Slumrat Rising

It was the double whammy- a miserable teenage child wailing about luxury Truth couldn’t have imagined two years ago, throwing an absolute fit, and then, when she got him alone, inviting him to… do something about it. With his muscly arms. She just needed someone. Someone strong enough for her. Someone she could rely on, not like her absentee parents. Truth was absolutely dead at this point. Even knowing this was a setup, she hooked him. Her soft hands pressed against his chest, as she lightly pushed him toward the wall.

Truth caught a little flicker out of the corner of his eye, and felt a movement in the air. “Aegis, Ward!” The spells deployed in the skin of a second, stopping the cursed blade a fraction of an inch from the protectee’s back. Truth spun her around, placing himself between her and the attacker as the cursed blade spent half a second punching through the shielding. Male- humanoid. Truth grabbed at the knife hand while stomping down on the insole.

“Electric Hand, Visla’s Torrent.” His hand grabbed the attacker’s wrist. The spell combo amplified the normally painful grasp and made it disabling. He pulled the blade out of the twitching hand and mimed driving it into the back of the attacker’s skull.

A buzzer sounded.

“Goddamn, that HURT!” The attacker roared, shaking his arm.

“Sorry man, your timing was good- I was completely surprised.”

“I thought I had you hooked.” The female trainer dropped the persona like it never existed. Still quite pretty, but somehow the intense allure wasn’t there.

“You absolutely did. What spell were you using? That shit should be illegal.” Truth said fervently. The trainer started laughing.

“ACTING BABY!” She shouted, between laughs. “It’s all about acting the role.” She settled down and smiled at Truth, her eyes glinting with mischief. She slid up next to him and pressed her hand on his chest again. “You know, sincerity is the most important thing in acting.” She half whispered, looking deep into his eyes. Then shoved him backward, laughing again. “Once you can fake sincerity, you have it made!”

The evil witch pulled the same trick three more times and it worked every time. When they did the wrap-up for the day, she was looking genuinely sorry for Truth.

“Buddy, after the first time, that really shouldn’t have worked so well. What’s up? I don’t think you are really falling for me.” She asked, sitting next to him and sharing a bottle of water.

“It’s… haaaah. Been a long time?”

She looked at him askance, her sympathy visibly evaporating.

“Oh god, you’re one of them.”

“One of them… what?”

“Sargent Medici, you are shredded. You look like a goddamn body model, your skin is perfectly clear, and a little bird tells me that the PMC pays big money. And yet, you have zero self-confidence.”

“Thanks for the kind words and all but-” He waved at his face. She waved back.

“Who cares? Literally, who cares? You are a decent guy. Hyper-focused on your job, but a decent guy. Get over yourself and start asking women out.”

She looked him over. “You ain’t Prager’s gift to women, but you paid real attention to me, properly listened, and never got so lost you let me get hurt. Something to think about.”

Being a bodyguard was pretty great, Truth decided.

“I truly think I’m going to murder my protectee. Not a… brilliant start to the job, but. C’mon. Who could blame me?” Truth kept the thoughts on the inside, but no one could have heard him over the orchestral, nay, symphonic farts anyhow.

Not me. My usual hatred of the fleshies aside, this one is both too fleshy and too airy. Light it on fire. The tallow will render and keep it burning long after you stop your spell.

“Gesne food always gets me like this.” The enormous man gasped. “I should know better. Eating meglish right before a press conference. It’s the onions.” He mopped his sopping wet head with a handkerchief, overcome by the repeated effort of breaking wind. “I can’t have onions. Terrible for digestion. My poor belly can’t stand onions. But then, I almost would rather not have meglish if it didn’t have onions. You might as well skip the bacon too, and then what would you have? But I do so love a good meglish. I really can’t do without it.”

The poster child for coronary artery disease wasn’t looking for an answer, just an audience. And since Truth had to stand there and guard his almost spherical (and yet, distressingly lumpy) body, he had a captive one.

“And the weather. Terrible weather! So bad. It’s why I sweat like this- the humidity and the still air. My doctor says it’s not good for me. The terrible, sticky, sweaty air. Not like in Crez. Lovely cool breeze in Crez, and you can sit out on the patios and enjoy a nice drink while you look down the valley. You’ve been to Crez, I’m sure.”

Truth had never heard of such a place. He desperately wished he was there now.

“Yes, of course you have. Such a wonderful place, Crez. You can buy the most delicious little sandwiches from carts by the plazas. Just meat and cheese between two pieces of bread, but OH! What meats! OH! What cheeses!” He paused. His face contorted, slowly turning red, then faintly purple. Two hours ago, Truth would have asked if he needed medical assistance. Now he just edged closer to the door.

Surely this must be the time he explodes. Surely. However cruel the universe is, there must be a limit.

There was an eruption. The hurricane of gas caused the chair to scoot back, even as it forced the stupendous cheeks up and out. Then it tapered down to a sputtering series of sharp reports, causing the flab to snap against the seat. Then it reduced to a growling, grumbling flatulence that seemed to go on and on and on. The dreadful man collapsed backward, pale and shuddering, mopping the sweat from his forehead once again.

Ah. Yes, that was foolish of me. God’s capacity for cruelty is no less great and infinite in power than his ability to disappoint his creations. I would suggest fire once again. With the amount of methane in this room, you can die together.

“Doctor Calderine? They are ready for you.” A voice called from outside. Truth snapped to action, checking the door and walking out ahead of his protectee. Who needed a literal, sixty-second-by-the-clock, minute to heave himself out of his chair. He swayed for a few seconds, then got his cane under him and staggered for the stage door. Truth came out beside him, marveling at the fabulous banner over the stage.

“BEAT CHILDHOOD HUNGER!”

Dr. Calderine looked up at the banner and burst into tears. Weeping, he staggered to the podium. “The children! Oh! OOOH! The children!” The cameras ate it up.

A few weeks later-

“Alright, the last three were… not the best. But you got through them. They were, ultimately, fine. You were fine. She’s a little old lady. Twilight years. You got this.” Truth psyched himself up in the bathroom. Two quick slaps to his cheeks later, he strode out looking commanding.

“Oh thank GOD! Sergeant! Sergeant, I need you! Hurry!” The stubby-looking woman waved desperately. Then her arm seemed to get tired, and she clasped it to her chest. Her eyes seemed to bug out from her plasticine-looking face as she panted with emotion

“It must be hard for her to wave her hand, what with all the gold she’s wearing,” Truth thought.

“How can I assist you, Madame?” He was using the “polite” voice they trained into him.

“It’s Raquel. I think she’s trying to murder Mr. Knitts.” She gasped. “Murder, Sergeant, Murder!” She fanned herself arduously. Then she gave up.

Truth desperately tried to remember if he knew a “Raquel” or a “Mr. Knitts.” He did not. “I’m afraid I don’t know who those people are, Madame. Could you explain a bit more?”

That was a rookie mistake.

“Raquel, OH! She is my late husband’s daughter by his first wife. She always hated me. Hated me! Even though I did try to be the very best mother I could be for her. But we wed when she was at such a difficult age-”

“How old?” Truth asked, even more unwisely.

“Twenty-four. A dreadful, spoiled rotten twenty-four. I should not speak ill of the dead, but her mother, Bailey, was dreadful. I should know, we were such dear friends before the accident. She was always away on “business,” or “saving lives” or some other such nonsense. So she was a doctor, so what?” She flicked away the notion with gem-bedecked fingers. Truth mentally circled the phrase “such dear friends” but didn’t have the opportunity to follow up.

“Couldn’t she have been a mother to her four children too? Or a wife to my dear, sweet Enrique? Ah! Enrique! Did you know we met under the waterfalls at Halcyn Cove? We were both on vacation away from our spouses, and that magical night! The sound of the falls thundered in our ears, but could not drown out the thundering in our hearts.”

“How… wonderful? The murder you mentioned?”

“MURDER! How dare you! Both Bailey and Fredrick died of natural causes! The fact that they died within a week of each other is merely a tragic coincidence!”

“Raquel murdering Mr. Knitts, Madame?”

“Oh, my dear Mr. Knitts! My only true companion in my old age! Ah, I want him to have everything. My everything!”

“Mr. Knitts is husband number… three?”

“He would be the seventh, ah if it were possible for us to wed. A most blessed and auspicious number, seven. If only he could be my groom! If only he could sweep me off my feet! I have looked into spells for that, you know. People do make such a fuss about these things in Jeon, but the word is broad, and the universe broader still. Yes, I have special people out looking, Sergeant, and my purse is deep.”

She drifted off staring out the window. Rain splattered uselessly against the glass. Very uselessly, it was a rain spell set up to provide whatever mood the old lady wanted at a given window. It was 15 and sunny out, twenty meters from the mansion. Truth coughed. He desperately wanted to drop the subject, but the keyword “murder” had come up, so he felt he had to get to the bottom of it.

“Who is Mr. Knitts, Madame?”

“Oh, Mr. Knitts! He is wonderful. Dreamy, elegant, full of deep expressive silences, like a forest glade. Did you know I had a forest glade made, just so people would know what Mr. Knitts is like? It’s wonderfully useful.”

“That. That’s wonderful. So considerate.”

“Yes. I am very considerate. Did you know I am a noted philanthropist…”

Two days later, an enervated Truth reported the success of his mission. He had received a glowing evaluation from Madame. He never discovered the fate of Mr. Knitts. Or Raquel.

Weeks after that-

“OK, Oh-for-Seven. Not outstanding. Not what I would prefer. But hey, no one is shooting at me. That’s literal job security. I’m not shooting anybody. This is a good thing. A peaceful thing. And, ok, they have their… funny little quirks. But this is a young guy. Executive track. Rich family, powerful patrons. Finance bro. Gets excited about commodities swaps, whatever the hell they are, and probably has the world’s most boring sex. Just need to make sure he gets to the meeting tomorrow. The nice, boring meeting, in this nice, boring city. It’s all good.”

Truth encouraged himself looking in the bathroom mirror. He looked sharp in his gray suit. Confident. Capable. Shame he couldn’t eat here, this club looked like it had amazing nibbles. But he was on the job. Professional.

“Sergeant, you better get out here.” One of the other guards banged on the door. “I think our body just O.D’ed.”

“FUCK!”

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