Slumrat Rising

The Cevis bubbled pleasingly as it drowned. The grass-green pond scum frothed a bit around the smashed open windows, pouring in to give the interior the closest thing to a cleaning it had ever known. The fungal life within the carriage would finally have a real fight on its hands. This pond had never had anything good living in it. Welcome to the jungle, trash. It’s got what you need.

That rang a bell somewhere. No idea why. He wouldn’t worry about it. He would just enjoy watching the source of the last hour’s oppression slowly sinking to the bottom of a pond just two kilometers from the rest stop he was targeting. The sheer satisfaction of watching the carriage drown was worth savoring and, like all truly good things, seemed to end too soon. The algae drew its toxic curtain closed on the play. Truth sighed, checked that he had everything, and set off for the rest stop. Destination- North.

Truth hiked through the exurban scrubland, trying to leave as little trace of himself behind as he could manage. Between his blessings and Thrush, he might as well have been a breeze through the tall grass. The rest stop was pretty typical of its sort- pay showers, enormous ranks of bathrooms, a food court with a whopping three chain restaurants, and a convenience store larger than most homes. Level Ones and Level Zeros drifting to and fro. For once, Truth could imagine they shared his assessment of their existence- ghosts haunting the freeway.

He hung out near the line for coffee. Regrettably, none of the drivers were bored enough to discuss their destination. They had other complaints.

“It's going to be the end of us.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It’s exactly that bad. Remember when the drive-assist demons came in, and all our wages got cut by two-thirds?”

“No, because it happened before either of us was born, Joarle.”

“Oh fuck you, Pasie, you know what I mean. Every time there is a “huge improvement’ who gets screwed? Me. You and me.”

The other driver shrugged. “Yeah. So what are you going to do about it? Change over is in, what, three weeks?”

The wiry man, Joarle, seemed to deflate. “Two. I don’t know. I really don’t know. Don’t suppose you have any good ideas?”

“Well,” her voice dropped, “Wouldn’t be the craziest idea for some goods to be “damaged in transit,” you know? But not sold. Stockpiled. Just in case.”

Joarle hissed and recoiled. “Pasie-”

“Just saying.”

“The risks-”

“Are what, exactly? If things are as bad as you think?”

Joarle mulled it over. “I’ve been with Totte for nineteen years.”

“Yeah, you have.”

The conversation lapsed. Joarle put in an order for two large coffees, then looked over at Pasie and got her two too. They moved to a table. They sat for a moment, just sipping their terrible coffee and thinking their own thoughts.

“It’s just-”

“Oh I know.” Pasie nodded. They lapsed back into silence for a minute longer.

“You really think it’s worth it?”

“I think you have to make that call. One way or the other, you have to be ready for… whatever is coming next. Because one thing we agree on- it can’t be a good thing. I’ve got two more stops today. You?”

“Just one, but it’s a long haul.”

“Damn. Well, here’s hoping no checkpoints.” She chuckled.

“I can’t say I’m surprised Management refused to change the late penalty when those started rolling out,” Joarle grunted. He picked up his coffee and walked out. Truth followed behind him. They were on the southern tip of the peninsula. A long haul could only be headed in one direction. North.

Truth followed the driver out to his wagon and looked it over. Pretty standard- a cab hauling a shipping container on a trailer, basically. The cab’s eyes of gold and flame glared around the parking lot, ready to set off as soon as it got the order. Truth was stuck- you couldn’t close the doors of the container from the inside. On the other hand, he wanted to nap and cultivate if he could. Fortunately, there was a tiny sleeping compartment behind where the driver sat. It wasn’t much more than a cot, a drawer, and a reading light, but he would happily take it. It had been a long, eventful day. He got settled in as the driver set out.

The cultivation before bed went… not well. It was fine in that he was pulling in more cosmic rays and filling his apertures and generally doing what a mage should. It was not-fine in that he could definitely feel a hint of thinness in the energy now. Like that touch of breeze in summer that lets you know winter is coming. And there is nothing at all you can do to stop it. Just a hint of cold now…

He shook off the feeling. It took a while, but he got his head straight. He knew this was coming. He, of all people, had no excuse for being shook up by it. Can’t fix it? Deal with it then. Any progress on how to replicate that energy sealing spell we stole from Gullvar using the Meditations?

>

Elaborate.

>

Truth groaned. He didn’t like it one little bit. He was used to doing jobs he didn’t like. Pissy and resentful, he began to meditate. What’s the old joke? That’s why they call it practicing meditation? Something like that. Truth grumped to himself, not realizing he had never in his life heard a person ever make that joke.

Wait, there were two spells. Have you cracked the second one yet?

>

What do you mean, “No?” You were able to take a stab at Knife and Cup in way less time than you have had with that… whatever it is.

>

Say more.

>

Could this be a spell from whatever branch of humanity Anakson is from?

>

Not safe to cast, then.

>

Truth mulled it over, then shrugged. Another item for the “I can’t do anything about this” heap. What he could do is get to work visualizing. So he did. It was a slow grind, but then, he knew he was in for a long haul.

____________________________________________

Six hours into their journey, the wagon came to a full stop. Something about it jolted Truth from his nap. He instinctively recast Incisive and was immediately alarmed- danger all around. A quick peek out the window was explanation enough. They were just outside of Harban. They had hit a checkpoint. The good news was that the traffic was moving reasonably quickly through it. The bad news was all the watcher things. Which practically coated the street lights hanging from dozens of posts.

Nowhere to run. Absolutely nowhere to hide. Welcome to the highways in the middle of the night. Truth thought fast and tried to figure out the best way through. Fight? He probably could- briefly. Then, a whole mess of high levels would be on him, and that would be that. Run? Faint hope. Not no-hope, but faint. Truth grit his teeth. There was only one thing for it then- stack as much protection on himself as he could and try to hide.

He risked another quick glance. They were checking everyone’s identity sigils, not just the driver. Running spell hounds around, too. Taking no chances. That ruled out pretending to be a hitchhiker. Or even a dog. His thoughts raced. Ah. There was one identity that didn’t need proving. He could be dead meat.

He did his best to seal himself up. Like the System urged him to when he was fighting the Anti-Theists. Like a snake trapping the water inside of his scales during a dry spell. All the active processes of a living body, the absorption and emission of cosmic energy. His heat. His smell. At level four, he could stop his heart, stop his breath, for a time. He let his body fall away.

He was dead meat, floating in a well. Meat being taken for butchering. Not human meat, nothing worthy of even that much attention. Just meat. He kept only enough of his mind active to keep Incisive running. Maintaining the identity. Maintaining the Blessings of the Silent Forest. He could vaguely sense that his alarm should be increasing, that he should be very afraid. Meat didn’t fear. Meat was meat. Already dead. He let his consciousness drift off too, afraid that even that could be detected, somehow. He was just meat. Just meat. Just meat.

He hung in the dark well. Timeless, at first, but pressure slowly grew. The pressure of a heart to beat. Of lungs to breathe. Of a mind to think. The pressure to be born out of this darkness. Something was pulling too- something pouring out of him, like a slit vein in his leg and throat, not even air pressure slowing the flow of blood. Something important, vital, racing out of him. He couldn’t hold it together long. The pressure grew. More and more. It became harder to just be meat. To hang in the well. But he was meat. Just meat. Meat wasn’t afraid. Meat didn’t worry about pressure.

Pressure didn’t worry about the opinions of meat. It just grew. And grew. The drain got worse and worse. Eventually, the drain tapered off, but by then, there was nothing left to keep the meat in the well.

Truth opened his eyes and gasped. He was almost drained dry. Covered in sweat. Everything hurt. But he was still in the back of the truck, and they were moving. When he was strong enough, he peeked through the window. They were through the checkpoint. He sucked in rasping lungfuls of air. His body was suddenly drenched in sweat. He was nauseous, light-headed. He wanted to throw up and piss himself at the same time. He didn’t. He just cultivated as hard and as fast as he could.

He could make it past the watchers. Just barely, and it took everything he had. But he could do it. A rictus grin spread across his face as he desperately tried to bring his body back to order. He could get past them.

Starbrite was fucked.

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