by Ryan DeBruyn
“What are doctors?” the cute voice of my lovable granddaughter asks. I smile at her and tell her all about the ladies and gentlemen in white coats that stuck little girls with needles. I can’t help my slightly evil laugh when she squeals in terror.
“And the evil doctors worldwide believed that some sort of mass disease was gripping the populace. Others believed that the growth was some new form of bio-engineered cancer—”
“Cancer?” My grandson, currently sitting in Nathan’s lap, tests the word, not really intending to ask a question but doing so all-the-same.
“It’s a disease that used to prove fatal to almost everyone who had it.” Nathan bounces the boy on a knee. I smile at Nathan and then wink at the children again.
“Adventurers tried slaying and cutting out the beastly cancer,” I say, swapping the word ‘surgeons’ for a more familiar one they are bound to know. “The first attempts at the dungeon were failures.” I continue smiling at their now-nodding heads. They wouldn’t even know the term ‘patient’ or ‘hospitals,’ and I should be happy about that. So, why am I so worried? I guess swapping those relatively safe places for blue hovering portals, known as dungeons, and the monsters that came with them doesn’t exactly bring me the warm fuzzies.
“In prime-time ranking reports all around the globe, videos were watched that incensed and shocked everyone—”
“Like when you and Pap-Pap cleared floor ten!” my granddaughter crows delightedly. I laugh at the recollection. We were the first to clear floor ten of the Tower, and I fondly remember the celebration that followed. I choose to ignore the memories of stress and dire struggle that preceded the euphoria. “That was a long time ago, and another story,” I tell her, not willing to go into the painful side of those accomplishments. I must be a glutton, because I made four other climbs. The skyscraper we sit in is proof of that—the same flying building all of us rankers earn when we conquer the fiftieth floor of the Tower. Still, once you enter the first floor of ten, you can’t leave again—no matter how much you want to, not until you defeat all ten.
“But unlike me and Pap-Pap, everyone who underwent these failures disappeared or died from terrible explosions. Some even just faded away. And on that day, the world knew that a new organ had formed. The God Organ. . .” I force my smile to stick, remembering the news stories where operating rooms exploded, vanished, or were sucked into miniature black holes. Those poor people. . .
“When those organs fully developed, seven Towers drilled up out of the ground, like unfurling flowers.” I minimize the terror of the moment with that serene image. “Seven Territories formed, and each one is a government unto itself.”
“Government?” My grandson enunciates again, and I smile as Nathan ruffles his hair.
“Like a Guild but larger. For the Northern Territory, it’s a collection of the top Guilds and the Church,” Nathan says, explaining another Old-World term. It sure is strange to think that the countries’ borders, that the world fought so hard to maintain for so long, all crumbled in a few short years.
“Those first days were filled with wonder and amazement as humans began discovering that they could become the superheroes they idolized,” I continue, chuckling as their faces light up at ‘superhero.’ Nathan must be letting them read his comic book collection. Sure, this entire story is a rose-colored version of events from what can only really be termed an apocalypse, but history is written by the victor, right? And Nathan and I being here means we get to choose how it shall be remembered.
“Your Pap-Pap and I began cultivating our God Organs and exploring a new world,” I continue, telling them of all the amazing discoveries that were made by humans in the early days. Right up until Graydon cuts me off.
“I’m sorry, Mom, Dad. It’s time for the little ones to go to bed,” he says with a glance over to his wife in the doorway. I smile and check the time. It’s after ten and already an hour past bedtime for the rascals.
“You two let me keep going!” I growl with mock outrage. “You betrayed me.” I stand up and form claws with my hands, and my granddaughter squeals in delight as I perform a [Tickle Attack]. Nathan handles the other conspirator on his lap, and the childish laughter eases what little stress I still hold.
Graydon and his wife take the children to bed, and I go to the window of the playroom. This room is set dead center in the high-rise and is entirely open other than the concrete posts that support the floors above. Nathan walks across the room, moving toy monsters and rankers with his feet as he approaches.
“If only it were that easy to step on a rhinoceraton,” he says as he kicks a toy of the creature across the carpet. I glance at it flying across the floor and laugh. For us, a C-rank ‘Rhino,’ as I prefer to call it, is that easy. It’s really only the S-rank creatures that give us pause.
“Only the eighteenth-placed ranker would struggle with a creature like that,” I respond haughtily as I gaze out over the moonlit wilds.
“Offside!” Nathan shouts and tickles my sides in a repeat of our earlier mock outrage. After a time, I catch his hands, and he wraps them around me. We stand there rocking back and forth slightly as the floating cities sail ever closer to our mission.
“Let’s clear the sixtieth floor for them,” Nathan whispers into my ear. “If we are part of the first group that does, we are bound to create an unparalleled future for them!”
I don’t bother responding and instead squeeze his arms tighter. It’s a good goal, and one I can fully support.
I stare dumbly at the figure of a floating elf that confronts me and a thousand other top rankers from the Northern Territory. I glance around me and see everywhere what I can only call carnage and pandemonium. Many of my fellow adventurers lie broken or bleeding on the grass.
I’ve never seen an elf before, but this creature embodies one of the fantasy beings. Even now, after more than an hour of fighting, his clothing, hair, and features are pristine. His ears are long and end in points poking through the flowing silver locks. His skin is pale, almost a pure alabaster without blemish. On the other hand, my clothes are nearly rags, and I have numerous small cuts. So many injuries that my God Liquid and hoard of Sun Pills are failing to heal them all. My God Organ is nearly empty, despite carrying about eleven million drops of liquid into this battle, over a million of which were my specialty Blood liquid, with all the skills that came with it. And I still couldn’t even singe a thread of this elf’s pristine green suit.
I watch as Bobby’s blows are batted aside by a bare hand. He’s a Master swordsman who has trained since The Rise. I cringe at the bone-jarring crunch as Kassandra’s icicle spell turns to water and rebounds against her. I consider joining my remaining small reserve of liquid to the fight, but a glance tells me it’s already too late. All of the top S-rankers of the Northern Sabres Guild are collapsing to the grass, bloody and beaten. Everyone stares up at the untouchable elf and his hundred companions. All this attention causes the elf to shake his head and flash perfect teeth in a blood-chilling snarl.
“As in the past with you vermin, not a single one of you has the power to stand on this floor,” the floating elf snidely comments as his feet touch down onto the grass. I can’t see how the elf had enough Liquid to stay aloft as long as he did. But to do so in the middle of battle too?
This entire battle is like a slap of cold water in my face, startling me out of sleep. Do the elves have more powerful skills or techniques? They should have long ago run dry of their liquid. Right? I run my gaze over my prostrated companions. I’m in the half that’s managing to kneel, while the rest seem to have lost basic muscle control.
“I am Barbacoa, butler to Aldine Moonstalker. My master desired more slaves, and like locusts, here you are,” the elf continues, adding a disdainful chuckle.
“We are slaves to no one. I don’t—” Deke, one of my oldest friends, calls, and I feel the corner of my mouth twitch before he stops speaking. My head jerks in his direction.
I blink; Deke’s head ro
lls off his shoulders. Looking back to the front, I see the thin blade Barbacoa now holds in his hand. It drips blood onto the black stained grass below. When did he move?
“I shall not be interrupted. Would anyone else like to lighten their loads?” Barbacoa barks at the remaining humans that stare on in terrible silence.
Nathan grabs my hand and squeezes. Something presses into my palm from the action, and I feel an eyebrow climb. What has he handed me? He can’t be thinking about trying something, can he? We can’t defeat Barbacoa, let alone the hundred behind him.
I swallow a lump of saliva and glance at the white stone he placed in my palm. He still clings to my hand, but I recognize the alabaster stone with green runes carved into it. A hearthstone. Is he suggesting I try using it to escape? That would destroy me, leave me a shell.
“Good, the rest of you seem to be smart enough. This fight is over. Each of you is now the property. . .” Barbacoa continues as I begin to sweat and shake. A buzzing fills my ears, tuning out the butcher. Can I sacrifice my power to escape? Can I go back to being a regular human again? I would be able to see my grandchildren, be there for their first dungeon runs, help Graydon grow into a ranker, and even warn him of the dangers of this floor—no, there needs to be another way. Knowing that this hearthstone would obliterate my cultivation makes my shivering intensify. The very thought of losing the power I’ve fought the last hundred years to gain is immense, unfathomable. The weight of the ocean in my pocket dimension bears down on me. It feels like I have an option to save myself at the expense of my arms and legs. A hand grabs me and lightly jostles me till I look up to meet Nathan’s eyes. He’s saying something, and I manage to tune back in to his words mid-sentence.
“—someone needs to tell the guild of what transpired here,” he finishes, his voice lower than even a whisper. After a century of raiding together, he knows that my hearing can pick up the low volume even as Barbacoa speaks to the others.
“I can’t,” I breathe back at him. “If we stay here, we can find a way to escape. They must be the floor’s monsters. Maybe this is a scenario?”
Barbacoa cuts off in the middle of his ranting, and the silence that follows makes my inhale of air sound loud. The butcher scans the humans. In response, Nathan’s hand on my shoulder tightens spasmodically. The pressure is another unnecessary warning or perhaps a show of support? He is about to respond to me but instead snaps his mouth shut. The sound of his teeth clacking together echoes over the grass, and the elf’s squinting eyes flash in our direction. Then Barbacoa is no longer at the front of the crowd. Did I blink?
Maybe I was right, and this is all a scenario of this floor. Wait—no, the other elves are still standing at military rest, weapons ready. I slowly turn to face Nathan; maybe he knows what happened. His hand seems to be losing its grip on my shoulder. He is looking at the spot where Barbacoa had been standing as well. Nathan’s mouth hangs open and his eyes are wide. It’s somewhat shocking that both of us lost sight of someone. His head begins turning toward me. No—tilting toward me?
A wet squelch sounds, and I feel my throat tighten painfully as I notice the red blood coating my husband’s chest from a line on his neck. That line widens further; now I am looking not at the side of my Nathan’s head, but a bloody stump of a neck. Something thumps off my thigh and lands on the grass. My mouth opens to scream, but something hits me hard in the back of the skull.
I feel like a rag doll whose child has abandoned it, and my body crumples to the grass. My ears register an emotionless sentence from Barbacoa.
“Do not let your grief force me to kill something of value.” Anything more that Barbacoa says or goes on to say, I miss. I lie in the bloody grass, hugging my knees with the same hand that desperately clutches a white stone with snaking green lines. I keep telling myself to use it. My body shakes, and silent tears stream from my eyes, but I won’t send my liquid into the stone. Not can’t, but won’t. I berate myself silently. How can the death of my husband not be incentive enough? How can my family not mean more to me than my power?
Chapter 2
August 22nd, 151 AR
Jeff Smith
“Just leave Jeff behind! The boy needs to learn to keep up,” Leah shouts from somewhere up ahead. We are traveling through the crumbling ruins and overgrown foliage of a city that I am told was once Toronto. I can’t even see Leah through the broken timbers, long grass, or chunky piles of concrete, but that’s kind of the point. She is right, though, about my place in the group. I’m at the very back of the scavenging party. We must not be moving fast enough for her liking if she is reissuing her typical threats. Somehow, I am always the target of those. . .
I grimace before picking up my pace, not ready to be left behind just yet, unsure if I can even go through with leaving. This group of mercenaries is the only home I’ve ever known. Calling it that is a bit of a stretch, considering we are always moving around, and there isn’t anyone who really cares for me. Well maybe one, hopefully two. . .
I reach up through my shaggy dark hair and run my fingers over one ear. Both of my ears come to a subtle point that Leah refuses to explain, and any time I ask, she flies into a rage. It took me a long while to conclude why they bother her, but thanks to Alrick, I am finally starting to understand the outside world a bit. Anyway, my birth defect, which she insists I keep hidden, is her fault.
It all fit, her broken Dantian and her mood swings whenever I’m nearby. She somehow did something to cause this. I’ve come to know her well over my twenty-one years of life, and she’s not one to own up to her own mistakes. Her typical signs are all there too. She refuses to tell anyone the story of how or why. She takes out her anger and bitterness on the individual questioning her. The person who suffers from her attitude the most is me. From what I understand, Leah should love me, but perhaps Leah isn’t my actual mother? How can she both be the cause of my mutation and not be my birth mother? I’m still working that one out—but my reasoning seems to fit.
“Stop that.” Alrick slaps my hand away from my head, his voice stern, but for some reason, it’s different than Leah’s. It seems to carry a tone of warmth even within the gruffness. Alrick must notice the hurt on my face because he softens further. “Come on, kid, you can’t let those small comments get to you.” He takes a deep breath and looks around us.
“Today, we will pass close to Etobicoke Suburb. We can choose to get left behind then.” Alrick places his hand on my shoulder, and I turn to look at the muscular man. We’ve kept walking, and now his face is gazing skyward as he moves. I assume he wants me to follow the direction of his head. I do and find we are staring at the underside of a True Silver Array’s intricate mesh. That’s a pretty common sight above cities and ruins nowadays. The only place you don’t see the floating silvery towns is above the wilds. Or I guess suburbs, but I’ve never been. And not because of my lack of desire.
What does Alrick want me to see? When I look at the True Silver mesh, I think of the tales of rankers I’ve overheard. The mercs gossip about them all the time despite Leah’s aversion to the stories. All I have to do is go to one of the smaller cooking fires, and the mercenaries there are bound to be talking about one of the famous Northern Sabres, and their exploits. Every ranker is rich beyond imagining. . .
“Just imagine sitting in the sun, that warmth on your skin, and cultivating till your Dantian is full,” Alrick says, a smile on his face. So, Alrick is thinking about what lies behind the array. He is dreaming of the sun and moon. Another thing I don’t get to see often. If it isn’t the shade of an array or the forest canopy, it’s Leah’s refusal to let me cultivate.
Alrick is relatively new to our group of mercenary scavengers—if you can call five years with us new. He became one of us after our group stumbled upon the remains of his party of hunters in the wilds. The wilds are probably the most dangerous place in the whole Northern Territory, at least as far as I can surmise from overheard conversations. So, to come across a group of corpses isn’t unhea
rd of. However, to have one of those corpses grab your hand as you try to remove his gear is. I’d been the unlucky one to be looting Alrick’s ‘corpse’ that day. The mercenaries still imitate my girly scream. Jackasses. . .
“Alrick, did you think about why she is keeping me from cultivating?” I ask and then add, “Before you got here, I used to think it was normal.” My voice never rises above a half-whisper. For some reason, she often hears my words, despite distance or other people’s volume. Leah might have no cultivation, but she is still surprisingly strong. While she probably won’t physically attack me, I still see that same manic fervor behind her eyes whenever I look at her. It’s best to avoid letting her overhear these conversations. It’s better to let her see me as dependent and servile.
“Boy, we ran all the tests I could think of, and I don’t think you have anything wrong with your God Organ. Unfortunately, Leah doesn’t share her reasonings with her mercs,” Alrick responds, a little too loudly for my liking. Why did he say her name? I tune him out as I glance nervously toward the front of the group. After a moment of holding my breath, I tune back in to Alrick. “—she’s mentally ill, boy. I think something about you reminds her of something she’d rather forget. It’s best for both of you to just be away from each other for a time. You get to grow up, and she gets to heal. . .
“But you could just ask her all the questions you keep forcing on me. She is your mother, after all. Maybe she’s ready to tell you,” Alrick finishes and scratches his ass a bit too vigorously, making me wonder if I am taking advice from the wrong person. I’ve told him numerous times not to call her my mother, but of course, I don’t really have options when it comes to talking companions. The rest of the group avoids me entirely or takes their direction from Leah and mistreats me. It’s like I am a piranha—no, that’s not right. Pariah, that’s the word. It’s like I am a pariah even though Leah is the leader.
