breath hitches in my throat, and I don¡¯t dare make a sound. What kind of person comes to a horrifying place like this? A metal and stone mausoleum filled with bodies in test tubes and blackened bones in furnaces. Carefully, I reach up to move the canvas that fell over my face. I wince at the noise of the course fabric scraping across dusty ground that seems cacophonous in the silence.


    For several agonizing heartbeats, nothing but the steady drip of water on metal breaks the silence. Is my heart loud enough for someone else to hear? Surely not. I realize I¡¯ve been holding my breath and let it out in a long, shaky rasp. I didn¡¯t imagine that voice, did I? Auditory hallucinations haven¡¯t been my thing but the trauma of the last few hours has frayed the edges of my already fragile psyche.


    ¡°Get <i>de¡¯la</i> together <i>na</i>, you¡¯re jus¡¯<i> nin thwende </i>things. Creepy ol¡¯ ruins¡­¡± the voice fades into mumbled complaints as my heartbeat thuds in my chest once again.


    <i>Not my imagination. Shit.</i>


    The voice sounds young, masculine but not manly. And only partially in English? I¡¯m reminded of that weird automated message back in what I¡¯m starting to think of as Frankenstein¡¯s lab, although I¡¯m <i>fairly</i> certain I¡¯m hearing fewer nonsense words. Perhaps my mind has finally decided to pack it in and go on holiday, and my addled brain is imagining meaning in mere gibberish.


    I hear several thuds, the scraping of metal on stone, clangs and grunts and the noise of someone working. Part of me is thankful that the silence has been broken, that there¡¯s proof I¡¯m not alone in this tomb, but more than ever I wish Theramiel hadn¡¯t left. I certainly don¡¯t trust him, but at least the distrust is familiar. This new actor is an unknown threat. I strain my ears, trying to grasp the words behind the continued mumbling, without success. I use the background noise of what sounds like shifting rubble to mask the undignified grunt I make as I rise to a crouch. Cautiously, I back through the doorway I¡¯d just exited and peer around the frame, taking in the room before me.


    A vast atrium ascends at least two stories, massive iron beams supporting the arched ceiling like desiccated ribs. Here the walls are not made of stone but some grime-coated metal. Rust covers everything, streaking across the walls like diseased veins of rot setting into a corpse. The center of the room is occupied by a colossal mass of machinery, all gears and pipes and glass and iron; the shadows make it appear as some ancient giant hunched in on itself in death. Part of the roof had collapsed at some point; one of those massive beams shattering any hope of discerning the machinery¡¯s arcane purpose. Some light filtered in from the open door I¡¯m huddling behind, but most of the room¡¯s illumination comes from an amber beam dancing to and fro to the beat of the shifting detritus. The source is hidden behind a dusty desk or counter of some sort, stacked with contraptions and gizmos I couldn¡¯t possibly divine the purpose of. Some are covered by more canvas sheeting, some left open to the elements.


    I spend what feels like hours just listening, but more likely less than a few minutes. I¡¯ve never been known for my patience. <i>Well, I¡¯ve died once already, what¡¯s the worst that can happen?</i> I don¡¯t dare chuckle at my own joke, no matter how much I want to relieve the tension knotting in my gut. There¡¯s obviously been much worse things than death that have taken place in this facility¡¯s past.


    I catch myself just as I¡¯m about to call out to the stranger and nearly bite through my tongue. <i>Stupid. Let¡¯s get a look first, yeah? No need to fear, you¡¯re supposed to be a hero or some shit right? </i>Talking to yourself is perfectly healthy for a well-adjusted individual, don¡¯t let anyone tell you otherwise.


    I wait a beat as silence returns to the artificial cavern, then begin creeping cautiously forward once the clanging resumes. Peering around the edge of the counter, I¡¯m greeted by the sight of a hunched figure digging through scrap and esoteric contraptions, their back to me as they stoop over their work in the darkness fifty or so feet ahead in the gloom. Every so often they pause to examine a particularly interesting piece in the beam of light attached to the side of their helmet. At one point the figure stands, turning around to add a piece to a heap of bits and bobs stacked on some sort of sled behind them. They look young, maybe fourteen or fifteen judging by height, but it¡¯s difficult to discern through the dark.


    My muscles still ache from climbing the stairs, and I shift to relieve the tension in my thighs. A mistake. My canvas shroud has caught on something behind me and tugs free, stones clattering along the floor. The figure¡¯s attention snaps to me and I¡¯m momentarily blinded, arm raised quickly to shield my eyes.


    ¡°<i>Miette! </i>What¡¯s that! Who¡¯s <i>sh¨­ndai</i>?!¡±


    <i>Fuck. No no no what was I thinking this was a bad idea I shouldn¡¯t be here don¡¯t put me back in the vessel I want to go home I want to see my cats I¡¯m dead I¡¯m dead this is all a nightmare¨C</i>


    Crumpling to the ground backwards in a splay of limbs I scuttle a retreat in some pathetic mimicry of carcinisation. I trip on my overly large canvas cloak and thunk my head on the concrete. Is it concrete? It¡¯s very smooth and not at all porous and concrete suggests a level of industrialization that¡¯s of course surpassed by the machinery I¡¯ve seen anyways but also the Romans had concrete too and <i>why am I thinking about this now?</i> My mind is desperate for any escape from this doom I¡¯ve brought upon myself.


    ¡°Stay away! Don¡¯t hurt me!¡± It comes out as a shriek of fear and now I¡¯m definitely having a panic attack. This hasn¡¯t happened in years. Of course just as I¡¯m about to be dissected and eaten by the violent denizens of this mad world is the absolute perfect time. Why did I ever think I could be brave? What makes this life different from my previous one? Some heroine, huh? I fumble on the ground in an attempt to stand and run, to scramble away, to fight, to scream, to do <i>anything</i> but huddle here in terror awaiting my doom.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    I can hear my assailant shifting from foot to foot; nervous energy or preparation to pounce? ¡°<i>Enna¡­</i>you¡¯re not a scav, <i>ven¡¯ya denla?</i> More like <i>onta ne tundina </i>scavs.¡± The voice devolves into mumbling at the end. A long, drawn-out sigh, then slow plodding steps towards me. I¡¯m curled up in a ball now, arms guarding my face, limbs trembling, shivering from the cold and fear. ¡°Hey there, you injured? <i>Vonkwe nothrinda?</i>¡±


    The voice sounds cautious, kind, with a small undercurrent of tension. Pitched just right to reach me through the panic, just like <i>she</i> used to do, before she up and left. I abort that line of thought right quick. A hand brushes against my shoulder and I flinch back as if struck.


    ¡°Where did you come from? How did you even get down ¡®ere?¡± The fact that I can perfectly understand these words reaches through my shock and slaps me upside the neocortex, stilling my shakes and jarring me to perfect attention. I peak through my shielding arms and wince as I¡¯m blinded by the light pouring directly into my eyes. <i>Too close! Get away!</i>


    <i>¡°Va, yenlo nin pwathrendi da.¡±</i> Great. Back to gibberish.


    A metallic clicking sound precedes the beam of light moving from my face to point at the floor. He disconnects the device from near his head, then fiddles with it a bit. Transforming it from a flashlight into a lantern as part of the metal casing slides into place. ¡°How¡¯s that? <i>Cren¡¯sh¨¦</i>? Can you tell me <i>sh¨­ gwan¡¯va</i>?¡±


    I peer back at the figure crouching before me. A young boy, a mixture of slightly-pudgy baby-face and scraggly awkward limbs. Eyes a bit too hollow in their sockets, denoting a youth built on questionable nutrition. He¡¯s wearing a mish mash of leathers and rough linen, grimey and stained, torn and patched again and again. Streaks of dirt mar his elfin features. <i>Yes, </i>I think,<i> he looks elfin</i>. Below dark locks of stringy hair in rough curls¡ªbarely contained by a hard leather cap banded in metal¡ªpoke two knife-like ears jutting from his head at close to right angles, parallel with the floor. They wiggle a bit as he continues to peer at me, perhaps a sign of nervousness. He¡¯s absolutely adorable, how could I fear this creature?


    A sharp inhale before a rasping breath. ¡°Are you¡­are you an elf?¡± I realize the voice came from me before I can think to stop it. I clap a hand over my mouth, eyes wide, and tug my flimsy canvas cloak more tightly around me. A distant part of my mind whimpers that I should be embarrassed by my nakedness in front of this boy.


    He blinks at me, confused by my non-sequitur. With a little tilt of his head he opens his mouth to reply, then closes it again in confusion before continuing. ¡°<i>Erff</i>? What do you mean? I¡¯m a scrapper, certainly no scav, <i>shin gwan¡¯ve Melcor</i>. What¡¯s yours?¡± His voice is soft and a little high, still youthful and pitched to comfort as if he¡¯s speaking to a frightened animal. Maybe he is. I certainly don¡¯t feel quite like a person right now.


    ¡°Melcor? I-is that¡­your name?¡± I swallow the bile of my panic and forcefully regulate my breathing. Either I¡¯m already caught, too weak to run and too naked to defend myself, or the first living being I¡¯ve met here is my only ticket out. ¡°I¡¯m, ah, my name is¨C¡± The words catch in my throat, loath to label me with another name I¡¯ve not chosen for myself.


    ¡°<i>Hwe. Shin gwan¡¯ve </i>Melcor. Cor to my friends.¡± His eyes roam pityingly over my face, taking in the gunk and soot and dust and blood smeared across it. ¡°Looks like you could use a friend, <i>na</i>?¡± A smile lights up his features, eyes crinkling a little at the corners, teeth bared in a goofy grin. ¡°Could you <i>non¡¯da ganyu </i>what you¡¯re called?¡±


    I think I¡¯m getting the hang of translating nonsense, but I¡¯m frozen in place as my mind races. <i>A name. Not Sarai, that¡¯s not a real name for me. What¡¯s my name, why can¡¯t I remember? </i>I blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind, trying not to dwell too hard on the matter. ¡°Michelle. I¡¯m¨C you can call me Michelle.¡±


    ¡°Michelle? Strange name. You have a <i>son¡¯kai </i>way of speakin¡¯, Michelle. <i>Bwana nin konta</i> you from?¡± Melcor slowly lowers himself into a sitting position on the ground, legs crossed at the ankles. He places his hands palm up on his knees, lantern on the floor, the picture of non-threatening childish innocence. Combined with his grin it¡¯s instantly endearing.


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­I¡¯m not¨C I don¡¯t know how¨C how did I get here? Where am I? What is this place, is this really Sellenia? I¨C¡± It hasn¡¯t hit me before but my own voice is much different than I¡¯m used to. Pitched higher, still a little raspy from disuse and a parched throat, but a lilting soprano that¡¯s unfamiliar to me. I clutch at my neck and cough a little. I think I like it. Distinctly feminine without being overly girly. I can feel a blush coming on, hopefully hidden under the dirt in the dim light. And what I told him is not a lie, not exactly. Whether or not I share with the boy that I¡¯ve been reincarnated as a hero destined to save a world that¡¯s looking less and less likely to still exist as advertised, I certainly don¡¯t know how I arrived <i>here</i>, specifically.


    Melcor¡¯s face scrunches up in confusion, his ears dropping a few degrees. <i>Cute. Adorable. Would he let me touch them?</i> His voice breaks me from that train of thought and I shove it back for later consideration. ¡°¡®Course this is Sellenia. You think scavs¡¯d <i>nong¡¯g¨¢ tan pinthu criss</i>? You¡¯ve had a rough time of it, <i>na</i>?¡± He glances around the room before returning his attention to me. I¡¯d almost forgotten where we are and fail to suppress a shiver. ¡°I¡¯m not sure. Some ol¡¯ ruin ¡®neath the <i>zondann¨¢ </i>quarter. Good scrap though, mostly intact stuff.¡± He motions vaguely to our surroundings with one hand and shrugs. ¡°You must be from some tiny village somewheres, <i>kontu va rekni¡¯we </i>your accent. Can¡¯t make out every fourth word. Never seen <i>ven yrith¡¯du het londi</i> before, <i>na</i>?¡± He chuckles mirthfully and the sound is like a balm for the frayed edges of my shaky nerves.


    With a grunt he stands, wiping the dust from his backside, and extends a hand to help me up. ¡°Come on Michelle, <i>yinta tin do¡¯norrwa </i>here. My sister¡¯s a <i>thwan vo¡¯ninka</i>, she¡¯ll take care o¡¯ you.¡± Without a thought I grasp his hand and I¡¯m pulled to my feet with an undignified yelp. He glances down before his face flushes crimson and he averts his eyes. ¡°...And some clothes.¡± That last part comes out in an embarrassed mumble.


    I make sure I¡¯m still decent, but it¡¯s also obvious this canvas is all I¡¯ve got. ¡°Yes. Yes, clothes would be good, thank you. And a shower.¡± The awkward silence is broken by a drawn out gurgle from my stomach. He¡¯s definitely the only one still blushing, yes, definitely. ¡°And maybe some food would be nice.¡±

 Chapter 5 - The Tunnel

    Our steps echo off the grime-coated walls as we tramp through forgotten passages and dead rooms. I munch absently on a meal bar of some sort that Melcor produced from a pouch at his belt, carefully wrapped in wax paper secured with string and probably home-made. The silence is broken by the boy¡¯s rambling voice as he shares whatever crosses his mind, though as my own mind wanders I find I¡¯m discerning less of his words than when I concentrate. He offered to let me ride on the sled used to transport the spoils from this expedition, but I declined. Walking, getting my blood flowing, helps keep me grounded.


    Glancing up from my meal, I consider the figure before me. We¡¯re just about the same height, though without a reference point and with an unfamiliar body it¡¯s hard to tell exactly. Probably a tad over five feet, maybe five and a half. He¡¯s clearly not an adult, at least if he ages like a human, and I wonder how old my new flesh puppet is in comparison. I nearly giggle at the wording my mind has leapt to, but even with Melcor¡¯s constant good-natured jabber I¡¯m loath to break my own silence. This place still feels like a tomb to me. I¡¯m certainly glad for the company, and eternally thankful that he¡¯s friendly. <i>Now if only Theramiel would return. I have some pointed questions to ask that asshole.</i>


    From what I can parse of Melcor¡¯s meandering, one-sided conversation, we¡¯re in the bowels of some vast city I didn¡¯t catch the name of. The underground is apparently full of disused facilities and forgotten ruins, ripe for the picking for an ambitious young scrapper¡ªif one can avoid the unspecified dangers¡ªwhich is <i>different</i> from a scavenger, though he¡¯s hesitant to share why exactly and I don¡¯t bother asking. He uses the term scav in place of scavenger a lot, and a memory of that emotionally-traumatic cyberpunk anime from a few years back tickles my brain. <i>Yes, definitely glad he¡¯s not a scav.</i>


    According to Melcor the city is massive, but he¡¯s never been beyond the undercity where he lives with his sister, never actually seen the sky for himself. And the underground¡ªwhere we are¡ªis <i>not</i> the undercity. It¡¯s all a little confusing, especially when his words devolve into that unintelligible gibberish. <i>I really need to ask Theramiel about the language here. Why can I only understand it some of the time?</i> It wouldn¡¯t make any sense for this world to be using English, and certainly not half-English half nonsense fantasy twaddle. Of course I was promised cheat powers, but Theramiel didn¡¯t mention anything about language and precisely none of his promises were delivered in any case. <i>I¡¯m too tired to think about this.</i>


    After about a quarter-hour, the abandoned tunnel we¡¯ve been ducking through opens into a wide open space. <i>Are those train tracks? This world has¨C had a subway? Neat!</i> The platform is covered in dust and small rubble, but overall appears more abandoned than destroyed. In the distance, I can hear a low rumble growing fainter, echoing through the tunnels. Melcor¡¯s little helmet light pierces the darkness as he glances around but it¡¯s not strong enough to illuminate the entire room, leaving the far tracks obscured. Apart from his journey in and our return steps, the dust on the ground around us is completely undisturbed.


    We reach the edge of the station platform and I gaze down at a little jury-rigged handcart, clearly cobbled together from scrap with a little pump handle to get it moving. Melcor puts his hands on his hips and beams at me, the pride in his creation obvious. ¡°What do you think? Built it m¡¯self!¡± This time I¡¯m helpless to resist my giggle at his enthusiasm. I can¡¯t help but smile wider at the sound of my own voice. ¡°Come on, wait a bit for me to get it loaded and we¡¯ll be out o¡¯ <i>nin cordotha¡¯we </i>in no time.¡±


    The boy carefully maneuvers his scrap sled across the gap between the platform and his cart, parked on the closest set of rails. He secures the load in front of the pump handle with a few ropes and mismatched straps, then beckons me to join him on the back of his contraption. I carefully gather my canvas cloak around me and step across, folding it underneath me as I settle down. Melcor throws a lever forwards¡ªprobably a direction selector or maybe a handbrake¡ªand with a squeal of poorly-greased wheels we¡¯re off. I feel a flutter of relief in my chest as we leave this place behind, even as the journey takes us deeper into the dark unknown of the tunnel before us.


    I close my eyes with a small smile as I feel the wind on my face. The air down here is still stale, dusty and dead, but cool and dry and the induced breeze of our passage is pleasant. Melcor has respected my reticence to speak and not asked me any more questions since we exited the large room of our first meeting, and the effort of pumping the handcart has brought silence from him as well. It would almost be relaxing were it not for how uncomfortable I am covered in grime and wearing nothing but a dirty canvas sheet. Once we¡¯re up to speed¡ªbarely faster than a jog¡ªhe lets off a bit, only needing to pump every half-minute or so to maintain the pace as a large flywheel attached to the lever keeps us going.


    ¡°Feelin¡¯ a little better, <i>na</i>?¡± I¡¯m brought from my reverie with a bit of a jump¡ªand definitely no squeaking¡ªas Melcor¡¯s face peers into my field of vision. His goofy grin is entirely disarming.


    ¡°I¨C yes, I am, thank you.¡± I pull the canvas a little tighter around my shoulders. ¡°Does it get a little warmer once we reach the under¨C the undercity? Is that right?¡±


    ¡°The Undercity, <i>na</i>. Down below the rich houses and towers of the proper <i>elduin</i> fancy-folk.¡± He lets out a little snort and shakes his head, ears waggling gently. ¡°But ¡®tis warm, <i>na</i>, warmer than here, ¡®least round the boilers. You¡¯ll¨C¡±


    His words are aborted by a loud, echoing screech, and for a moment I think it comes from the wheels of our transport. But then I glimpse the look on Melcor¡¯s face. Tension mixed with fear and determination. Suddenly he¡¯s pumping the handcart with much more force than before, and our speed starts to pick up. Then I hear the scrabble of claws on stone and the patter-slap of bare feet chasing after something. Chasing us. With a grimace I turn to look behind. It takes a bit, but I think I¡¯m able to make out three or four shapes moving in the thick shadowy soup of the dark tunnel. <i>Right, yeah, of fucking course the monsters would be the one thing Theramiel got right. Of course. Shit shit fucking shiiiit I hope that¡¯s not what I think it is!</i>


    ¡°Ah, Melcor, what was that sound¡­?¡± I nervously lick my lips, my throat feeling even drier than before.


    Jaw clenched, face tight in concentration, Melcor takes a moment to respond. ¡°Hopefully nothin¡¯. Prob¡¯ly some <i>gwan¡¯da nothnin</i> after something to eat. Preferably not us.¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°Um, I don¡¯t know what those are but there¡¯s something out in the tunnel behind us. Can¡¯t you hear the footsteps?¡± I swallow nervously. ¡°And I think I can see something moving in the dark.¡±


    Melcor pauses for just a moment in his pumping, cocking an ear and casting a glance to our rear. After a few seconds there¡¯s a clatter as one of our pursuers knocks some piece of rubble around and his face pales. <i>¡°Miette.¡± </i>


    I glance back as well. It¡¯s difficult to tell but I think the shapes are closer than before. They¡¯re gaining on us. Melcor is pumping the handcart with renewed vigor. I crawl towards the front of the vehicle, sweeping my gaze over the pile of scrap, searching for something. I spot a slightly bent piece of metal that resembles rebar, about the length of my forearm and pointy on one end. A weapon. I pull it free from the pile with a grunt. <i>It¡¯s dangerous to go alone, I¡¯m taking this.</i> A manic giggle escapes my lips and I turn to face the back of the cart again. I clutch my prize tightly in both fists, pressed close to my chest as I shuffle towards the edge.


    For several tense minutes nothing changes. The darkness presses close, barely kept at bay by Melcor¡¯s lantern that¡¯s now affixed to a pole. I strain my eyes trying to catch glimpses in the black but can only occasionally catch movement. The silence is broken by my ragged breaths and occasional squeaks from the wheels of the cart, and as I listen I can hear the feet of whatever¡¯s hunting us growing ever so slowly closer.


    Then I catch a flicker of movement at the edge of our shallow pool of light. Then once more. A pale, leathery snout with a flash of sharp fangs and coarse whiskers. Uncomfortably long claws on knobby feet.


    ¡°Melcor! They¡¯re right behind us now, I can see them!¡±


    I look at the boy as he turns to face our assailants, drawing a wicked-looking knife from a sheath strapped to his thigh. <i>Heh, not as long as mine.</i> My brain is stupid but the humor helps keep me from fully panicking. I glance back just as something leaps out of the shadows. Someone screams. It¡¯s probably me.


    I wasn¡¯t lying when I told Theramiel I¡¯d never been in a fight before. I could probably count on one hand the times I¡¯d even yelled at anyone. I¡¯m not used to the confusion that sudden violence brings. Everything happens so fast I¡¯m not even able to piece it all together until after the fact.


    First, adrenaline rushes through my veins like a bull through a china shop, smashing my composure and shaking my limbs. Every muscle tightens with the willingness to <i>act</i> <i>right fucking now</i> but without any clear direction. Then the leaping <i>thing</i> reaches Melcor as he stands to face it, one arm up in a block. He catches it just behind its forelimbs, leg already up to kick it away as its claws scratch at his face and chest. A slash appears across its vulnerable belly as the creature is knocked back. I didn¡¯t even see the knife move.


    Another scream is torn from my lips as I¡¯m launched backwards with a sickening jerk, head impacting the cart and breath driven from my lungs. An awful weight is crushing my chest. I swear I can hear my ribs creak under the strain. Claws tangle in the thick canvas sheet of my makeshift cloak and a flash of pain lances down my side. My arms flail as I beat against my attacker, fists ineffectively impacting thick hide over dense muscle.


    <b>[Loose essence detected and absorbed]</b>


    Wicked needles rake across my stomach and I gasp in pain, vision going black for a moment. <i>Is this what it¡¯s like to get stabbed? Am I dying?</i> I whimper as my sight returns, thankful I¡¯m not yet dead. I can feel uncomfortably hot blood soaking into my cloak, dripping in rivulets down my flank.


    <b>[Foe defeated, essence absorbed]</b>


    <b>[Loose essence detected and absorbed]</b>


    The weight pressed to my ribs stills but I refuse to cease my violent assault. I can feel the beginning of bruises all over my body and a pulsing ache pings the back of my skull. At some point I close my eyes, hot tears streaming across my face. Someone is shouting. The weight is rolled from my chest and something grabs at my wrists.


    ¡°Michelle!¡±


    I stall the flailing of my limbs and open my eyes. Melcor has caught both of my arms and is kneeling over me, face wrought with concern. ¡°Michelle, are you injured? It¡¯s over.¡±


    <i>Why do people keep asking me if I¡¯m fucking injured? Can¡¯t you see the blood this time?!</i>


    ¡°This looks too dark to be your blood, you good?¡± I nod dumbly at the question, too numb to respond in words.


    Carefully, preserving as much of my dignity as possible, I peel back my cloak and look over my torso. I glance up at Melcor who¡¯d been averting his gaze and can¡¯t do more than just nod again. He lets out a long sigh. ¡°We both got lucky then. You¡¯ll be fine once we get ya¡¯ to my sister, <i>na</i>?¡± He runs a hand through his hair and smiles. ¡°Thank you. I don¡¯ think I coulda taken three myself.¡±


    ¡°Bwuh?¡± I burble intelligently.


    I sit up cautiously and look around, pawing at my body. I¡¯m absolutely covered in blood, but I can¡¯t feel any grievous wounds. I look to the side and blanche. Next to me on the cart is some horrible creature, like the bastard offspring of a naked mole rat and a wolf. Thick sickly-pale hide with not a trace of fur, all corded muscle and black veins spidering under the skin. One beady yellow eye stares unmoving at the ceiling, mouth open in a silent scream. Dark red, almost black blood pours from where the piece of rebar I found impales the thing near the spine, right through its chest. I must have speared it as it leapt on me. I didn¡¯t even notice.


    A wicked grin splits my cracked lips. I¡¯m alive! I killed the thing and I¡¯m alive and it¡¯s not! <i>Yeah fuck you guy! I¡¯m the heroine and you¡¯re just fodder!</i>


    I turn away from Melcor and take a closer look under my cloak. I¡¯m not totally uninjured; there¡¯s a shallow cut about four inches long diagonal across my belly, and a few scratches down my flank no worse than my cats used to give me. My cloak however is shredded in several places, thick gashes rent in the fabric. <i>Fuck, I got lucky there. Jesus H. fucking Christ that was insane!</i>


    I run a hand over my face in an attempt to calm down and leave a streak of blood. My grin has turned manic. <i>Well, it¡¯s not much nastier than the gunk I was already covered in.</i>


    Melcor appears completely unharmed aside from some fresh rips and tears in the leathers across his chest. He¡¯s breathing hard¡ªbut more evenly than I¡ªand his hair is matted with sweat as he shoves our deceased passenger off the back and returns to pumping the handcart. Our speed picks back up a bit. ¡°I think I got the other two. Hopefully that¡¯s all, <i>na</i>?¡±


    ¡°Y-yeah, right. Hopefully.¡±


    I try to reconstruct the events in my mind, the memories hazy through the fog of my crashing adrenaline. <i>Is this a post-combat high? That¡¯s a thing, I think¡­Wait, wasn¡¯t there something about absorbing essence? Was that Theramiel again?</i>


    My mind is drawn to a staple of the countless reincarnation media I¡¯ve absorbed. A trope so overdone as to be ridiculous, and clearly not something that should be present in the living, breathing, viscerally-bloody-real world I¡¯ve found myself in.


    <i>Don¡¯t fucking tell me¡­am I in some sort of game-like genre? Do I have a System? </i>I pause to see if anything happens. Please, give me something to distract me from the adrenaline crash and the iron smell of blood. <i>No? Eh, status. System. Menu. Skills. Uh, </i><b><i>interface</i></b><i>. </i>


    My eyes grow wide and a smug grin stretches my lips as my brain is flooded with information, circumventing my senses and injected directly into my consciousness. I am now sufficiently distracted from devolving into panic. <i>Okay. I can work with this.</i>