Slumrat Rising

Truth took two explosive steps towards the alley, stopped hard, and doubled back for his iron horse. He had a great idea, it required the two-wheeler, and by God, he wouldn’t let these thieving bastards run off with what he had rightfully stolen.

He hopped on the two-wheeler, pulling out the short stabbing spear he looted back in the village. Truth smacked the chained demon into life, and in a shriek of spinning tires, he bolted for the alley. He had no idea how to do this. The spear was too short to tuck under his arm and use like a lance. The alley came up fast. He’d figure something out.

The young man laughed as he ran down the alley, waving his trophy. The bird demon, riding on the young man’s shoulder, was more on the ball. Its head rotated 180 degrees to stare at Truth as he rushed closer. The demon opened its beak and made a shattering, air-bending cry like rusted hinges opening a basement door in the house where all those people died chewing on each other’s entrails and etching horrible pictures on the floor with their own stomach acid.

Truth violently shook his head. It was a mental attack along with the sound. Shit. Not his favorite. But he needed the demon even more than he needed the clothes. So this was happening. He rode up behind the cheerful young sex criminal, who was looking a lot more concerned at this point, and used the flat of the spear to slap the demon into the young man’s head as he roared past.

The result was spectacular. The demon (and it appeared to be an air demon, the tricky little shit) was a lot more durable than its master. It was disoriented and shaken up by the sudden double smack, but the little rapist in training really got his bell rung. He spun around hard and slammed his head into the alley wall as he fell sideways.

Truth jerked the iron horse to a stop and returned to his targets. It was tight, but he could muscle the thing up and along the wall if necessary. Or fun. It had been a very trying few days from his perspective.

The young man was drooling against the wall, eyes rolled up into his head. No loss of bowel control, Praeger be praised. On the other hand, the demon was raring to fight. It screamed again, like the shattered glass of his Mother’s suicide…

Truth almost collapsed laughing hysterically. “No, no, sorry, I’m sorry, I’m ruining this for you. Sorry. Yes. Mom committed suicide. Right out the window. Any chance she wasn’t quite high enough and suffered miserably for hours and hours, even when they took her to the hospital because they realized she had no money, so they wouldn’t treat her while they waited for someone to come and pay to save her, but nobody did, so she lingered in timeless misery before she died, scared and alone, on a hospital gurney in a hallway?”

The demon managed to look shocked and outraged, a neat trick for something that looked like a crow and your most shameful orgasm made bird babies out of bird babies. Deciding that mental attacks weren’t working, it beat its shadowy wings hard and clawed at Truth’s throat.

It was fast, but Truth was skilled. He deflected the demon with the spear's haft, then hopped off the iron horse while the demon came around for another pass. It screamed again, screaming like the time his dad held him down in his childhood bed, tore down his pajamas and-

Truth slapped the vile creature out of the air so hard it bounced off the ground. He caught it on the rebound. The filthy thing tried to burn him with its acidic darkness, rot his mind with its insidious will. Truth wasn’t having it. The Meditations of Valentinian worked on the conceptual and physical levels. Hands were for grabbing and holding safely. And this pathetic little imp wouldn’t overturn Truth’s idea of the power of his hands with its meager strength.

“Again, nice try, but the one thing I can say in Dad’s favor was that he never tried that shit on us. Beat us, starved us, threatened to sell us into sex slavery, sure. But never actually tried it on us himself. No idea why.” Truth paused. “Starting to wonder if the booze, cigarettes, and drugs made him impotent. Fingers crossed.”

Truth reached into the collar of the unconscious man’s shirt and yanked off his necklace. As he thought- the demon’s binding. Crude stuff, but serviceable. Someone with a brain carved the lines nice and deep on a sheet metal disk, discouraging “unfortunate accidents.” The compulsions were straight out of a textbook, a built-in banishment, and standard terms for the demon’s service. Nothing too terrible, mainly a steady draw on the magus’ magic. And the understanding, of course, that the demon would be doing its absolute best to make the life of everyone that came in contact with it, other than its master, worse. In any way it could. And air demons were pretty smart, as demons went.

Truth forcefully crushed the remnant magic the young man had in the binding, seamlessly replacing it with his own. Did the young man twitch? Hard to say. It was starting to look like there was permanent brain damage from the two blows to the head. Hopefully just brain damage.

Truth frowned. He could remember, before Starbrite, he wouldn’t have just attacked someone for their clothes and an imp. Even if they were demonstrably a piece of shit gangster. It was a messed up thing to do. But here? Where there were virtually no laws? Truth shook his head.

No, it wasn’t that. He had always been willing to use violence to make his life better. It’s just that, until he joined Starbrite, he was convinced there was no future in it. The thugs in the slums seemed to be as broke as everyone else. It was the legit companies that raked in the big cash. Everything he saw at Starbrite reinforced that belief too. They could run their own military because they were a legit company. They weren’t rich because of the PMC. They were rich because they sold what people wanted.

And had a slave labor force. Speaking of. “Alright, ditch the try-hard demon look. Standard crow. You can keep the red eyes if you like, but don’t test me.”

“As the Magus commands.” The sibilant whisper shook the air as the writhing mass in his hands reformed into a large, inky black crow with brilliant red eyes. “What would you demand of me?”

“All kinds of things, but for now, protect me while I change clothes.” Truth set about stripping the young man. The fit wasn’t exact, but it was pretty good, and there was plenty of room in the thigh and crotch of the pants. Crucial points of comfort when he has been riding without underwear in a dress on a two-wheeler for two days. Pants, he decided, were fundamentally good. The shirt was meh, some kind of cheap, shiny fabric, but he’d take it.

“Demon, by what name are you called?”

“Dark despair am I, called to teach the true language of birds and beasts, to reveal the secrets hidden in the whispering of the waters. Great President am I, brother slayer, first murderer-”

“Did that shit work on your former master? Do they not teach the Ars Goetia here or something? Because that is straight out of the description of Caym, and you, Trash, aren’t qualified to be the smudge left by the shadow of His Excellencies’ passing.” Truth interrupted harshly. “No more try-hard shit. What are you called?”

The demon went silent and appeared to be sulking. With immense reluctance, it replied. “My former master called me Birdie.”

Truth thought about that a second. Then another second. “Alright, you have some justifiable grievances there. Since you seem to have a thing for His Excellency, you may transform into a thrush, and I will call you Thrush.”

“Better.” It transformed as instructed, shrinking to about the size of his fist. The beak turned yellow, but otherwise, it remained inky black with red eyes.

“Again, Magus, what do you demand of me?”

“Did your former master live alone or with others?”

“He was homeless, rotating between eleven “girlfriends,” who he alternately seduced and preyed upon. When necessary, he squatted in abandoned apartments. He generated a meager income selling drugs for a local gang if you wish to take his role. He should have a small sum of money hidden in the belt.”

“Ah, right you are. Alright, my first job right now is securing housing. Then, we need dictionaries and grammar books, translating Jeongo to whatever the local language is.”

“Easily done, oh Magus. For a small price, I can-”

Truth flexed his will slightly, his magic stimulating the punishment spells on the binding. Thrush screamed as his immaterial body began to ripple.

“What did I tell you about testing me, Trash?”

“Apologies! Apologies, Great Magus! Never again! Forgive me!”

Truth waited while the demon collected itself again.

“Truthfully, it is easily done if you are simply looking for shelter. The better the quality home, the better defended it will be. However, most people in this wretched hole of a country are Level Zero livestock, with the Level One’s being considered a respectable class. Level Two is uncommon, and Level Three would make you a person of significance. So just pick a dwelling you like and take it.”

“Hah. Alright, we can refine that idea some, I suppose.”

The demon continued smoothly. “As for the dictionaries and the like, I have no idea why you would deign to speak with this rabble, but there are some bookstores with such things. Mostly they would be in the gated communities, so your current… attire… would not allow you passage. Such enclaves are guarded by the modestly competent and in great numbers. I would urge guile over force there.”

“Alright. First stop- a base of operations. Someplace where the current occupant can be violently ejected and not missed. To be clear, this does not include the elderly living alone or other tragic cases.”

“Humans are social animals. You would find it easier to simply acquire a vacant apartment.” The demon hissed.

Truth barked a laugh. “Yes, that should have been the first thought. Lead on.” Thrush perched on the handlebar of the iron horse and pointed with its wing.

“This way. Many vacant apartments. My former… ah. My late master often slept there, hiding from the landlord’s armsmen.”

They drove out of the alley. It was AMAZING how the dirty looks directed at Truth seemed to vanish. The egg wrap vendor tried to call him over, clearly not recognizing him.

“Thrush, that costume I wore before- do you know what it represents? Or who that tribe was?”

“I have never met them before, but it looks like the costume of the Blade Adder people. So-called because they enjoy embedding sharp thorns and blades into their genitals and violently forcing themselves on strangers.”

“God! Really?”

“I doubt it. The legends are somewhat new and seem to coincide with the digging of new mines out in the countryside.”

“Ah.”

“Indeed. Turn right at the corner, then six blocks straight down. Four-story building on your right rotted green paint covering buff concrete.”

Gangs, slums, abusive trash pimping women in worse circumstances than himself. It was like coming home again. He couldn’t wait to burn it all down.

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