Slumrat Rising

Truth coolly cataloged the guard in front of him. Wearing fatigues, no armor, cap with brim. No visible rank insignia. The fetish looks professionally made, and given the size and depth of the carvings on it, clearly intended to handle a high power throughput without disintegrating. Given that this is the Free State… military and imported. The spellhound… might not actually be a spellhound.

The more he looked at it, the more he got the sense of a dog that was selectively enchanted and altered with alchemic mutagens. Nasty stuff. The whole package made for a very effective guard patrol along the eight-meter-tall wall separating the university from the rest of the city. There was a guard booth up ahead too. He would have to be a bit careful about this, but he should be able to rush them before they can sound the alarm.

And he would do that… why, exactly? Truth felt himself physically jolt as the questioning thought made itself known.

There was literally no reason to attack this guy. He was out here, doing his job, no threat, no bother. There was nothing in the university that he needed to see right this minute. No teachers for him to talk to, nothing he could read. He didn’t even want the fetish. He definitely didn’t want the dog. This was not his kind of dog. Truth steered the iron horse away from the university, found a quiet spot, and parked.

He started trying to pick through the last few days. He had been killed. Ok, he was part of a kidnapping, then found out the company he had dedicated his entire life to thought saving fucking Ludovic was more important than his survival. Starbrite ordered him to commit suicide, on pain of being killed by them if he refused.

Starbrite relied on the fact that the System Astrologica slowly but constantly brainwashed its employees. He remembered thinking that dying in the line of duty would be fine and right.

He had been brainwashed. So had the people who ordered his suicide. But since they were also brainwashed and had been brainwashed for much longer than him, they presumably wouldn’t mind that he was being magically compelled to fight to the death.

Although, really, it wasn’t relevant. Not really. It had been a total betrayal of everything he had spent his life trying to achieve. Everything.

He wakes up in the pitch black of a well. Has no possessions. Proceeds to discover he is strong. Immediately starts a campaign of thuggery to improve his situation. At no point did he ask for anything. At least, not that he could recall.

Oh, wait, the vendor he intimidated after robbing a bookstore. Miming probably counts as a request. And he did pay.

And he… you know… killed a couple of dozen people, many of whom were level zero, to secure an apartment, clothes, and home goods. Trash goods in slum housing. That was… not good. That was very not good. That was, in fact, deeply fucked up. And had been OK with it. He thought that it was necessary. Excused by the fact that these were criminals. Morally, if not legally, in the Free State.

Like their being gangsters excused everything. Assuming they were gangsters, he had only a literal demon as his source there.

Not only very bad and deeply fucked up, but it was also very, very stupid. Truth desperately cast his mind back. He could remember the first person he killed. Well, probably killed. It was the mindless addict by the canal. It was self-defense. Same thing with Thierrie, sort of. He was saving Vig. He was charging to the rescue.

Then there was all the Ghūl he slaughtered, which was apparently a civic virtue. And also self-defense. Sort of. Demon bird thing during his conscription? That was his military duty and also very, very much self-defense.

It was hilarious. He had traveled to multiple continents, killed strange and interesting people, was literally reborn in a well in the desert… and still had no good answer to being called a fuckboy by a smuggler. He definitionally wasn’t, right? Like, the term just… plainly did not apply. It was like being told you are the worst clown. What do you even say to that?

It was while he was at Starbrite. He was increasingly separated from the sibs but constantly under pressure to make sure they were taken care of. All the elixirs he shared. The schooling, clothes, all that. The endless hunt for Friends and Family points. Working in security in the PMC.

Truth remembered how the recruiter’s eyes had rolled up into her head, mountains of information shoved in there by the System. How big could his file have really been? Had the System detected something special even then? Did it load a whole script into the recruiter to guide him into the PMC?

Because after that, it was pretty obvious, right? Start with looking the other way and ignoring blatant crimes. Becoming “reliable” enough to do nasty jobs, or at least not whine if something went badly sideways.

He was told, over and over, “You are good, valuable, the brother your siblings need if you just focus on killing and not asking questions. Go where you are told, hide your fangs, then kill. Kill for Starbrite. Kill, and your life will be better.”

God, reading books was the only thing he did that passed for a sane hobby.

At some point, he had stopped thinking it was fucked up to kill someone to make his life better. Violence had never really bothered Truth. He had always been more or less willing to throw hands. But at least he remembered that it was fucked up. That it was something to be avoided.

Starbrite had trained him like the guard’s dog- fed him supplements, gave him nice pats and kind words when he tore apart the training dummy. “Don’t kill, and you don’t eat. Do kill, and we will treat you like a king. You alone are special. Even more special than the others in the PMC. Starbrite loves you best. Just kill who we say when we say. Be a good boy, work hard at your cultivation, and get prettier. One day we might just breed you. Won’t that be nice?”

Or not. Plenty of rats in the slums.

Which did lead to some interesting points. Like, he had never considered himself a beauty or anything, but he wasn’t hideous either. So why did he start thinking he was ugly after joining Starbrite? He had an excellent job, was well paid, cared deeply about his family, and if he was short on hobbies, his career was pretty damn interesting. No reason he shouldn’t scrub up pretty good. When did he start thinking he was hideous? Ugly to the point of being unlovable?

When he was younger, he spent all his time living like a monk. Just study, cultivate, earn, and that’s it. Not one second for anything else. Now though? He met people all the time. He had coworkers. All of whom understood his life and really liked to party. Offers had been made, probably. Offers he was too blind to understand. Why had he turned them down? Given that he was so utterly starved for touch and affection?

A certain finger puppet came to mind. That was the first time he could remember being utterly dragged for his looks. It was literally, directly, and personally, the System Astrologica that made a specific point of telling him just how comprehensively undesirable he was. Nobody else had exactly run away screaming from him. And the sibs had no problem getting their V card punched, and he sure was better looking than Harmony. But no, for some reason, a reason named The System Fucked Him Again, he became convinced he was hideous and the only solution was cultivating more. Which locked him into the loop of trading violence for elixirs. Which furthered his obedience to the System.

Truth looked up at the grimy building he was parked next to. Windowless, gray in the shadows. Just a blank wall of accumulated city dust over the potholed pavement. There was nothing there, and the nothing sucked. Emotions started bubbling out of him. He didn’t know if he was laughing or sobbing. He bent over the handlebars of the two-wheeler and just… hung on. Hugged himself as the feelings felt like they would fly away with him.

It was all, all, all bullshit. All of it. Even his shitty, evil parents. Then being shitty and evil was on them, but who made the slums? Who kept the slums, slums? It wasn’t all on the slumrats. He was willing to bet it wasn’t even mostly on them.

Squeak Squeak, little rats. Line up by the subway and feed yourself to the cats.

Would he make the same choice if he had to do it all over again? Or would he go gangster? Try to kill his way out? Find some… blessed land where he could keep the sibs safe and free? If such a place existed, Truth hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t even heard of it. Security came from power. Your own… or your gang’s. Well. He didn’t have a gang anymore. He was a monster of violence, loose on the world, and encouraged to become more monstrous by a demon and a… “spirit of intellect.”

The funny thing was he knew how to handle the world telling him to become a monster. He had a proven, effective strategy for it. Study and cultivation. Focus on goals, make a plan, act on the plan, and treat violence as just a tool in the toolbox. Unless violence was the only answer, it was almost always the worst answer. Because violence only produced short-term results. Nobody got long-term rich from it, and the power was always shaky. Power over external things was always shaky.

Just look at the Free State. The whole country, rich parts included, was just another fucking slum. No safety, except your own strength. Safety only existed for one spell length.

Truth slowly pulled himself together. Can’t fix the world. Can’t even make sure the sibs are safe. Couldn’t do anything about it, even if they weren’t safe. All he can control is himself. He can take charge of himself. He can figure out himself… for himself.

Truth hopped off the iron horse and, in a dingy side street in one of the most dangerous cities in the world, he began to cultivate. His body moved under his control. The cosmic rays were pulled into the refinery of his body and transformed into cosmic energy. It gently expanded his first and second spell apertures, and he could feel it wearing away at the seal of the third. Soon now. But no rush. Just moving, breathing, and being. When he finished, he moved on to the Meditations. He had a fantastic new body. Time to learn all about it.

The sun rose, flooding the street with orange light. Even through the smog and dust, the stars were unconquerable. The world might get in your way of seeing them, but they were still there, shining down. Truth dusted himself off and hopped back on the two-wheeler.

“Was the night fruitful, Master?” Thrush asked. He had been notably silent the whole time.

“It was. Frankly, I was surprised you didn’t try to interfere.”

“It was a struggle, but I persevered. I had the uncanny foreknowledge that you would have murdered this form if I tried.” The little bird gave him a hard look.

“Hah. Well. That’s true. Now, realizing that I may be making more trouble for myself in the long term, get ready to act as my translator.”

“Master? I would be more than happy to teach you the local language.” Smoother than butter and honey was the voice of the demon.

“I’m sure you would. No, Thrush. I think I will learn for myself.”

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