Slumrat Rising

“Some good news and bad news, from your perspective- Good news is that we are no longer in Siphios, and the scary exorcists are on the other side of an ocean from us.”

“That is good news.” Thrush’s voice flowed like tar over velvet. He was once again in the form of a small bird with crimson eyes. There was a shimmer and a texture to his wings, black on black, making you want to look closer to see the curious patterns the vanes formed. An elegant look for an imp of no true shape. It gave no clue to the demon’s utter sadism.

“I did get several really instructive tutorials, as well as repeated demonstrations, on how to really hurt spiritual entities. The entity known as Child Eater was the demonstration subject if you were worried about quality control.” Truth kept his voice chipper.

“The bad news is quite sharp indeed.”

“Oh, that was still good news. Lifelong learning and all that, right? No, the bad news is I summoned you to work as my assistant and hunting beast.” Truth waved the letter and talisman around.

“Ah. Well. I have heard worse. Truthfully, Great One, our time together was… pleasant, as you would understand that term. Now that we are away from those people, we can resume our partnership.”

Partnership. Sure.

“Alright, let’s get this ball rolling. I am completely short on tools. I’ve been getting by on making stuff on the fly, but I need proper talisman creation tools, burglary tools, tracking tools, and all that. Assume that we are going to be stealing them. They are a “treasure” if you like. So, my treasure-finding demon, where to?”

Thrush paused a moment, preened, looked at Truth, and shuffled its feathers.

“Dread Magus, might I beseech a drop of wisdom from you?” Its voice wheedled, like your “faithful” lover pleading youthful inexperience for the second time. “I know you are here because you summoned me and are speaking to me, but most of the senses I would use to detect you fail to capture your… magnificence. And some instinct warns me of terrible danger. Might I ask what has become of you in the time since we parted?”

“You may not. Beyond knowing that I have, indeed, become considerably more powerful and have received a blessing that will let me snuff your existence with a slap. Not merely return you to Hell- consign you to oblivion.” Truth laid it out straight for the demon. You had to know how to talk to them, or they would just walk all over you. Then drag your soul into Hell.

“Understood. But without some grasp on your present capabilities-”

“Less talking, more hunting. Start with a talisman supply wholesaler.”

Thrush flapped away, not even bothering to snort. The imp was no match for Truth at Level Two. At Level Four, with the blessings bestowed on him? It was Thrush’s privilege to serve. Much higher-tier demons would be delighted to assume the duty.

Truth nodded slightly. Time to stop thinking small. Even with all his power, his thinking was still small-time- working as a hitter for a gangster? Even if that moved the needle slightly, it could never be enough. Time to start rapidly scaling up. And for that, he needed supplies.

The demon flew quickly through the city, infernal senses leading it on. Thrush was too weak to find anything truly precious, but talisman parts? In Jeon? Not so precious. Truth could keep up at a fast jog, blazing past the city traffic. It was still novel and very satisfying to be so much faster than the dull world around him. Still would prefer his two-wheeler, though. Just something about relaxing and enjoying the ride.

Gwaju looked grey and washed out. It reminded him of Shorumbuti back in the Free State, for all that their climate could hardly be more different. It was that ground in grime, coating “nice” buildings. People had given up on maintenance long before the Black Ships arrived. He should find it worrying. “When the going gets tough, the tough do maintenance” is doctrine nowhere, but should be doctrine everywhere. Now? Rubbish piled up in the street. He could see the vermin scurrying around.

Truth jogged past a good-sized group standing in a park. Maybe twenty or thirty kids and their parents. A mascot with a big orange for a head and a sailor costume was doing a series of poses and cheers. Some kind of city mascot, probably. The parents were all pushing the kids to participate, trying to keep smiles on their faces. They were forcing themselves, trying to create a normal, good time. Truth knew the kids weren’t fooled. They saw. But kids mostly want to make their parents happy, so they were trying. Truth would bet every last wen he had that at least one kid in that group was doing it hoping to cheer up their parents. Show them that they could be happy.

They quickly moved toward the outskirts of the City, moving into the land of big box stores and sprawling suburbs of identical homes. Decent homes with adequate square footage for an average family, with a small yard out back and a driveway out front for the carriage you absolutely needed to get anywhere. He felt an odd sense of kinship to the mowers of lawns in the suburbs. At least they were doing maintenance as their world collapsed. Hanging on to “normality” while sneering at those who didn’t keep up “standards.”

Of course, there was the question of what it took to have those little identical homes. Each cost more than an apartment to maintain, for one thing. You needed the carriage, and that needed maintenance too. Then there were what the suburbs cost the city. The roads, the highway to the city, difficulty collecting the trash, or running sewers all added up. You could fit two streets worth of families, or more, in his old apartment building. Put them in the slums, and you could get the whole damn suburb in a tower.

It had to prey on them- the morbid mowers of suburbia. They had to be thinking about it all the time. How can I raise enough money to keep my family in this nice little box instead of the other, much less nice boxes they could be in? That fear, of losing status, of disappointing their family, must gnaw like a worm on their guts. What would they do to keep themselves out of the coffin apartments in the slums?

Businesses must be closing already. A paying job would soon be a luxury. The threat of falling down the citizenship ladder and becoming Denizens must be making them puke. Whatever illusion of safety their suburban boxes gave them were now entirely gone. The pressure must be intolerable.

They would be eyeing each other already. Seeing who has the nice new chariot, the fancy sofas, who was always taking those luxurious vacations to Jeru Island. Not long now. Not long until someone tied a shirt around their face, picked up a hammer, and slipped in through a back door they knew was always open. Until they stood over a bed with a sleeping couple, hammer in hand, and thought, “Sorry. But my family eats first.”

Not long at all. Maybe it had already happened or was happening now. The morbid mowers cased their neighbors' homes as they mindlessly shortened what little life still grew around their little box. Banishing all the bees and beasts that might thrive in tall grass. Controlling their environment to manage their stress. Not looking too rich or happy. After all, their neighbors were not to be trusted.

Thrush lead him to a big DIY store. It should have been full to groaning with timber, tools, premade windows, and fetishes for every conceivable need for a builder. Stacks of talismans, too- both premade and unfinished bases for the custom crowd. Well, it was still groaning, but not because it was full.

“Want to bet if they are having supply issues?” Truth asked.

“I must respectfully decline. I left my wallet in Hell.” Thrush murmured.

“You have a wallet?”

“I have something that serves that function.”

“What’s the currency in Hell?”

“Joy.”

“What?!”

“Joy. Moments of true, unrestrained happiness. The purer the emotion, the closer it comes to divine ecstasy, the more valuable it is. There are other currencies, of course, but that is certainly my preferred coin.”

Truth thought about that for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around it. Thrush continued in his smooth baritone. “Of course, we are starting to run into deflationary pressures. Usually, population growth is enough to ensure a fresh supply of souls to harvest joy from. Alas, new soul arrival is coming in below expected numbers due to a falling birthrate, and the souls we are getting are notably short on joy. We are expecting a huge wave in the near future, but after that, it will be chaos. More than usual, anyhow.”

“Things are bad enough on this planet that we are fucking up the economy of the local corner of Hell.”

“Heaven help us, yes.” Thrush sounded worryingly devout.

Truth walked in, looking around the shelves. Empty, empty, empty, or populated by a few torn boxes. Lots of display samples on the industrial shelving. Shelving that rose five times the height of a man that needed special flying carpets with metal tines to lift the pallets down. Empty as a promise of an end-of-year raise.

“Where are the talisman supplies?”

“This way.” Thrush fluttered ahead. Not the only bird in the building, Truth noticed. Pigeons had flown in. City doves out in the suburbs, building nests on shelves and leaving messes where they pleased. There were still builders in here too, and homeowners looking to save a wen and do the work themselves. Stocking up while they can. There were sleek golems lined up by the doors. Three meters tall, humanoid. Off-white, all smooth curves and soothing aesthetics. The words “Inventory Control Services” were written across their chests in a light, cheery blue.

They must have a self-cleaning function to wash off all the shoplifter gore.

The talisman supplies were still there, though in notably limited quantity. Shelves that should be full of premade blanks for lighting, locking, pumping, heating, cooling, purifying, recording, projecting, leveling, compacting, digging, firming, filling, carrying, and cutting were mostly empty. What remained was either the most idiotically expensive or the shoddiest models from the worst brands. All under heavy metal grates.

“This was seriously the best you could find?”

“It was the closest I could find, and my selections were limited.”

Truth sighed. “Well, let’s make the best of it. Fetch me a cart while I start picking out what I want.” He recognized the brands. Most Starbrite-affiliated companies, either directly or by agreement. Standard parts that were designed to work seamlessly with Starbrite parts. A “small” fee was paid by the manufacturers for the privilege of being part of the product ecosystem.

He checked the metal grate for alarms and wards. Cheap but there. Already half disabled by the staff, who no doubt had to deal with false alarms dozens of times a day. Truth took the necessary few minutes to completely disable them and neatly severed the locks. Thrush returned with a flat trolley, driven by his infernal command to follow behind the palm-sized bird. Truth started loading it up with basically everything, even the stuff he didn’t really think he would have a use for. It was just too damn depressing to come back here again.

“Alright, the next stop will be finding a good-sized truck out there, ideally one belonging to a business. Double good if it’s a Starbrite company. We haul all this back to my little hideout. Then we start in on phase one-point-one.”

“I regret that I do not know what that phase is, Mighty One.”

“Why, what I spent my whole childhood and teen years avoiding as a career.” Truth said cheerfully as he pushed his cart past the unseeing golems. “We are switching from shoplifting to armed robbery. There is a Starbrite package distribution center near this city, and I’m going to wreck it.”

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