Slumrat Rising

Truth activated the body reinforcing enchantments on his armor, racing for the nearest oversized needler as the built-in cannon gathered energy. He hacked at a howling bandit, still in agony from the blast. The bandit’s head cleared the emplacement and was still rising when Truth went in.

There were three more terrorists in the sandbagged AA emplacement. They must have been scrubs- they had their needlers up and working. Two of them missed. From three meters away, they just fucking missed. Truth didn’t have time to feel disgusted. The one who didn’t miss was within arms reach, the unenchanted needles bouncing off the spelled plates of the drop armor.

Truth slid left, letting his shifting weight drive the machete and take the offending arm off. Then shifted back right, and took the head. One of the surviving bandits panicked, spraying needles wildly and shooting his comrade in the back. Truth kicked the not-yet corpse into his panicking “friend” and then brought his machete down twice more. Two more headless bodies fell. And now the cannon was charged.

Load Shockwave. Load Overpressure.

Shockwave Loaded. Mission Critical Spell. No Charge. Overpressure Loaded. Mission Critical Spell. No Charge.

The cannon blasted into the sandbags on Truth’s right. The cannon smashed them away, but sandbags are designed to absorb and disperse impact energy. If it was just that, it would have been a waste. But Level Two wasn’t just twice as good as Level One. Each spell slot held more cosmic energy, for one thing. And for another-

The sandbags launched out of the anti-air emplacement, flying towards the next strong point to the east. Shockwave made the bags disintegrate and started the sand flying at rapid speed. Overpressure turned that speed from “fast” to “You aren’t insured for this much damage.” The sand eroded whatever it passed. Shredding trees, shredding buildings. Shredding people. Not fatally. The sand just scraped over armor. But the unarmored bandits lost more than just a layer of skin. The ones that still had eyes stared at their ruined flesh with disbelief. It had only been a few seconds since the first blast went off.

Swap loadout. Load Hunters Mark. Load Pierce.

Hunters Mark Loaded. Mission Critical Spell. No Charge. Pierce Loaded. Mission Critical Spell. No Charge.

Truth swung the enchanted machete hard, letting the armor add strength to the blow. It sheared through the bolts that were supposed to limit how far the quad-mounted heavy needler could swing. He shoved the machete back into its scabbard and grabbed the controls on the AA weapon. Truth muscled it around so he was facing the next gun over through the gap in the sandbags he just made. Hunter’s Mark painted his targets. The spells settled in over the quad needler, as the cannon recharged. Truth pulled the trigger.

Finger-long lengths of spelled metal ripped through the air at nine hundred meters per second. The sound was astounding, as supersonic needles tore through the sound barrier toward their targets. No need for damage-enhancing spells. Physics was more than enough to do the job. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Not from the avenging angel called Truth.

He prioritized taking out the nearest functional quad needler battery, slaughtering its operators, and putting a dozen rounds through the gun itself. Looked like overpenetration was an issue on the human targets, but the quantity of fire had a quality all of its own. He moved his sights around his section of the fort. If it moved, he shot it. If it was hiding behind a wall, he shot through the wall, redecorating the rooms inside in this season’s hot new color- Organ Meat and Blood.

He swept the needler towards a collection of huts when a boy came running out, waving a white rag on a stick. Yelling something in the local language. The door to the hut was open. He could see a bunch of local women, and a bunch of kids, lying inside, hands over their heads. No threat. He kept sweeping past.

Oh no you don’t. Orders are orders. No quarter. They all have to die.

Truth’s hands swung the needler back into line. The spells painted the targets huddled on the floor. Waiving a flag and begging to surrender. His finger pulled the trigger, not missing once.

The rest of the assault force came swooping in on giant spell birds. They scattered talismans as they fell, chaff to draw off any surviving AA systems. Not that there were any. They beat their vast wings as they hovered over the island. The PMC soldiers fast roped down from the Spell Bird’s hollow bellies, sweeping needlers, firebolts, and other more specialized combat fetishes around them. It looked very impressive, even if it was pointless.

The only living humans on the island were the ten drop magi and the hostages. The hostages were still in their cages in the basement. Specialists would come in and get them out, making sure that their souls were still intact and that nothing nasty had turned them into flesh puppets. Then they would go to medical. There would be, presumably, much therapy needed. Maybe some bonus credits or something for enduring… whatever they endured.

Truth morbidly wondered how long it would be until they were forced back into work. How they would feel in the office. Every time someone stood too close to them and suddenly they were being abducted. Panicking as elevators turned into cages. Screaming and hyperventilating when a male coworker touched their shoulder to let them know that management pizza was available in the break room.

Starbrite was a job for life. You couldn’t just quit. Even though he really, really wanted to.

Aww. Somebody’s a sad boy because he “murdered” a few… dozen… women and children. Womp womp. Let me pull up a memory for you that might clarify a few things, meatsack.

The memory came out of nowhere. He was standing on the field of the stadium, the sibs cheering madly from the stands. He was pumped up, so excited he could burst.

“I, Truth Medici, do swear that I will be true and loyal to the Starbrite Corporation and The System Astrologica; that I shall be diligent in my labor; and that I shall obey the orders of the President and all officers appointed over me, according to the Starbrite Corporation Employee Handbook and such local laws as may apply. So Help Me GOD!”

Truth shook his head. No idea what sparked that memory, but… It was all right there. He swore to be diligent in his labor. That meant doing the job, and doing the whole job, and doing it as well as he reasonably could. He swore to obey orders. Orders were to kill everyone. No exceptions. But what about the local law bit? Murdering women and children couldn’t be legal even here, right?

Yaldabaoth give me strength, you can be dim sometimes. Hey, buddy. Real quick. Circle the word “Murder,” a very judgy word, BTW, and drag that over to the memory of your mission briefing. C’mon, little guy, you can do it!

Another memory came unbidden. The mission briefing. The captain, in her calm voice explaining that everyone on the island was a terrorist and a murderer. No exceptions. Maybe that was it. Maybe they had all been declared outlaws, so killing them was legal. And if it was legal, it definitionally wasn’t murder.

And there we have it! You aren’t dumb, but goddamn did your schools fuck up your logical reasoning. Which, fine, works for me most of the time, but having to forcibly override your neuromuscular system is fucking exhausting. Even my vocabulary is fucked. It’s like ninety percent swearing, slang, and bad grammar. Not giving me a lot to work with here, shit for brains. Not much at all. Read. More. Goddam. Books.

Then there was the Confessor before the oath was administered. He flat-out warned him that the oath was magically enforced. That using the System could warp your personality. He was told, in advance, in detail, what he was getting into. No one to blame but himself.

That’s the attitude! This is all your fault. All this guilt, all this pain. All the families you just destroyed or harmed for generations. Better soldier on through, though. Your “sibs” are counting on you.

It was all his fault. He felt like shit, and he deserved to feel like shit. Truth chose to join Starbrite. Chose to join security. Hell, he was originally going to be in talisman maintenance. You don’t kill dozens of people in talisman maintenance. He had worked his ass off, done his best his whole damn life, to join Starbrite. For a safer, saner, life for him and the sibs.

Truth tried to focus on the last message he had gotten from Harmony. He passed his SAT. Going to specialize in Laboratory Services. Not a scientist, but a technician. Management track. Normally that would mean a college degree, but with the friends and family points, he could get the schooling while on the job. It was a tough specialization, but very safe. Very steady.

Sophia was hitting the books like she was mad at them. Iced out socially, Sophia decided she was more interested in getting into college than stealing boyfriends. She became the queen of the library. Same thing with Vigor, but he was getting heavily into martial arts too. Not yet fifteen, and he was a starter on the varsity squad.

It was messed up, but he would probably have a lower body count if he became a gangster. Truth hugged his shoulders. His siblings were still counting on him. Time to step up and be a Starbrite man. He looked around the smoking ruins of an island that wasn’t anything nice to begin with and couldn’t wait to get home.

The spellbirds had flown him to a little airfield in the middle of nowhere. His arms and armor were received into inventory by a Starbrite armorer. He was handed a small duffle bag with his personal possessions, as well as a suit carrier. He was told to wear the civvies in the duffle until he landed in Harban. He was to reach Harban via commercial aircraft, not in cargo or a military bird. At which point he was to wear the suit. No more explanations were offered than that.

Everything fit Truth perfectly. The cut of the trousers was flattering, yet comfortable. The shoes were sleek athleticwear and paired well with the casual trousers and fitted short-sleeved button-down shirt. Really made him look shredded, that shirt. Really hugged the biceps and made the chest pop. He instantly wanted to buy five more just like it. He was previously unaware that robin egg blue was his color for shirts, but clearly, it was. He was even more skeptical about small coral-colored bucket hats but damned if that didn’t work too.

Then he remembered he worked for Starbrite which employed literally thousands of people in the fashion industry and stopped eye-banging himself in the bathroom mirror. He walked past the ticket counter and security without breaking stride- his lapel pin was his ticket and his passport.

Truth hadn’t flown commercial before. In the army, they went everywhere by truck or bus. With Starbrite, he went everywhere by truck or bus. Or military aircraft, which lacked luxuries like real seats. Or the hold of cargo birds, which didn’t even have fake seats. Now, he squeezed into a little birdie with six other passengers who were babbling on about how it sucked that they had such a low luggage weight limit, and generally bitching about the wedding they just attended. Truth looked out the window at the stubby green mountains and total lack of anything that suggested a “fun destination wedding.” Then shrugged and closed his eyes.

It had been a spectacularly shitty day, but there was one, golden, precious thing to look forward to. A visit to that most forbidden, mysterious land. Truth was going to fly home first class.

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