MENAGERIE OF MAYHEM

©2025 ERIC UGLAND

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Also in series

Master of Puppets

Menagerie of Mayhem

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Chapter

One

It became immediately obvious that the second floor was drastically different from the first.

It was much cleaner, which I guess should be expected since we were comparing it to a literal giant trash heap. The smells of the place, while strong, weren’t bad. I could pick up a heavy profusion of must and… something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Kind of like the air was stale.

I was the first of our party to step onto the floor, although Sterling was close behind. The rat, who could talk and walk and do all manner of things I hadn’t thought a rat could do, was eager to get moving. He had a large pack strapped tight to his back over a heavy coat made of thick leather I didn’t want to know the origin of.

Oscar, my other traveling buddy, was a phark. A furry creature, in this case an inky black, with some bright blue bits here and there, wearing a purple suit that mostly fit him. It was tight in places, and there were more than a few holes in it. Like all pharks, he had big eyes, small ears that all but disappeared in his fur, and fat fingers. Three on each hand, plus a stubby thumb. His mouth was wide and filled with thick, ivory teeth.

“This way,” Sterling yelled, still taking things in from the doorway. “The path to Ratopolis is near, and we would be remiss to spend much time on this floor.”

The rat was already shutting the door before Oscar could get all the way through.

“Hey,” Oscar snapped, jumping to get onto the floor. “I’m walkin’ here.”

“We need to move quickly along this passage,” Sterling said. “This way.”

“You said that already,” Oscar huffed.

“Clearly you did not hear; else you would be following, eh?”

Sterling had already begun hurrying along, moving up against the wall in a way that really befit his rat nature.

I looked over at Oscar, who was looking at me, one very furry eyebrow raised in my direction.

“Why ya think he’s so keen to get outta here so quickly?” Oscar asked.

“Maybe because he knows there are bad things here,” Sterling called back.

“Ah. Well, in that case—” Oscar started sprinting down the corridor, not bothering to finish his thought.

It was a basic corridor. Sure, the ceiling seemed impossibly high above us, but not to the same degree as in the midden below. If there were, say, nine or ten of me, and we stood in one tower of Delano, the top one of me could probably stretch to reach the ceiling. But being that I didn’t know how big I was, that was as accurate a height as I could figure.

In the ceiling, at regular intervals, were lights. Or I guess, light-emitting things. They didn’t look like can lights or fluorescents or anything I knew. By the vague sense of magic I caught from them, I assumed they worked via enchantment. The floors were wood, something with tight grain and impressive hardness, since I saw little in the way of grooves, dents, or scratches. The mild gray of the floorboards was a lame contrast to the dark gray of the stone walls.

The corridor went on for a long, long way before ending at another large door. There was a reasonable amount of dust on the floor, and more than one dusty spiderweb hung from the corners. No one had used this space in quite some time.

We hurried along, leaving little footprints in the dust as we went. The Midden Trio, out on an adventure.

Which was a pretty boring one at that point, to be honest. We were really just power-walking down a hallway. A giant hallway, sure, but there’s only so much excitement you can muster for something being unexpectedly huge.

At the next door, there was another set of pulleys, ropes, and latches that allowed Sterling to yank on something and make the enormous door open just enough for us to squeeze through.

Which we did, only to find ourselves in what seemed like a whole new world.

Chapter

Two

Before I could register anything else, the smells hit me. There were just so many of them. Musk, manure, hay, blood, and more, all washing over me with surprising intensity. Next, I noticed the floors—clean, with no dust anywhere. There were grooves in the floorboards, as if someone had spent an eternity pushing carts around. Carts that fit with the giant scale of the place.

We were in less of a corridor so much as at a junction of corridors, like a right angle. Looking either direction gave us largely the same view: a long hallway lined with huge windows. I couldn’t see out of the windows; the glass had been designed so that you couldn’t see anything unless you were looking straight on. There were also several points where I could see empty space, leading me to believe there were more corridors intersecting either of the corridors in front of us.

“Hurry now,” Sterling hissed, “and be quiet. This is the dangerous part.”

Once again, he kept to the base edge of the wall, scurrying along like, well, a rat.

I followed suit, but Oscar waltzed down the middle of the hall, his head swiveling around to take in everything. The whole thing was probably overwhelming to him, being that Oscar had never left the midden before. He’d never seen anything like this, and now… It had to be a lot for the guy.

We got to the first of the windows, and I saw that I was right. Looking straight on, I could see a bizarre creature, somehow stuck in place. Maybe even stuck in time? It looked like someone had thrown the creature through the window and into clear gelatin or epoxy.

The thing wasn’t breathing or moving, and looked as if it had been caught mid-growl or roar. It looked a bit like a tiger, except with green fur instead of orange. And with antennae as well as ears. And with six legs instead and two tails, both of which ended in what looked to be stingers hiding within tufts of fur.

Very strange, all around.

“Hey Sterling,” I said. “What’s this?”

He didn’t respond.

I glanced around but couldn’t find him anywhere near me. He was trucking along at full speed, trying to be quiet but failing because of his giant backpack filled with things that clanged and clattered.

“Where’s this door?” Oscar asked.

Sterling stopped suddenly and turned to glare at Oscar, his rat face scrunched up tight in rage.

“What do you not understand about being quiet?” Sterling hissed. “You think I am not trying to get us to the door as quickly as rattily possible? That I am leading you on a wild roach chase for fun? Good gods, phark! I am doing my best here, and you will simply need to trust me. Or go off on your own! Explore the world as you will. Plenty to see here, a wide and gorgeous variety of things waiting to kill you!”

Oscar said nothing. Sterling just glared.

Finally, Sterling nodded and continued on.

“Sheesh,” Oscar said softly, “I just asked⁠—”

Sterling whipped around.

“Sorry.” Oscar got out before Sterling could unleash on him again. “Just, um, is it near?”

“It is no nearer than when you asked a moment ago, because you have yet to move, Oscar. Quickly, now.”

I made a point of moving fast toward Sterling, and thankfully, Oscar followed close on my furry heels.

Less than a moment later, I stopped because I heard something.

A sort of squeaking, except there was a rhythm to it.

And it was getting louder.

Oscar paused too. He looked around, trying to pinpoint the same noise I’d heard.

Sterling, on the other hand, gave up on being quiet and just sprinted full-out.

“Run,” I said, giving the phark a gentle push before taking off.

Chapter

Three

We hauled ass.

The squeaking became ever louder, getting ever closer.

I stared ahead, trying to see where we were going. I couldn’t see anything that seemed like a door. Or an arch. Or a sign that said “Ratopolis, This Way.”

Whatever else Oscar did, that phark could run. He was a damned blur as he zipped right on by me, then passed Sterling like the rat was on a little hot-girl walk.

Which was a bit ill-considered, being that Sterling was the only one who knew where we were going.

Just then, the squeaking stopped.

Something roared, a crazy-loud noise that reverberated through the hall, followed by an equally loud kerslashank sound as something glass went from one solid object to thousands of tiny shards, glinting and glittering as they rained down over the three of us.

Almost as one, we skidded to a stop. Although, because I was at the back, I stopped last, and ran right into Sterling, knocking him over. I grabbed onto him to keep Sterling from running into Oscar, who stood stock still, staring at the spot where the glass had exploded, which had missed him by a hair.

I turned to track where the glass something had come from.

I saw a giant coming toward me.

And I screamed.

Chapter

Four

“MOTHERLESS BROOKLYN!” I shouted, so loud it surprised me. My brain was overwhelmed by what I saw.

The giant, who’d been reaching for me, stopped.

“Uh,” said an impossibly loud but somehow breathy voice, “you talk?”

“Talk?”

“You?”

“Me?”

“Hrm… Parrot?”

“I’m not a parrot.”

“But you repeat—oh, you’re talking now.”

“I am. Um, he also talks,” I said, pointing to Sterling. “Say something.”

“Hello?” Sterling got out, still on the ground and looking around me at the massive entity beyond.

“Oh. Hello, small other creature,” the giant said. “The, um, does the other one also talk?”

“Of course I do,” Oscar said, I think trying to disguise his terror with indignation. “What in the hell did you throw at me? And why?”

The giant leaned in and peered at Oscar. He poked the phark with one ginormous finger. Oscar slapped it away.

“Stop that,” Oscar snapped.

“How are you so small?” the giant asked.

“How are you so ugly?”

“I’m ogre,” the giant said, spreading his arms out as if that should answer the question.

“I’m phark,” Oscar replied, matching the ogre’s stance.

“Yes, but a small phark. How are you so small?”

“I’m not that small.”

“You’re too small for a uniform.”

“What uniform should I have?”

“Guard uniform.”

“Guard. What kind of guard?”

“Prison? Are you not⁠—”

Oscar’s eyes went a little wide, and he stood up straighter, gaining at least a tenth of an inch.

“Of course I’m a prison guard,” Oscar announced. “Escorting these prisoners here to, um… the…”

“To the end of this hall,” Sterling hissed.

“To the keeper?” the ogre offered.

“Yeah, sure,” Oscar said. “To the keeper.”

The ogre stared at Oscar, then at me, then at Sterling, very clearly confused. He knelt down and peered at Oscar. It was insane to see the size difference. The ogre’s head was the same size as my phark friend, who towered over me. Hell, the ogre’s hand was basically as big as Oscar.

The ogre poked Oscar again. This time, Oscar couldn’t manage to push the ogre’s finger away.

“You are real,” the ogre said with a nod of his massive head. “You are guard. I will help you.”

The ogre stood up and moved its attention back to me. I had a moment to look the thing over without fear it’d squish or eat me. The quick version is that it was a big, bipedal thing with thick, greenish skin. The long version would still be dominated by the size of the creature. Even if this hallway, which was massive compared to me, was just a normal hallway, the thing would still be colossal. Its oversized head was within an inch of the ceiling. Its face was dominated by a massive mouth with teeth or tusks that protruded from thin lips. It had either a very short neck or no neck at all, and wide shoulders dominated by what seemed like boulder-sized deltoids. Its long arms ended in big, meaty hands with three fat fingers and one monstrous thumb, each tipped in fingernails so thick and discolored that they looked like the aesthetician used old Yellow Pages in place of acrylics. The creature wore crude clothes, kind of like rough copies of clothes designed for humans, with the stitches already failing him.

“I wonder what you are,” the ogre said, looking at me. “That one’s a rat, but you? A mystery. You must go to Father.”

The big thing nodded and turned away, looking over its shoulder at something.

“You got a plan here?” I hiss-whispered to Sterling.

“Currently working on not shitting my pants,” Sterling said. “Though that is not going particularly well.”

“I guess I’m glad I didn’t eat anything this morning?”

“I worry I cannot without, well⁠—”

“Letting go of everything?”

“Not exactly the delicate manner in which I would have preferred you phrase things, but accurate.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, moving carefully around Sterling to get to Oscar. “I think we might need to make a run for the stairs here.”

“I will try,” Sterling said.

“Oscar?” I whispered.

“I had a nice breakfast,” Oscar replied. “And it’s sitting comfortably, with little danger of surprise poops.”

“Not what I was asking. What’s your plan?”

“I hate to admit, but makin’ it up as I go.”

“Are you with us, or are you…”

I trailed off when I noticed a shadow pass over our heads. The huge thing picked up Oscar.

Not delicately either, as I could see Oscar’s eyes bulge from the pressure of the big hand.

“Still need to finish here, little guard,” the ogre said. “Can’t take you back straight, but maybe you can ride on cart since your very tiny legs won’t want to run?”

“Less… squish… please…” Oscar got out.

“Oh, uh,” the ogre said. Then he turned and walked away, disappearing down a side hallway. He moved way too quietly for a creature of his size.

I looked over at Sterling.

“What?” Sterling asked.

“Should we make a run for it?” I asked.

“Oscar?”

“Pretty sure he betrayed us.”

“Maybe, but one problem.”

“Just one?”

“I’m frozen.”

“In fear?”

“I hope so.”

I shoved Sterling.

He fell over.

But hitting the ground seemed to break him free, and he got up, shaking his head.

“Due apologies, not sure—” He stopped talking, freezing up again, staring behind me.

The ogre had to be there. At least I hoped it was, and not some all-new horror.

“He’s right behind me, isn’t he?” I asked, even though I knew the answer. I had to ask the question—it was just what you did in these situations.

Sterling didn’t nod, but he did make a few squeaks that I took to mean yes.

The ogre approached, way faster than I thought possible. In one swift movement, the thing scooped Sterling into a glass jar.

I was too stunned to do anything as the huge creature brought Sterling up to its massive eyes, which I noticed were more than a little bloodshot.

“Hey!” I shouted. “Wait!”

The creature stopped moving the jar.

“Can’t we, um, meet?” I asked quickly, trying to stall my imminent capture. “My name is Delano.”

“Oh. You have a name? And speak. Oh.”

“Why do you sound disappointed?”

“It’s not good for me if Father finds out I tried killing you.”

“I mean, um, you didn’t succeed, so… might not be so bad. Do you have a name?”

The creature paused, frowning.

“Rand,” it said.

“You’re an ogre, right?”

“No,” it spit back, as if I’d insulted it. “I’m special ogre.”

“A special ogre? Wow, that’s impressive.”

“Yes, it is. It’s special.”

“Definitely. I’ve never met an ogre. You’re the first. Pretty amazing that I’m meeting a special ogre for my first ogre, right?”

“First?”

“I know, right? What can you tell me about ogres?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you, Rand. Special ogre. You must know about ogres, and⁠—”

“I know about ogres.”

“Perfect. Please, tell me,” I said, sitting down as if I were just excited to have a chat. Special Ogre Rand looked very confused, jar in one hand, ready to catch me.

Sterling, in another jar, had his hands against the glass wall, peering down at me.

“What do you want to know?”

“Are there many ogres here?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah? Like how many?”

That seemed to take Rand aback, and the big ogre just shook his head like I’d said something disturbing. Like the prospect of counting was painful and disgusting to him.

He sneered at me, then scooped me up into the jar.

The special ogre stared at me, his eye almost pressed against the glass. It was kind of gross, rather yellow with an unhealthy amount of bloodshottery, sporting a massive purple iris around a cross-shaped pupil.

He moved the jar around, and though I tried to keep myself facing him, I couldn’t. I was at the mercy of the giant creature while he did his best to get a look at every part of me. Maybe he thought I might have an identifying mark on my butt.

I did not. At least as far as I knew.

The ogre—sorry, the special ogre—held me out at a distance, I think so he could hear me and speak to me.

“What are you?” Rand asked.

“You just put me in a jar!” I shouted. “I’m not talking to you.”

Rand shook me. Well, he shook the jar.

“Now you talk to Rand?”

“No! You’re being a dick.”

“A dick?”

“Yeah. An asshole.”

“Asshole?”

“Someone mean.”

“I’m not mean—I’m special.”

“Well, shaking me around is mean.”

“It’s an effective technique for talking.”

“What? Where’d you hear that?”

“Father.”

“Well, he’s wrong.”

“Father’s not wrong!” Rand yelled. “Father says Rand is a good boy, a special one. One who knows things that others in Goon Squad do not! Rand is a special OGRE!”

He shook me harder.

I bumped back and forth against the glass. My small size seemed to prevent me from actually getting injured, so it was more of an unpleasant amusement ride experience than physical torture.

Rand put his face up to the glass and glared at me.

Had I a tongue, I probably would have stuck it out at him. As it was, I couldn’t do anything but stand there. But even that seemed to enrage him.

It was the savagery in his eyes that terrified me. He was so much bigger than me, so much stronger, and I could so easily fit in his mouth. I was totally at his mercy, regardless of what I wanted.

“I’m not talking to you until you’re nice to me,” I said, trying to ignore the sense that I was talking to a massive child who could rip the doors off a Cadillac One without much effort.

He growled at me and then shoved my jar onto the top level of a crudely constructed wooden cart. Kind of like a mockery of a library cart, except with jars and creatures instead of books. A moment later, Rand jammed a thick cork into the top of my jar, and I felt the air pressure change. I was happy I didn’t need to breathe, because the oxygen wouldn’t be lasting long.

Next to me was Sterling, also in a jar, staring back at me. He had a cork in his jar-top as well, but given the splotchy light coming through the top, he was getting some air. It made me wonder if Rand was being cruel by giving me a solid top, or if he just did it unknowingly. There was always that old adage: don’t account to malice what can be attributed to old-fashioned incompetence.

The downside of being trapped in a jar like a spider, besides the lack of fresh air, was that I couldn’t hear a damn thing happening in the outside world. It didn’t seem like that much, because it was largely just us being pushed along. But it bugged me.

I could see a few more small creatures in the jars around us, all of them looking at Sterling and me with their big eyes. For some reason there seemed to be a leaning toward large-eyed creatures. What I didn’t see, however, was Oscar stuffed into a damn jar with a cork topper.

The giant ogre pushed the cart along, his big head bobbing like he was listening to a song. Every once in a while, he’d glare down at me, as if remembering I’d badmouthed his father.

Since I had no chance of escaping the glass jar, I just sat down and watched the passing world. Everything had a high degree of sameness: the same stone used for all the walls, the same wood for all the flooring, the magical lights all spaced out at exact intervals. And then there were the weird windows holding weirder creatures in stasis. We passed one of those every few moments, some holding just one creature, others holding multiple. The creatures were basically all the same size, like this “father” person had categorized the creatures by size. Which made sense when the cart took a turn down a different hallway, and we came to much smaller glass doors holding smaller creatures. These were the size of chambers that could comfortably hold Sterling or me, and there were a lot. Tiny glass doors dotted the walls.

Our captor slowed down, peering at something above the glass doors.

Labels? There were little plaques up there, something to denote what was in the stasis cages.

Rand clearly found what he was looking for, because he stopped the cart, grabbed a jar, and looked at it. Then he looked at the plaques on the wall, then back to the jar, then back to the wall, then back to the jar.

Chapter

Five

Rand’s huge greenish-gray hand reached for one of the glass jars. In it was something that looked like a bug-eyed squirrel, with a single short horn coming out of its forehead and long, pointy ears.

The one-horned squirrel freaked out as Rand the Special Ogre’s giant hand lifted it high above the cart.

The ogre carefully opened up one of the crystal doors, then pulled the cork out of the jar. Immediately, the squirrel launched itself out of jar.

Rand snatched the squirrel from the air, making the catch look easy. Then he tossed it into the open spot.

The squirrel flailed like a flag in a hurricane as it sailed into what I assumed was a stasis field. An assumption that was confirmed when the squirrel stopped moving completely, frozen in the moment it passed the crystal door. Mid-flail, it looked… Well, insane. It hurt my brain trying to accept what I saw as being some form of reality.

Rand closed the crystal door and set the jar back with the others on the cart. He dropped the cork top into a bucket hanging off the cart handle.

This process repeated over and over until there were no more filled jars, except for mine and Sterling’s. Rand had also put away all of the larger creatures that were in big glass vessels on the lower level of the cart.

It almost seemed like we were in an animal archive. A creature library. A menagerie of—I’ll stop there.

His task done, Rand seemed happy, singing to himself as he strolled along, pushing us down another damn hallway. The hallways just seemed to go on and on.

It was difficult to follow where we were, but Rand didn’t seem to have any problem. It seemed like he’d been there for a long time. Maybe forever; I didn’t know.

I dropped down to the bottom of the jar and just sat there, letting the place pass me by. I closed my eyes to center myself. Might as well get some self-care in when I had no choice but to be alone.

Listening to my body, I tried to feel every aspect of my skin and my fur, pushing energy around and molding my body as much as I could. Making my fingers hard, into claws. I pushed my eyes around to see if there were other modes of sight I could unlock.

Nope.

It did give me a headache, though. So, bonus?

The pain made me rethink things. I didn’t want to feel pain unless there was going to be some legit benefit, which I couldn’t see on the menu at the time. But it might be beneficial for me to take a peek at my character sheet. See what powers I had at my disposal that might help me get out of this shitty situation.

My shitutation, if you will.

Name: Delano Roosevelt

Level: 4

Type: Zardling

Class: Midden Vanguard

~~HP: N/A~~

SP: 75/75

MP: 270/270

SI: 100

Attributes

Mind: 15

Body: 5

Spirit: 18

Abilities

Minor Mending.

Minor Mending allows your body to heal by expending your own energy. But watch out: you can kill yourself by healing too much!

Minor Malleable Form.

You can use your energies to reform your body in minor ways. Harden spots, soften spots, lengthen things, shorten things. Experiment and enjoy! And despite what your mother told you, your face won’t freeze that way… probably.

Flicker Sense.

A passive ability where your body slightly tingles or glows when near hidden threats or treasures in the midden. It’s a vague sensation, requiring you to still interpret and act on the stimuli.

Arcane Pulse.

You can send out a soft pulse of energy, allowing you to sense large sources of magic nearby. At lower levels, however, it’s more of a general feeling than precise detection.

Mana Beam.

Fire off beams of pure magical essence from your mouth, hands, or eyes.

Arcane Counter.

When you successfully dodge or block an attack, you can instantaneously retaliate with a burst of arcane energy, perhaps catching enemies off guard.

Fuzz Shield.

Momentarily hardens your entire fuzzy exterior, providing added protection against both physical and magical attacks.

Curiosity’s Insight.

Amplifies your observational skills, allowing you to identify traps, hidden passages, or concealed threats more effectively.

Skills

Unknown

Spells

Unknown

Level 4—I felt reasonably accomplished.

Ain’t nothing to sneeze at, as my grandfather would say, usually right before imparting some horrible life advice on me that I’d never follow.

Now that I saw what I was working with, it was time for me to get into the weeds; see if any of that could help me get out of the jar.

Chapter

Six

My best tool would probably be a Mana Beam—maybe I could blow a hole in the jar with pure magic power.

But if I did that, I’d still be in the cart, right in front of Rand, and he’d just pulp me. So I decided to hold that particular skill back.

I decided to let loose an Arcane Pulse.

The jar was mildly magical, and so was the cart. And the rest of the space was magic as fuck.

Tons of magic, all around me, to the degree that my arcane pulse was basically pointless, because all it told me was that magic was everywhere around me. I could feel it in all six fingers and all six toes.

Do thumbs count as fingers? Because then I had eight fingers. I looked down at my feet. Still six toes. Which I’d never really thought about before. When Sterling sewed on the leather thumbs, he didn’t add accompanying toes.

But it seemed like six might be enough. I didn’t have any balance problems.

I turned my attention to my Curiosity’s Insight ability, but I didn’t notice anything popping up. It was entirely possible that escape wasn’t feasible. Or maybe the system had lied, and it wasn’t a passive power but one I needed to activate.

So I tried to activate it.

Nothing.

It appeared I was just stuck for a bit.

So I went back to sitting down and staring at the passing corridors.

Finally, after what seemed like the length of a bible, we got to a different area, skirting some very large doors through which I could see what looked like daylight blasting down onto grassy fields and large creatures I couldn’t identify. Why were there fields in here? It didn’t look quite right—like there were still walls everywhere, and I hadn’t seen any sky above the fields.

And then it was just another hallway with no crystal doors or anything at all marking the endless stone walls. Just a wide hallway that went on and on.

Finally we got to another set of doors, but Rand didn’t pause or slow down at all. He just kept going, shoving the cart through what turned out to be a set of swinging doors.

At which point, we were in an office. It was mostly open, save a pair of very large desks, behind which were large creatures who looked to be in the same general neighborhood as Rand. Ogres.

As soon as we came through the doors, one of the larger ogres stood up. He gestured at Rand, and then at the office, and gave something of a bow.

Chapter

Seven

Istill couldn’t hear anything, but I saw Rand immediately start shouting at the bowing ogre.

The other ogre shouted something back.

Rand countered with something loud, presumably a very salient point that should have won the argument.

It did not.

The other ogre closed the distance to Rand and began yelling right in Rand’s face, coating Rand’s gray-green skin in a fine mist of spittle.

The third ogre in the room looked like a chicken. Like, not in the cowardly way, but in the bawk-bawk way. A huge chicken that was somehow bigger and more terrifying than either Rand or the other ogre.

She looked mean. Angry, glaring very hard at the papers on the desk in front of her, pointedly ignoring the loud argument right next to her.

I hated being trapped in the jar—for a load of reasons, really. One, I didn’t smell nice, and the enclosed space really amplified my stench. Two, I wanted to know what was going on, and that seemed marginally impossible without any sound. Too many weird things were going on to figure out by sight alone.

I had some training in lip-reading—thanks, Uncle Sam—but that was based on English and human physiology. Not these ogre things.

I glanced over at Sterling, who didn’t have a cork in his jar. He was pretty focused on the conversation between Special Ogre Rand and Other Ogre.

Which was continuing to escalate, as the two hulking brutes had reached a volume where I could almost hear them.

I was on the cusp of using my mana beam to punch a hole in the cork when I stopped myself. It was way too easy to become reliant on magical solutions, despite an entire life depending on the mundane and mechanical.

I thought of that pithy idea that 99 percent of Potter’s problems could’ve been solved with a gun.

I rifled (ha) through my pack, looking at the survival supplies so nicely packed for me by Sterling, trying to find something to bust the cork top. I came up empty. Not for a lack of items, however, as Sterling had managed to fit an incredible amount of crap into my pack.

A rope.

Two skins filled with water.

Sheets of thick, pliant blue leather.

A paper sack of square nails in various sizes.

A glue snail in a small cage, who looked at me in confusion as I looked at him with surprise.

Some dried meats tied with twine. Which the snail looked at with significant interest, so I gave him a piece.

The rest of the twine in a loose ball.

A wrench.

A bright orange liquid in a vial sealed with wax.

A pair of bat wings, still soft.

A leather string tied in a ring, holding silver throwing stars.

Some marginally spherical balls made out of mystery metals.

A bundle of sticks.

A small leather pouch full of leaves.

A round metal disc that might have been a coin at one point but that had been worn flat.

And lots more useless crap, which made me think that Sterling had packed two bags for himself and was just having me carry his overflow stuff.

While I was busy looking through the pack of useless crap, the argument between the ogres had escalated to something more physical, and the massive dudes were beating each other around the room.

The chicken ogre had had enough, and she threw her papers up into the air as she rose and roared.

Then she joined the melee.

Both desks were very quickly destroyed, the solid wood becoming almost aerosolized splinters, and all of a sudden the room’s weather changed to “wood blizzard.”

What was interesting about the fight, to me at least, was the manner in which they avoided the cart. At no point were we in any danger, despite the rest of the room very much being fair game for destruction. In fact, the ogres made quick work of trashing it. I began to worry they’d actually murderize each other.

But a moment later, the fight ended out of nowhere. Chicken Ogre stopped mid-punch, one feathered hand on Other Ogre’s face, while Rand choked Chicken from behind.

Power move there.

It had all stopped on the proverbial dime, and had I the ability to hear, I guessed it’d be quiet enough to hear that dime dropping on the floor. Which wasn’t exactly a metaphor that worked, but then again, neither was I.

A human man had entered the room.

He was kind of like the human approximation of a weasel. Short, with thinning hair, and with skin so pale you got the sense it’d been a long time since he’d seen sunlight. Small, red-rimmed eyes, like he’d decided sleep wasn’t worth the time it took, and a thin patch of facial hair that had more the look of someone who didn’t want to bother with his looks and less someone who wanted a beard. He wore dark robes made out of very thick cloth that looked remarkably comfortable, and probably gave him needed warmth in this underground world. Which maybe wasn’t underground? Seeing as I’m pretty sure I’d seen daylight.

In that moment of complete silence, one of the few remaining bits of furniture, a bookshelf containing what looked like well-organized stacks of loose paper, slowly fell over with what I imagined was a good creak before slamming onto the floor.

Now the weather was “paper blizzard.”

The man stood there, glaring at the ogres but saying nothing as the papers fluttered to the ground.

Slowly, the ogres disentangled themselves and lined up in front of the man, like caught schoolboys. They didn’t actually meet the eyes of the human, staring instead at their giant boots.

The man said something.

The ogres didn’t respond or look up. They just stood there.

The man spoke some more. Not yelling, mind you, just speaking. I had to imagine that was much harder for the ogres to handle than someone yelling. It was odd to see the size difference as the man approached the ogres and continued to softly speak to them.

Sterling had managed to haul himself out of his glass jar and was crawling across the other empty jars to get over to mine. He had a flat bar with him, and when he got to me, he wedged it into the spot between the cork and the jar.

He started to work at it, but he didn’t have the leverage.

I remade my feet to be stickier, got my sticky feet against the glass walls and my back up against the cork, and shoved.

Sterling tapped on the jar, and I looked over. He did a one-two-three gesture with his hand, and then a shove.

I nodded.

He tapped on the jar with his tail, one—two—three.

I pushed with all I had.

The cork budged. Just a little. But that made all the difference.

Working together, we got the cork the rest of the way out of the jar.

“They’re escaping!” A familiar voice called out.

I stopped mid-scramble and glared at Oscar, who was pointing at us while shouting toward the ogres.

“You—” I managed to shout before a hand closed over me.

“No escaping,” a brutish voice said as the feathered hand tickled my nose.

“Are those them?” A different, more refined voice said.

“Yes,” Rand said. “They talked.”

“Did they?”

“Yes.”

“And you… not important. Bring them to my office. You two clean this all up. I expect this room to be spotless when I return. Not that there are spots now. I am using spotless in a metaphorical manner, not a literal one. I want it clean. With new tables.”

“Yes,” Rand added, “do that.”

“Rand, you do not need to help. You will have your own punishment due to this outburst.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And stop calling me that.”

I couldn’t see a damn thing since my entire view was just white feathers everywhere. Which was a bizarre experience, being that I’d never really seen feathers that large. Even in the midden. I’d seen a lot of trash there, and a lot of fur, but not much in the way of feathers. And even less that was in the scale of these ogres. The various trash monsters would have come close, but only the largest of them. The behemoth would probably have been able to stand over the ogres, but only if it wasn’t so spread out at its base.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement, accompanied by some grunting, and then a throat clear that sounded distant and irritated.

The feathered hand unceremoniously dropped me into a jar, and then Chicken Ogre passed the jar to Rand, glaring daggers at his comrade.

Rand already had Sterling jarred up and was stomping after the retreating form of the human, who clearly expected his possible progeny to follow.

Chapter

Eight

The human’s office was a complete and utter departure from the rest of what I’d seen on that floor. And also from the midden, although that’s not exactly surprising. These were areas used by residents of the tower, as opposed to the midden, which was the tower’s trash heap.

The office was luxurious, with deep red carpet over wide plank floorboards. The walls were plastered, the bright white a stark contrast to everything outside the door. Speaking of doors, the one leading into the office had been heavy wood reinforced with thick iron bands. But on this side, it looked more delicate, and even had a round window looking out onto a beach? It was hard to tell, but there was blue sky and a hint of a darker blue below the horizon line. Whatever the case, it was impressive.

The furniture looked as if it had been made by actual craftspeople, instead of slammed together by someone who only had the vague notion of “chair.” The human who’d been yelling at the ogres sat down in a plush chair and gestured at the desk, almost as if he were irritated at having to deal with this interruption.

Rand dropped the jars on the desk, eliciting a dark look from the human.

Rand said something.

The human replied, snapping his fingers sharply.

Rand popped the cork tops off, and cool air with a faint scent of cedar swirled into my jar.

The human peered closely at Sterling and me, leaning forward in his chair but not quite placing his arms on the desk.

I looked back at him.

He flicked his eyes over to Sterling, just for a second though, before going back to me. It felt like he knew everything about Sterling from a glance, but was perplexed by me.

I had the feeling I should start dancing, like he expected me to entertain him.

But I just stood still and met his eyes.

Which he didn’t enjoy.

I was kind of fascinated by the guy, being that he was the first human I’d seen here. At least the first living one. And that gave me pause. With a living representative of my former species, I finally got a better sense of scale. It made it clear that this tower was built to a human’s body—the furniture, the doors, the ceilings—everything was more suited to the robed asshole than to the ogres. Or the pharks. And knowing this meant that I could suss out my own size in the world.

I was in the fourteen- to eighteen-inch range. Standing tall in the jar, I could tell that the human still had to bend a bit to stare at me. Which meant that Sterling was large for a rat, but not outside the boundaries of the old world.

And while I was definitely still a tiny creature, I wasn’t so tiny as to be insignificant. Given the right circumstances, I could fuck this robed asshole up. Or, more importantly, once I got to the top of the tower, I could fuck that wizard up and get him to send me home. Provided he could still do that after I scattered his teeth to the winds.

I closed my eyes and tried to find a sense of stillness inside. It didn’t do me any good to be filled with rage at the moment. Or, really, any moment.

“What is it doing, I wonder?” the robed one asked.

I opened my eyes back up. All attention was on me.

“Um, is he pooping?” I heard Rand say behind me.

“Really, Rand?”

“Sorry, Father.”

“You and I will have a talk later about your preoccupation with feces and the acts involved thereof. At the moment, I must focus on these two things.”

“That one looks like a rat.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Is it a rat?”

“I think that is likely, yes.”

“But it can talk.”

“You heard it speak?”

“Yes.”

“What did it say?”

“Hello?”

There was a momentary pause, I think because the man expected the ogre to continue, but it didn’t.

“Is that the extent of your conversation with the rat?” the human asked.

“Maybe?”

“You forgot.”

“Yes.”

“It bears exploration if your memory problems are a marker of your species or your actions…” the robed man tapped a finger on the surface of the desk.

“Maybe he said a few other things.”

“If you cannot recall exactly what happened and the words involved, I daresay it is ill-advised to make inaccurate guesses, from which we will be forced to draw inaccurate conclusions.”

“Has clothes on,” Rand said, pointing at Sterling.

“And a pack,” the man added. “Certainly evidence of intelligence, and an interesting find.”

“Could I have the other one?”

“Other one what?”

“The red not-a-rat one.”

“For what purpose?”

“A friend?”

“You have not earned the right to another ‘friend,’ Rand. Nor have you cleaned the last one up, which I would remind you is the very least you could possibly do to begin back on the path toward earning another. Additionally, Rand, this particular thing you so adroitly called ‘not-a-rat’ will likely not be on the list of possible friends. It is more likely that you might have a rat as a friend, although I think we both know what will happen with another one, yes? The ‘not-a-rat’ is a curiosity at best, but given that we have never seen one before, it is difficult to judge anything about it yet, so we will need to focus some measure of study upon it. Additionally, this is likely merely the first of many pests we will need to eradicate. Or, more precisely, that you will need to eradicate, being that I believe this occurred in an area you are responsible for. Now, I believe you had something you wished to tell me in the privacy of my office?”

“There was a phark with them.”

“A phark?”

“Yes.”

“Why is that worth noting?”

“Just, um, because⁠—.”

“A guard?”

“Yes.”

“How is that worth noting? Oh, I see—that a phark would be in the archives?”

“Maybe?”

“I have not set limitations on where they go on this floor. Perhaps one got it in its head that they should walk through the archives. It would seem, if they caught these two creatures, that that might be something of a positive effect… perhaps it would be wise to expand where they are required to go.”

“The pharks?”

“Yes. Are you even listening?”

“Yes.”

“Then what is the issue?”

“I just… I… the phark seemed different.”

“How?”

“Smaller.”

“Pharks are not like ogres. They come in many different sizes and grow at many different rates. I have meant to really dig into them as a species, but unfortunately, there have been far too many pressing issues, so I regret to inform you that I do not have an answer for you at the present time, Rand, and you must be okay with certain truths being hidden.”

“Yes, Father.”

“What did I say about calling me Father?”

“You can call him Daddy,” I said.

“Daddy?”

“Do not give him ideas—” the human snapped at us, and then he scowled, looking from Sterling to me and back. “Which one of you spoke?”

I just stared straight ahead, and I presumed Sterling did the same.

When it finally became clear we weren’t about to answer him, the human sat up straight and reset his robes.

Something very clearly broke in the neighboring room, and there were shouts between ogres.

“Rand,” the human snapped. “Go find what broke and prevent other incidents.”

“Yes, Daddy,” the big ogre said. He left the room, slamming the door behind him.

The human glared and then sighed as he reached below the desk. I heard a drawer open up, and he pulled out a leather-bound book. Then came a quill and a bottle of ink, and then a small knife and a pencil. He sharpened the pencil and opened the book. Then he shook his head, reached across the desk, and pulled over what looked to be a hunk of finished maple with a few sheets of paper attached to it. He jotted a few things down and then returned the wood and paper to where he’d pulled it from.

Then he resharpened the pencil and brushed the shavings off the desk, presumably into a trash can since he didn’t seem like the messy type.

He returned his attention to the book in front of him and started sketching.

Glancing from me to the paper. Again and again.

Standing on my tippy toes, I got a peek at the page.

He was drawing me, and he wasn’t bad. At least, as far as I could tell, being that I hadn’t really ever gotten a good look at myself in this world. But it seemed like he was doing a realistic drawing. He also took notes about my body. Not that I could read them, being that they were rather light marks and upside down.

After a few minutes, he moved on to inking his drawing. I glanced over at Sterling and gave a thumbs up at the drawing. Sterling, in reply, rolled his eyes.

“Mostly done,” the man said, looking over the drawing. “I would ask you what it is you are, but I have my doubts you will be particularly forthcoming. Or that you speak, though one of you did speak earlier, and that makes me curious. Now you, rat, your kind I recognize, and I know you will do all you can to keep from speaking with me. So I must ask myself, do I bother? Because I have a rather hectic schedule of late, and the last thing I need is an attempt at a conversation with a creature who so often wastes my time. So, would you like to chat?”

Sterling looked at me.

I shrugged.

“I guess I’d be willing to chat,” I said.

The man snapped his gaze to me and got a little closer.

“Come again?” he asked.

“I was saying that I’d be willing to chat,” I said. “I’m hoping talking with you might be the best way out of here.”

Ah, you do speak the language,” the man said with a clap of his hands. “Capital.”

“I admit to being rather surprised at that myself.”

“Ah, a being of thought.”

“Sometimes.”

“Humor, perhaps?” He made a few quick notes alongside his drawing. “Fascinating.”

“I guess? Are you going to help us?”

“Us?”

“Me and my friend here.”

“Who? The rat?”

“Yes. That’s Sterling.”

“Hello,” Sterling said.

“It has a name?”

“He does. Sterling. And I do too. Do you?”

“Of course I do. Just, well, having a name, knowing one’s own name, is a rather large signifier of intellect and thinking. Surprising amongst, well, what I find down here.”

“Are you going to tell me your name?”

“Will you tell me yours?”

“Del.”

“Del?”

“Yes.”

“Not one I have heard before. Is it something you gave yourself, or are there more of your kind around?”

“I’m, um, I think I’m unique.”

“Fascinating.”

“Are you, um, I guess I don’t know much about what you might know, nor about the world around here, I’m, um…”

I stopped talking when I noticed Sterling shaking his head vigorously.

“You lack knowledge of this place? The place you live within?”

“I do.”

“Interesting. And also unpleasant. What might you have to offer me?”

“What are you looking for?”

“Information.”

“On?”

“Everything. Anything. Care to offer me something?”

“Seems like this might be a transactional relationship here; in which case, what are you going to offer me?”

“Ah, the classic response of a creature who has nothing to offer.”

“What—”

“Now, Sterling, was it?”

“Um, yes?” Sterling replied.

“I have met your kind before. You seem to have a preoccupation with this tower, finding your way in here with surprising regularity. And then you try to escape. Invariably. Sometimes, it is successful, but more often, we wind up having to deal with your kind before their behavior rubs off on the other inmates. I daresay I cannot figure out why you don’t accept being removed from the towers as the others do. I don’t suppose you would like to explain why?”

“I do not, I mean, I cannot speak to any others. Just⁠—”

“Of course you won’t.”

“I can speak for myself.”

“And?”

“I seek civilization?”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“More than where you came from?”

“Yes.”

“And yet, you have come here, to Gorlami, the fetid ruins of something that was once the pinnacle of civilization across the world. But we have fallen so far. There is no growth here, no movement. The under-council is too afraid to do a damn thing besides sit at their tables and make their proclamations. If one of them would just move aside and let a younger… I digress… If you seek civilization here, you will find nothing but…”

“Fetid ruins?” I asked.

“Indeed.”

“So you think you could help us get out?” I asked.

“Perhaps. Though here we are again, with you asking for something and yet offering me nothing. So I’ll ask again: what do you have to offer?”

“I’m not sure. You just want information? That’s so vague.”

“It makes it difficult for me to help you when you are not forthcoming about things.”

“What do you want me to be forthcoming about?”

“What you are would be a great start.”

“I don’t exactly know what I am.”

“And there we go, another non-answer leaving me to give you a non-answer in return. I suppose it would largely depend upon the nature of the assistance you require…”

“I, or, um, we, kind of need to, um, get out of here.”

“And where is it you are seeking to go?”

“The top of the tower.”

“Why?” he asked, leaning in, his lip sneering.

“Um, well, I need to talk to the wizard?” I didn’t know how to play things because I had no idea if the wizard was a member of the under council the robed man clearly hated.

“Of course you would seek to go up there. Just another fool seeking the wizard. What a waste of my time this has become⁠—”

The door opened, and Rand came in with the gore-covered jar, which he placed on the desk.

Bits of a creature fell onto the leather writing mat, and the human shot back, a look of utter disgust on his face.

“Here is the jar, Daddy,” Rand said proudly.

“Daddy” clenched his teeth and sucked in a long breath, presumably debating which breach of protocol he should yell about first. But then the man shook his head.

“Would you care to explain what this is?” the human asked.

“A jar that tried to bite Lon.”

“A jar. That tried to bite Lon.”

“Yes.”

“And was it this jar?”

“No. That’s what Lon used on the jar.”

“The jar used on the jar.”

“Yes. To kill the other jar.”

“And these are the remnants of the biting jar?” the human asked, gesturing to the bits of flesh and blood on the jar and now on the man’s desk.

“Yes.”

The human nodded and leaned back. He looked irritated and disappointed, but also maybe curious. I was curious, wanting to get a better picture of what had been smashed by the glass. Sterling had his rat face pressed up against the glass, trying to see what was what. I did something similar, but it’s not like that meager movement gave me any additional insight.

“Rand,” the man finally said, “I do wish you had thought to give me a moment of warning prior to putting that filth on my work surface so I could put a paper down. Or you could have held it and shown it to me at that point instead… why do I bother instructing you on what you could do differently when you never actually listen? Or remember. I swear, I feel talking to you is just like I am speaking to myself. Which I’m doing right now. How far I’ve fallen when I am reduced to this behavior…”

The man sighed a second time, like he wasn’t quite resigned to his lot in life but was damn close.

“Let’s look at this, shall we?” the human asked.

He pulled out a strange device from his desk, something that initially looked like one of those planet models, an orrery, but with lenses instead of orbs. He moved the lenses around until it was set the way he liked, and then used a set of tweezers to put bits of the biting jar into view, peering through the lenses at them.

“Some sort of crystalline structure that seems to be glass, but with a flesh backing. Red blood, perhaps indicative of…” he mumbled something I didn’t catch and scribbled something down on a piece of paper with his pencil, his eyes never leaving the magnifying glass or, more appropriately, the bit of gore he looked like. “Of similar size to these?”

“To the not-rat and rat?”

“No, the jars.”

“Now?”

The man stopped and looked up at Rand.

“When it was alive, Rand,” the man said. “I can tell how it compares to the jar now, being that I have the jar here in front of me as well as the bits and pieces of the thing, so maybe just a smidgen of using those context clues?”

“I did not notice clues, Daddy.”

“Do not…” Daddy closed his eyes, seething. He took a few breaths. “Did the biting jar, when it was still a jar, appear to be of a similar size?”

“When I saw it, it had a mouth and was⁠—”

“Size.”

“Same? Roughly? But Lon said it looked like a jar. Couldn’t tell the difference.”

“And did it appear empty?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t remember, do you?”

“No.”

“Need I remind you about inaccurate recollections, Rand?”

“Um… yes?”

“Do not do it.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Daddy?”

“Definitely not that,” Daddy said through teeth clenched so hard I could almost hear them cracking.

“I, um, what do I call you?”

“Honestly, Rand? Did we not speak on this very topic yesterday?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t remember, do you?”

Rand shook his massive head.

“I would love to imagine that you picked the right answer from context clues,” Daddy said, “especially given our recent interaction on that very topic. However, your lack of confidence somewhat belies your response as little more than random chance.”

“Thank you?”

“Sure. Take it as a compliment. Perhaps we might try kindness again as a means of successful instruction, and we can watch that fail. Again.”

Rand nodded, smiling, as if excited at the prospect. Either of kindness or of failure, it really wasn’t clear.

“Wonderful,” Daddy said, sounding like he was fucking done. “As discussed yesterday—and many other times—you may, if you must, call me the Keeper, being that the Keeper is my current official title within the tower.”

“I can remember it this time, Fa—the Keeper.”

“Of course you can,” the Keeper said. “Have you finished your rounds?”

“Yes?”

“You either have or have not—there is not a need for questioning your answer.”

“I found the three of them and⁠—”

“Three?”

“The rat, the not-rat, and the phark.”

“Right, thank you for the clarification. Continue.”

“After I found them, I put them on my cart and finished my round.”

“In the future, when you find creatures, bring them directly to me, and then return to your rounds.”

“Yes, the Keeper.”

“You can just say Keeper.”

“Keeper.”

“That’s not… every day, a new hell. That established, I am now faced with the problems facing me on my desk.”

“Do you want me to take them to the lab?”

The human snapped his gaze from us to Rand, and his mouth turned into a frowning rictus.

“There is no lab, Rand,” the Keeper said firmly.

“But—”

“There is no lab.”

“But—”

“Gods be damned, Rand! There is no lab,” the Keeper snapped, slamming his hand on the desk and inadvertently sending a pencil flipping up in the air.

Rand caught the pencil and then, slowly, carefully, set it down.

“There is no lab, the Keeper,” Rand said slowly.

The Keeper leaned back in his chair and let a sigh out through clenched teeth. “I hate cursing, Rand, and I have cursed. A sign of a weak intellect, and I cannot-- What to do--… I could-- no… perhaps-- I am very busy, Rand.”

“I know, the Keeper.”

“I would prefer not to be disturbed with nonsense. Like this.”

He gestured to us on the desk in front of him.

“I should not have brought them here?”

“This was very much the correct protocol. I am merely trying to express my frustration, which has little bearing on your actions on this day, but… I am not being fair to you, and I have allowed my own emotions to peak, as my own projects near a crucial stage and I am not able to devote as much of my attention to them as required, to overflow into my public life. For that I apologize. In the future, you will continue to bring such discoveries to me immediately. I fear I know what this ‘biting jar’ entails, though I must investigate it further to really have a concrete understanding, which means it will be even later before I am able to return to my personal research. At this moment, however, I need you to take these two, um, things to James. After you deliver them to James, tell Malera to put together a novelty show⁠—”

At that point, the Keeper placed the cork stoppers back into our jars, so I could no longer hear what was being said, but clearly more instructions were required for Rand.

Rand nodded, grabbed both Sterling and me, and left the Keeper’s office.

Chapter

Nine

Rand the special ogre carried us with a sense of purpose, totally lording his job over the other two ogres who were still cleaning up the remains of the furniture as we passed. A large bloodstain dripped off the remains of a desk, and the chicken ogre had a bandage covering one feathered hand, though it was already bleeding through.

The other ogres shot Rand dark looks, and one made some sort of remark at the special ogre. Rand, head held high, practically pranced out of that office.

We went through a large door into another room, which was very much like the room we’d just been in, although with no carts, shelves, or much beyond four heavy doors hung in the dark gray stone walls. Kindly, these were all labeled. The one we’d just come through said “Archives.” Two on the same wall said “Stairs Up” and “Arena Stands.” And the last door said “Dungeon.”

A very large phark sat in the only chair behind the only other piece of furniture in the room, a desk. He was busy staring at a leather-bound book. I assumed he was bigger than any of the pharks I’d seen in the midden, since he was using a human-sized chair at a human-sized desk and reading a human-sized book. Mell, maybe he wasn’t reading, per se. There wasn’t a whole lot written on the pages. But there was a pencil next to the book, so maybe the phark could write, which would be even more impressive.

The phark had gray-silvery fur and wore metal plate armor akin to something from the Gothic style, if I remembered my one semester of art history. He had a surcoat over the armor with a stylized tower right in the center, which I took to be the heraldry for the tower. Obviously. The whole setup looked a little odd on a furry monster type, with the silver fur coming out at odd angles between every joint. And why would he need such protection while sitting at a desk, a desk that really only seemed to hold a book? There was a great helm under the chair, just in case he needed more armor, though glancing at the helm’s front, I had no idea how the phark would close the visor over his snout. A snout that had an impressive mustache-like growth on the end.

The phark guard glanced up at Rand. Being that I’d been bounced around a lot by Rand’s annoying toe-first way of walking, I was lying flat out on the bottom of the jar. I realized that not only did this provide me safety from being slammed into the glass, but I could also hear, a bit, of what was going on outside.

“Where you goin’?” the phark barked.

“James,” Rand said.

“No James here.”

“In there,” Rand said, pointing to the door marked prison.

“Say dungeon then.”

“Fine. Dungeon.”

“And what do you have?”

“Rat,” the ogre said, holding up the jar with Sterling in it. Then he held up the jar with me in it. “Not-rat.”

The phark frowned and took a bite of his pencil. Not just chewing on the end of it—he fully chomped a piece off and chewed it happily. Then he made a few marks in the book on the desk with the half-eaten pencil.

“You go in now,” the phark said.

Rand nodded, stepped around the desk, and went through the door marked “dungeon,” taking us into yet another wholly different area of the floor.

Gone were the magical lights, replaced with more traditional oil lamps and candles, in keeping with the armor on the guard. No torches, which I thought was odd, but then I realized torches would probably produce way too much smoke. As it was, there were serious soot spots above each light, showing how long the candles and lamps had been burning.

Everything was arches. All sorts of arches at work with what looked like incredibly heavy, dark gray stone. And, noticeably, the stonework was less polished, as if the previous area had been handled by a master mason, but this part was done by an apprentice. The stones and bricks weren’t perfectly level; some of the mortar looked loose, and some had fallen out and landed in clumps along the floor. However, the walls were pretty flat, meaning that it’d be difficult to climb them. Although, where you’d be climbing… there was nowhere to go.

We strolled down a short hallway to get to an iron door. Not a wooden door reinforced with metal, but an entire door made wholly of iron. Or something similar.

Rand hammered on the door.

A slit appeared, higher up than I thought was normal, until I realized the door had been made with these ogres in mind, as there was an ogre on the other side peering back at Rand.

Something was said on the other side of the door, but I couldn’t make it out through the glass jar.

Rand held up his two jars, me and Sterling.

The other ogre looked at me, then at Sterling.

Then he nodded.

The slit shut again, and the door swung open. Just the way the door moved told me it had to weigh a ton. Maybe even a literal ton. The hinges were huge, and seemed to be one of the few pieces of kit I’d seen in this newest section that were of higher quality.

The ogre from behind the door glowered down at us. Somehow, it was bigger and meaner-looking than any of the ogres I’d yet seen, with a wide mouth that nearly bisected his entire massive head. Relatively small eyes were tucked under a heavy brow. He didn’t have boots on, contrary to Rand. Maybe that was what made Rand special; he wore boots, whereas the door ogre was barefoot and in dire need of a pedicure. He had gray trousers that struggled to stay intact over muscular thighs, and what seemed like a white dress shirt that had lost the battle the trousers were still engaged in. A heavy leather apron draped over his entire front, the leather seeming to be unreasonably thick.

The door ogre grabbed for the jars. Rand yanked the jars back. Door ogre glowered, and he reached out more slowly.

Rand shook his head.

The door ogre snapped his massive fingers.

Rand pulled the jars in tight to his chest, blocking my view of whatever might be happening. Something occurred while I couldn’t see or hear a damn thing, because Rand relaxed his grip as the door ogre relented, throwing his massive arms up in the air and stomping away.

Rand followed, a big smile on his face thanks to his victory.

No one closed the door, though. They just left it open as we all walked away.

We were in a lobby of sorts—maybe a receiving room? Opposite the door was a desk centered along a tall stone wall. On either side of the desk were open hallways, returning to normal height because this room looked to be double tall. Or maybe even more. Sixteen feet? Twenty? I wasn’t exactly sure, mostly because the scale of the world was different, and ceilings above fourteen feet all seemed roughly the same to me. High.

The other two walls had one door each, back to the more standard wood with iron bands on them, and no obvious slits or peepholes.

Another phark sat at the desk, with long, dark-green, nearly black fur. And while it was technically correct to say he was sitting, it was more like he was leaning, tilting his chair back so far that his booted feet on the desk were probably keeping him from falling over entirely. I noticed that the boots looked identical, as in, they weren’t made for a right foot and a left foot, but just for feet. And they had metal nails in the bottom, which for some reason I remembered were called hobnails.

The phark had his eyes closed, not overly concerned with paying attention to what was going on around him.

We didn’t interact with the phark, which somewhat explained his relaxed relationship to everything happening around him. Rand and Door Ogre made a left and went through the first door in that direction.

It led into an office.

And not a nice office this time, but a rather plain, almost spartan one. No window, but it did have manacles attached to one brick wall and a bunch of spike-infused devices collected in what I would have termed an umbrella holder next to the door, except, I mean, it was filled with spike sticks. There was a desk, a very staid wooden monstrosity that seemed heavy enough to give either ogre pause, as well as a rather unique chair in front of it ready for any visitor to sit down. And be restrained, because it had thick leather and iron bands attached to it at regular intervals. Because behind the desk sat another human. A rather well-put-together man, with dark eyes and disconcertingly white hair that didn’t match the visual age of the man. His hair was nearly vertical and quite in the vein of the insane, which really seemed to amplify the intensity to him in a way that was off-putting.

As we came in, he looked up in surprise, and then frowned.

“Dorian,” the man snapped. “I specifically told you⁠—”

“He has these,” the door ogre, Dorian, said, gesturing to Rand.

Rand held up the jars and then placed us on the desk in front of the man, popping the corks off and gesturing as if he were presenting the prize for the Showcase Showdown.

“What am I supposed to do with these?” the man asked.

Given that the Keeper fellow told Rand to take us to James, I had to figure this was James.

“Father told me to bring them to you,” Rand said, already starting to leave the office and calling out to James over his shoulder.

“No, no, no. You can’t just leave these here! Where are you going?” James asked.

“Father told me to speak with Malera about a⁠—”

“I don’t care what you need to tell that deviant or what the Keeper told you to do—I care about what I’m supposed to do with these! What are they?”

“That one’s a rat,” Rand said, pointing a stubby finger at Sterling.

“I got that, what’s the other one?”

“Not a rat?”

“Great. You’re just the most helpful fucking thing down here.”

“You are welcome,” Rand said, smiling and turning to leave.

“Stop! Why are they here?”

“Father told me to bring them to you.”

“Yes, why?”

Rand furrowed his massive brow and looked utterly confused.

“Is there a reason these two are going into the cells?” James said slowly.

“Are they?” Rand asked.

“If you’re going to talk to Malera, I’m not killing them, am I?”

“I don’t⁠—”

“You know what? Fuck it. I don’t care. I’ll throw them in the cell and you can explain things to your lovely father, okay? Now, is this other one special? Or different?”

“Yes? Not a rat.”

“I didn’t mean different than a… You know what? You go fuck right off down to Malera, okay? Try not to let her touch you in the bad places.”

“Bad—”

“I’m not explaining it! Just get the fuck out of here.”

Rand stomped out of the room, followed by Dorian the Door Ogre.

Chapter

Ten

James stared at the two of us on his desk.

We’d been set right where he’d been writing, and our jars had wrinkled the paper and smudged the ink. Which sucked, because I was curious what he’d been writing. It might give me a clue as to what was going on in this world. But even the stuff that wasn’t smudged was written in a very flowy script. Beautiful stuff, bordering on straight-up calligraphy, and yet a quick glance around the desk told me that this just happened to be the way the man wrote all the time.

James stared at us, frowned a little, leaned back in his chair, and twisted his torso. I was watching him work through his thoughts about us, and I didn’t like any of it.

There was something unpleasant about him.

Keeping his eyes on us, he reached out to grab a notebook from a stack of identical-looking notebooks.

Except when his hand got there, the top notebook opened up on its own and bit James’s hand.

“AUGH!” James shouted, yanking his hand back while pushing himself out of his chair.

I watched as all the books, save the bottom one, sprouted tiny legs and scooted off the desk.

“DORIAN!” James bellowed, shaking his hand before taking a look at it and grimacing at the small punctures across his palm.

Dorian pushed the door open and leaned in.

“There are fucking mimics in here,” James shouted.

“Mimics?” Dorian asked, his voice impossibly deep and guttural, almost as if he’d recently learned he’d been able to talk this whole time.

“The books on my desk, Dorian.”

Dorian frowned, staring at the desk, and it was clear he didn’t understand what his boss was asking of him.

“Yes,” Dorian finally said, nodding. “There is a book on your desk.”

“The mimics aren’t on the desk anymore; they’re on the floor.”

“I don’t see any books on your floor.”

“They wouldn’t look like books anymore, because they know that I know they were books! What’s on the floor, Dorian?”

“Carpet?”

“OBJECTS?”

“Nothing.”

James walked around the desk, keeping his back to the wall of his office, very much staring at the floor, ready to attack.

“Where the fuck are they?” he asked.

Dorian shrugged.

“Get the guard and tell him to come in here.”

Dorian stepped out, closing the door.

James quickly opened the door and stepped out as well, closing the door after him.

I looked over at Sterling.

Sterling, meanwhile, was pushed up against the glass jar, trying to see down onto the floor.

“Mimics?” I asked, hoping I was speaking loud enough to reach out of the jar.

“Terrible things,” Sterling hollered. “Very fond of eating anyone and everything.”

“Like pharks?”

“Marginally more picky, in that they only go after meat things. And better at ambush. They look like things you would not expect to bite you, and then they bite you.”

“You have experience with them?”

“I do, and they are nasty. Much nastier for us smaller creatures as well, because even the juvenile ones are more than capable of making our lives very short.”

“Were those juveniles?”

“I am not sure—I did not see them.”

“They looked like that,” I said, pointing at the book left on the desk.

“Ah, then yes.”

“How big do they get?”

“As much as it pains me to admit, I do not know.”

“You think the jar was one?”

“What jar?”

“From the last office we were in.”

“It would seem likely. Though I had not known mimics were able to appear transparent… which could be a terrifying evolution.”

“Then they wouldn’t need⁠—”

I stopped talking as the door opened and an armored figure leaned through the doorway, looking first left, then right.

The fur sticking out of most of the joints, coupled with the short stature, confirmed it was a phark of some kind. Though this one had the helm on as well as the full suit of plate. Also, he carried a three-foot stick topped with a metal ball covered in three-inch spikes.

He stepped inside the office and then spun around, swinging his weapon full force, smashing into the small pot by the door. It shattered, sending the cheap clay in all sorts of directions as oil poured out over the carpet and stone.

“Not a mimic,” the phark called out.

“Thank gods you figured that out,” I heard James shout.

The phark nodded, perhaps taking that as the compliment it wasn’t, and continued into the room. He did a slow circuit around the desk, mostly focused on the floor and the spots where the floor met the wall, poking at damn near everything with his weapon, which certainly left a few holes in the wooden furniture, but there didn’t seem to be any reactions from the file cabinet, the side table, or what I realized was a vertically mounted rack, not just a set of manacles.

Then the phark turned his attention to the top of the desk.

He stopped when he saw us.

Slowly, he raised the giant visor, and I saw a confused phark face staring back at me.

“Mimics?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Rat,” Sterling said.

“You do look like a rat, but that seems like what a mimic pretending to be a rat would say.”

“Mimics can’t talk.”

“Also what a mimic would say.”

“I’m not a mimic. He’s not a mimic. The jars aren’t mimics. The mimics are on the floor.”

“Sure they are.”

He pulled his weapon into a classic batter-up position.

“I’d say duck,” I said, and dropped to the bottom of the glass jar just as the phark swung for the fences.

He clipped the jars, shattering the glass in a horribly loud explosion and sending a glittering shard blizzard across the room.

The phark lost his footing, slipping and then slamming his back on the ground with a resounding thud, followed by the vague and soft groan only possible when you’ve had the wind knocked out of your lungs.

James stormed into the office, his face red, rage blossoming. And then his feet hit the oil, and he was gone, out of view beneath the desk, slamming onto the phark and then the floor.

There was a loud interchange between the two as they fought to their feet.

“They are not mimics,” James shouted. “The mimics were books and now they are on the floor.”

“I didn’t see none,” the phark said.

And then he slipped a little and reached out, grabbing James with one metal gauntleted hand and the door jam with the other. His legs slid out from under him a little, but he managed to get his feet back under him.

“Get a mimic hunting team here,” James said. “I can’t believe we’ve got another fucking infestation. That’s… this is… I can’t work like this.”

“You want me to go?” the phark asked. “Who’ll be at the desk?”

“Gary can do it.”

“I’m Gary.”

“I don’t care who you are! Tell the other Gary to do it so you can nap at the desk. Just go make sure it happens and there are no more mimics here. FUCK!”

“I, sure… other Gary,” Gary the phark muttered as he walked out.

As James shook his head, I caught a flash as Gary slipped again, hearing the clank of his armor against the stone floor just as the morningstar flew into the room, end over end, and slammed into the wooden desk, the spikes plunging deep into the wood.

“For fuck’s sake!” James bellowed, jumping back.

James yanked at the weapon, but he couldn’t get it free.

“Bah,” he said, then yelled out, “Dorian!”

Dorian looked in.

“Get a janitor in here,” James said, walking around the desk so he could brush all the glass off his chair and sit down.

Dorian left, closing the door.

The human with the white hair held his head in his hands while also shaking it a little.

“Dorian,” James called out, “come back in here.”

A second later, the huge door ogre peeked in again.

“All the way, please.”

“I didn’t get a janitor yet.”

“Well aware, but I need you in here for a moment.”

Dorian nodded, then squeezed through the doorway and took up so much of the office.

“Here,” Dorian said.

“I can see that,” James replied. “Get the red one out of the jar.”

“Red one?”

“That one,” the man said, pointing at me.

“Ah, red.”

The ogre gingerly pinched my jar up with a pair of fingers and flipped it upside down, pouring me out onto his other palm.

His hand was warm, and he had a surprising gentleness, holding me firmly without squishing, despite it being very obvious he could smoosh me without a second thought. Really, it probably required more thought to keep from smooshing me, and Dorian did not look like he was the kind of dude who had first thoughts all too often, let alone second ones.

“Did it do anything to you?” James asked.

“No, Warden.”

So James was a warden.

“Its fur doesn’t hurt you?”

“No.”

“No stingers or spines?”

“No?”

“Set him on the desk.”

Dorian looked at the desk and then used one of his massive arms to brush the surface of the desk clear of glass. Then the ogre put me on the desk, very gentle, very demure.

“If it makes a run for it, squish the thing,” James said.

Dorian nodded.

“I won’t make a run for it,” I said. “No need to squish me.”

“Oh,” James said. “It speaks.”

“I can also dance, just not very well. I’m not sure about singing—I haven’t done it in a while, and⁠—”

“Enough,” James the Warden said. “I enjoy neither sass nor sarcasm. I don’t want to hear jokes or personal stories. Nothing of the sort. Does the rat speak too, or did you dress it up for your own amusements?”

“He speaks,” I said.

James leaned back and gestured to Dorian.

Dorian quickly dumped Sterling out of his jar. He landed next to me on the desk.

“I don’t know who you are, what you are, or why you’re here,” James said. “It doesn’t matter to me. You are here now, and that means you are now prisoners of the Tower.”

“Prisoners?” I asked.

“Do not interrupt me,” James snapped. “That was your one warning. Do not speak to me unless I request you to do so. Do not attempt to escape. Do not make trouble. Do not draw attention to yourself. Do that, and you may live some time. There is but one penalty here: death. We already have too many prisoners, so I am actively looking for reasons to free up space. Got it?”

I nodded.

Sterling nodded.

“Good. You listened. You would be surprised at the number of beings who cannot handle the most basic instructions. Now, you will be taken to your cell, where you will remain unless there comes a change. Nod if you understand.”

I nodded, and Sterling nodded. Sure, I had questions, but I understood.

“It would be best for you to not see me again, as, likely, if you do, it will mean you are to be put to death. And I can promise you it will be neither a pleasant nor quick death, but one designed to be an unimaginable punishment. Begone.”

With that, Dorian’s huge hands closed over me, and he whisked us away.

Chapter

Eleven

The dungeon proper lay beyond the desk with the phark named Gary, who sat there with his helm still on, not leaning in the chair this time, nor reading a book. Or doing much of anything. He really just sat there.

As we passed by the phark, going into the actual dungeon, I saw him reach up and yank at the helmet, trying to get it off his head.

Now that we weren’t in soundproof glass jars, I heard a clamor echoing down the dark stone hallways.

As we stepped in, I saw an open room full of armored pharks off to the right. No two sets were the same, though they all had the same surcoat, the one with the tower on the front. They all wore full plate and it all looked quite lived-in.

A larger-than-average green phark saw us and scurried over. He stopped in front of Dorian and saluted.

Dorian grunted while setting us down.

“Small Ones cell,” Dorian ordered.

“Right,” the phark replied, and made a snappy about-face before marching us along.

The phark seemed huge to me, but he was still far less than half the size of the ogre. Sterling and I had to practically jog to keep up, and I could see my rat buddy already getting winded as we passed the third cell.

Because we were moving so fast, I barely registered much of anything about the cells. I had no idea how to even get big guys to slow down. They didn’t exactly acknowledge us in any way.

The cellmates we passed, however, were very interested in us, calling out with a wide variety of litanies, mostly about food—begging for more, begging for better, complaining about hunger, that kind of stuff. Some asked for medicine, some complained of illness, some threatened violence against us, the pharks, the tower, everything and anything that weren’t the ogres. The green phark at the front would yell back a lot, answering most of the shouts with a polite, “SHUT THE FUCK UP.” Occasionally, a, “SHUT IT.” And, surprisingly more than once, “I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR SHIT, GLEN!”

There was the one particularly foul variant of human with more eyes than teeth who leaned against the bars and shoved his arm as far through the bars as possible, trying to grab me.

Without breaking stride, Dorian stomped on the man’s arm.

It pulped, and the bones sounded like they’d been powdered.

Dorian leaned down to glare at the man, and shook his massive ogre head before lifting his foot off.

The prisoner’s jaw dropped open as if he wanted to scream, but he didn’t. He pulled what had been his arm back into the cell. It hung limply in front of him, blood coming out of so many horrid places in such a way that I couldn’t pin down what injury he had.

The injured man’s cellmate, someone who looked like they were used to a more refined and comfortable lifestyle, at least judging by his reasonably clean, probably silk clothes, rushed to the bars.

“This is an outrage!” the cellmate bellowed at Dorian, loud enough that spittle flew through the air. “How dare you?!”

Dorian just looked at the man, bored.

“You monstrous filth!” the prisoner continued. “Go and fetch the rotting penis you call your master and have him explain why you dared attack us, and then perhaps why that foul wretch believed he had any right to imprison me!”

Dorian sighed.

“You do not scare me,” the man sneered. “You are a mongrel and a brute who cannot think for himself. So do not stand there and pretend you can do a damn thing to me!”

He spat on Dorian.

Dorian glanced over at the phark.

The phark nodded.

Dorian’s arm shot out, slipped through the bars (barely), and grabbed the man by his lacy cravat. The man’s eyes bulged, and he tried to say something, but Dorian wasn’t done. He yanked the man through the bars.

Not all the way, but much, much farther than I thought possible. The ogre’s unreal strength was enough to force the man’s upper body through a space it shouldn’t fit. At least, not while remaining alive.

The man’s skull was the first to go, cracking until it was slim enough to squish through. Then his clavicle snapped, letting his shoulders meet behind his back, and his ribs deformed. He hung limply from where Dorian had stopped yanking, blood leaking out of him. Then some of his lungs spilled out of his mouth.

Now the cell was devoid of living prisoners.

“A lesson!” the phark yelled. “NO TOUCHIE! NO TALKIE! NO NOTHING!”

For a moment, an intense silence took over the place as the phark glared at each and every inmate that was in view, as if he were daring them to speak. Or do anything at all.

No one did.

But not many of them were looking back at the phark. All the attention was on the ogre, who very clearly didn’t care about the attention. At that moment, he was standing there with a large finger in his ear, trying to dig some treasure out of it. Or maybe scratch some deep itch.

Nope, treasure. He pulled his finger out with a clump of wax on it—a clump he reached up and wiped onto the arch above us.

On the plus side, Sterling had a moment to rest, which I think he needed.

Also, I finally had a moment to look around the prison itself, at the construction and make-up of the place. Not that I was already planning our escape, because at that time I still held an outside hope that we could get out through more traditional means. Like explaining that we hadn’t done anything wrong and just needed to move on to the next floor.

But I was interested in the place because I’d visited plenty of correctional facilities in the past (though admittedly, this was the first I’d been to as a prisoner), and I was curious to see how this one compared to modern US criminal rehabilitation institutions. For one thing, it looked like rehabilitation was not the priority here so much as it was punishment. This place was foul. Dark. Wet. Deeply depressing.

Everything in the dungeon portion of the floor was built in the same way and was at odds with the style we’d found in the archives as well as the offices of the Keeper and his ogre assistants. There, everything had been done in an exacting fashion, to such a degree that it was difficult to find seams between most bricks. Really impressive construction techniques, even from my modern perspective.

This place, however, was much more in line with the sort of construction I expected. Heavy bricks thrown together in a haphazard fashion and held together with mortar that was already starting to crumble. Although I had no idea how long the mortar had been there, so maybe it was okay that it was already starting to crumble. The “all arches all the time” technique continued through the dungeon, even more pronounced around the cells because I could see the arched ceiling in them.

Most of the cells looked like they were set up for one occupant, and were sized as such, but nearly all of them had at least two things in there. There were no windows, just three stone walls and one wall of heavy, thick metal bars that looked an awful lot like cast iron. The bar wall also a door, with heavy iron hinges that didn’t seem particularly secure. Although, given the size and weight of them, there was no way I knew within the laws of physics to pull those pins. The bars weren’t always of equal thickness, but on average they were about two inches around. Significantly larger than anything found in my old world. They were spaced out roughly four inches apart, which, in my head, meant they were probably set six inches on center. In the cells there was almost always one wooden bench, and occasionally two, that had a threadbare beige blanket crumpled on it. A bronze pot that sat along the bars. Which were probably the bathrooms—chamberpots.

“On we go,” the phark announced, smiling as he restarted down the hall.

As we went deeper, the prisoners seemed to get, well, more exotic. Some seemed like actual beasts, including large wolf-like beings almost as big as the ogres. They snapped alligator-sized jaws at us.

We made a few turns and passed a short section of tunnel where there were no bars, just stone walls with iron doors. It was weird and dark and deeply unpleasant in that hall.

Finally, though, we got to a somewhat unique cell at the end of a hall. It was immediately clear it was our destination because the bars had extra bars—thin ones set between the thicker ones—to make it impossible for even a small, squishy creature like myself to squeeze through. And while I’d been thinking that we’d be the only ones in our small thing cell, there was something of a crowd waiting for us.

All of whom moved way to the back as soon as the phark approached the door. He reached to his belt, then patted it, then spun around, trying to look at his back.

Dorian sighed, pulling out a key from a slightly hidden pocket on the inside of his heavy leather apron.

He unlocked the door—not without some trouble—and pulled it open.

No one made a break for it. In fact, no one even got close to the door—they all stood their ground as far away as they could get.

Dorian used his foot to shove the two of us into the cell before slamming the door closed.

The lock clicking had a horrible sound of finality to it.

Dorian walked away without a word or even a look back. The master of his domain, calm and confident.

“Ah ha!” the phark said, holding up a key he’d finally found somewhere. He unlocked the door, opened it, and turned around to see an empty hallway.

He frowned, then looked around quickly until he spotted us, were already inside.

“How… I…” he started, then just drifted off. “Don’t do that again.”

He closed the door, locked it, and then hurried off.

Chapter

Twelve

With the phark and ogre gone, life resumed in the space, with everyone talking and moving around.

Our cell held twenty-eight creatures. I was a little surprised I could tell that just by looking at the gathered folks. There was a massive diversity of creatures and, to some extent, size. We weren’t the smallest in the space, and we weren’t the biggest by a large margin. I wasn’t the fuzziest. Or the furriest. There were seven other rats there, off to one side, staring at Sterling.

Something that looked a lot like a tiny phark huddled in the back, sitting on the stone floor with its back against the wall, snoring.

There was a group of creatures that looked like sheep. Or maybe they were just wearing puffy wool coats. They stood on two legs, had jet-black skin, and rather cute sheep-like faces with big eyes.

A red squirrel wearing green forestry-style clothes stood off to one side, giving us the once-over. A mouse in a leather doublet peeked out from behind the squirrel, and I could see something in the weasel family in the back, looking around furtively. Much like a weasel, I guessed.

Then there was the bug sorta dude—maybe a spider?

Just a lot of different little creatures shoved together with nothing in common really, save overall size. Some that were short and fat, some that were tiny and skinny. Some looked mean, some looked sad. Nearly everyone in the whole place looked hungry.

I gave a vague wave.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m Del, and this is Sterling.”

“Going with that, are we?” Sterling whispered to me, also waving.

“What? Introducing ourselves?”

“Well, the common ploy is to find the toughest inmate and pick a fight with them. Would you not⁠—”

“Ah, fresh meat,” came a deeper voice as a new creature pushed their way forward.

An unpleasant-looking fellow, the largest of the room. It wasn’t anything you’d see on Earth. Except maybe if a duck and a beaver had a cursed baby? With none of the cuteness and definitely no awkward charm like a platypus. He had a duck bill, thick fur, small beady eyes, a flat tail, little clawed hands, and big, webbed feet. Oh, and a corkscrew penis that was currently sticking out of his trousers.

“You, red thing,” Duckbeaver said. “Come to me and service me, and I will let your friend there join the rats unmolested.”

“Um, not really much in it for me, is there?”

“You want to know what’s in it for you?” Duckbeaver asked, striding toward me, his turgid member bouncing with each step in a way that really made me feel a rising gorge. “You get to be mine—at least as long as you’re a good little boy. And I take care of what’s mine. I make sure the rest of these fucks in here don’t touch you. Only I get to do that. I make sure you get enough to eat. So, do you think there’s anything in it for you now?”

Duckbeaver was close enough to me that he bent down to meet me eye to eye, making his member disgustingly near.

“I get the shit end of the deal,” I said.

He stood up straight. If he had had lips, they’d probably be curled in a mocking smile. He looked over his shoulder, and I saw a group of what I could only imagine were his gang, coming closer to join in on the fun. They weren’t Duckbeavers, just a motley crew of assholes. At least one weasel thing, and a creature that looked like a gratsit, except with more intelligence and maybe civility, as it was wearing clothes and seemed to have, at some point, brushed its few hairs.

“Oh,” he said, “I like it when they think they can resist⁠—”

I reached out, grabbed him by the shaft of his corkscrew, and turned to pull him over my shoulder. Textbook judo throw.

Except that, and I knew this when I attempted the move, the penis was not a good place from which to execute the ippon seoi nage. It was at the midpoint of the body, so from a leverage standpoint, I didn’t have much to get the body over my shoulder. And also, the penis is rarely attached as well as, say, an arm. All of which to say that I wasn’t particularly surprised by the outcome.

His penis ripped off, and I immediately whipped it around, smacking him across his stupid duckbill and spraying him and his cohorts with his blood.

Then I dropped the worthless bit of flesh and took several quick steps back and to the left, putting space between me and Duckbeaver.

He stared at me, his bill open wide, eyes in disbelief.

Then he looked down at his pants, where there should have been a little something extra. Which was, at that moment, deflating. Or, perhaps, being more technically correct, exsanguinating.

“Whargle?” he asked, looking at me, then at his crew.

“You’re going into shock,” I said. “Pretty natural, given what’s just happened to you. If you want to survive, you should probably lie down, get pressure on the wound, and remain calm. You’re bleeding heavily. If you don’t do anything, you’ve got maybe ten minutes to live?”

His eyes, still wild and crazy, suddenly rolled back into his head, and he crashed to the ground.

“You killed him!” one of the cohort called out.

“I don’t think so,” I said, taking a step toward Duckbeaver. “He’s probably still⁠—”

“Don’t touch him!” another of the crew said.

I stopped.

But then one of the sheep shoved the crew out of the way and started to stomp on Duckbeaver. Another sheep came over. And pretty soon, it was an all-out stompfest. The crew wasn’t getting much in the way of kindness either.

I walked away from the killing, feeling ill at my involvement, and sat down by myself at the edge of the cell. There were two stone walls in the place and two bar walls. The floor was stone, the ceiling was stone, and oil lamps hung in the hallway outside.

Across from us was a cell with larger creatures in it, humanoids that looked just like humans, only smaller. Maybe elves or halflings or some other legally distinct group with hair on their feet. They were sleeping. Or resting. They very much did not care about what went on in our cell. Which was death. I got a notification that I’d gotten partial credit for the killing of Duckbeaver. Who was actually known as a gardabaer.

Huzzah and congratulations, for you have succeeded in making a kill! Mostly by yourself, even! Hear ye, hear ye, for Delano “Del” Roosevelt has killed a gardabaer of a higher level than himself! For this grand accomplishment, Delano “Del” Roosevelt has been given the grand gift of 240 XP! You may feel a moderate measure of pride.

I really didn’t feel any pride, though.

Chapter

Thirteen

“WHOA!” Shouted a squirrel I hadn’t noticed before. “Like, whoa. What the fuck is this?”

Everyone in the cell stopped moving, although a few of the stompers got one more stomp in before going still.

“Someone want to explain this?” the squirrel said, gesturing at the dead Duckbeaver a.k.a. gardabaer thing. “Because I don’t think I said I wanted this stupid fuck dead, did I?”

One of the sheep things shook its head.

“What was that?”

“No, you did not say that,” the mini-sheep thing said.

“Anyone remember what I did say?”

No one answered.

“Intimidate and educate, right? And I come out to see this. What the fuck happened?”

The squirrel looked over at me and Sterling.

“You two are… Fuck, what a day I’m having,” he said and walked over to us. Some other gray squirrels followed the talking red squirrel at a discrete distance. All of these squirrels were dressed similarly to Sterling, maybe a little nicer, with the one who’d been speaking being dressed the nicest. He was smaller than the others, and red, with a floppy little hat that he’d tucked over to one side. “Maybe you want to explain something to me?”

“If we can,” I said. Apparently this guy creature was the one in charge of our cell.

“What happened?”

“Well,” I said, “we tried to introduce ourselves, and that thing⁠—”

“Jerry.”

“Jerry?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Jerry seemed to think we were here to, um, service him.”

“What? What the hell does that mean?”

“I mean, did you see how he was injured?”

“Stomped.”

“Ah, I didn’t do that.”

“What did you do?”

“I maybe ripped his penis off?”

“You did what?”

“It wasn’t my plan—it just happened.”

“That’s a pretty ridiculous coincidence⁠—”

“Not a coincidence. An unintended consequence.”

“Bit of an emotional rollercoaster at the moment. I’m trying to come to grips with losing my bruiser.”

“Your bruiser? He worked for you, or something?”

“I’d say we had an understanding, but it’s not like I agreed with his methods. But he was here, and I needed to keep him under control.”

“So you let him molest inmates?”

“I didn’t know he did that. But obviously he’s not doing much of anything anymore, is he?”

“Mostly just lying there, bleeding.”

“Right.”

The squirrel scratched his face, looking over at the corpse of his bruiser. Then he looked over at me and leaned in close.

“I didn’t know that he did those things,” the squirrel said. “Wouldn’t have let him do any of that. He was just supposed to, you know⁠—”

“Intimidate and educate.”

“At least there’s someone who listens.”

“Maybe your bruiser educated me.”

“I doubt that. But perhaps you aren’t quite as useless as you look.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” the squirrel said, giving me a smile. “Why don’t you come with me? Maybe I’ll show you a little of what’s going on here?”

“In the prison?” I said.

“It’s a dungeon?”

“Right. Can I bring my buddy here?”

“The silent rat?”

“He talks.”

“I do,” Sterling said.

“Yeah,” the squirrel said. “But then again, he’s also a rat, so I’m not sure I want to do that.”

“Got something against rats?” I asked.

“More like it seems they’ve got something against me.”

“I do not have anything against you,” Sterling said. “I just met you.”

“Then explain why those fucks over there keep making my life a lower hell,” the squirrel said, pointing a claw at a group of rats clustered together over by the stone wall.

“Never met them.”

“Are you sure? Because it certainly seems like all of you rats know each other.”

Sterling squinted, looking over at the rats.

“I am reasonably sure I do not know them,” my rat said.

“And I’m not sure I believe you,” the squirrel replied. “Because they’ll probably say they know you even if you claim not to know them, because they’re a bunch of insular assholes. But sure, you come along.”

The squirrel turned. His big fluffy tail, which came out of a hole in his pants, nearly whipped me in the face as he walked quickly and purposefully toward the stone wall. “What we got here is very simple, but we need to keep it quiet. I’m just going to assume you two are smart enough not to run your mouths about what it is I’m going to show you, right?”

“Sure,” I said.

Sterling nodded.

The squirrel stopped, turned, and looked at Sterling.

“Mind just saying that out loud?” the squirrel said.

“Mind what?” Sterling asked.

“Saying you agree.”

“I will not share anything you show me.”

“Thank you, and on we go.”

At the wall, the squirrel stopped between two larger black squirrels who were glaring at anyone and everyone around.

“Mind doing the thing?” our head squirrel said.

The big squirrels shook a little, their tails fluffing up and blocking the view of anyone around.

Then our friend pulled on the block in front of us, and the block rotated out, revealing a dimly lit interior.

“After you,” the squirrel said.

Chapter

Fourteen

“This is amazing,” Sterling said, looking around the secret lair.

“Eh, it’s comfortable,” the squirrel said, leaning against a small wooden bookshelf filled with squirrel-sized books. “What we got here is a little space where we can move about the prison and make a few things happen for the good of us. Which can be you if you play your cards right.”

“You want to explain a few things?” I asked.

“Probably not, but I figure you’re going to ask, and I’m going to waffle, and then we’ll dither. Or, we can just skip that, and you can accept that there’s going to be quite a bit of mystery in our unequal power dynamic.”

“Can we get a name?”

“You can call me the Hogan.”

“The Hogan?”

“Me,” the squirrel said, pointing to himself.

“Is that a title or a name?”

“Title. We tend to keep our names to ourselves.”

“Do you want to know our names, or are we getting titles?”

“Are you planning on joining our little organization formally?”

“Maybe?”

“Then maybe you’ll get a title.”

“Great, look forward to it.”

“For the moment, you’ll be rat, and you’ll be…” He paused, staring at me. “What the fuck are you?”

“Red.”

“Great. Rat and Red.”

“Sounds good, the Hogan.”

“Sounds weird when you add the article there.”

“Hogan, the?”

“Worse. Let’s just move on and get to the tour, shall we?”

“Is there more?”

“Of course. Come on.”

From what I could tell, the walls in the prison were three blocks wide in total. The first layer was the only place where there were actually three blocks in place; the middle was empty space. There looked to be something along the lines of a lintel at the top, like a ceiling of sorts, a larger block that was being used to support the arches going up to either of the outsides of the wall. There were gaps between the larger support stones at the top of the walls. Large enough that I could, theoretically, force myself through, although I thought it might be wiser to figure out what was on the other side before trying to go through. That and there might be some issues climbing to the top, what with all the bits and bobs that the squirrels had built inside the walls.

Because there was a surprising amount of construction inside, from small offices to bedrooms to workshops. There were sets of stairs going up to three floors, each one about two feet from the next. The floors were used as rooms, as it seemed traversal happened on the bottom, along the stone base of the walls.

“What is all this?” I asked.

“Different things,” the Hogan replied. “You get a little deeper into the family, and we’ll go about letting you in on a few more of the secrets.”

“Okay, so I’m not exactly sure why you’re showing us this now.”

“Because I don’t have my normal method of education available, thanks to you ripping his⁠—”

“Got it.”

“Good. I want you to know that you’ve entered into our world. It may look like it’s their world, but we run it. Not them.”

“The pharks don’t bother you?”

“Nah, they know who butters their bread.”

“You mean that literally, don’t you?” I asked, eyeing a large stack of butter on the second level.

“In fact, we do. No one gets much butter down here, so it’s an easy thing for us to give those pharks, help ’em understand how things actually work here. Although, I will warn you before you go about trying to buy the pharks with food—you mess one of ’em up, and we will make sure it is known who did what.”

“Mess one of the pharks up?” I asked.

“We are not that familiar with pharks,” Sterling said, putting a hand on my shoulder as if telling me he was taking over for a bit. “How might we mess them up?”

“I take it you’re not tower natives?”

“We are not,” Sterling lied.

“Yeah, pretty fucking apparent. You should probably keep that to yourself. Pro-tip: don’t keep anything from us. We always find out the truth, and we don’t like having to find out the truth when you could have told us. Irritating to do extra work, ain’t it?”

“True.”

“So pharks are from the tower. Somewhere, somehow, they’re made and they show up. Don’t ask me why. All I know is that they eat and get bigger. But you don’t want ’em to get too big or else they get weird⁠—”

“Weird how?”

“Do I look like some phark scientist to you? I don’t know how to explain it—just that it’s usually violent and requires them to eat a lot. What I do know is that you don’t feed a phark after midnight. That’s the big one, the one which, from what I been told, makes ’em most weird. Number two, don’t feed ’em too much. ’Specially not too much sweet stuff.”

“So cake in the middle of the night, bad idea?” I asked.

“Red,” the Hogan said, “you’re trying too hard. You’re not funny. I think you know what I said.”

“Sorry.”

“Thank you. Let’s keep it from happening again. Now, pharks do most, if not all, the grunt work in the tower. At least what they can when they’re not too big. Which is why we’re safe in here from ’em trying to catch and eat us, but also why we can buy ’em off with tasty treats like butter, which they don’t realize they could just eat because we told ’em it’s just for putting on bread and such, so they don’t just go ham on the stuff and scarf it down every time we give ’em some. You might, if I feel inclined, be the one to give it to them some time, so you need to know not to tell ’em they can just do that, or I’ll get angry. Also, pro-tip: I don’t care if you like me. I don’t need you to, frankly. Not even sure I want you to, so keep that in your cheek pouches.”

“I don’t have cheek pouches,” I said.

“It’s a fucking idiom,” the Hogan said. “What the fuck did we just talk about with the jokes and the trying too hard? Is he always like this?”

“He is not the best on first impressions, but I find he grows on you.”

“Great, like a fungus I don’t need.”

“How much coverage do you have in the prison with these walls?” I asked, deciding to move on from small talk and start talking about things that might actually matter.

“It’s a dungeon. And the walls are everywhere—ain’t you seen?”

“And they’re all like this?”

“I wouldn’t say they’re all quite this nice—we don’t have a need for storage and the like everywhere—but it’s safe to say there’s a way to get wherever I want you to go.”

“And if there was somewhere we wanted to go?”

“Best bet would be to make it somewhere I wanted you to go, and then you’d have a reason to go there.”

“What if we wanted to, say, leave the pri—dungeon entirely?”

“I would say that’s right on target with being one of the rats.”

“Wha—”

“That’s the thing with them rats. Every fucking time, they’ll try to escape. Which, in part, I get. I wouldn’t want to be here if I were them, but I’m me, and I’m supposed to be here, so here I am. And when they do what they always do, it makes my life, which translates to your life and his life”—he pointed to Sterling—“all our lives, a lot fucking harder⁠—”

Somewhere nearby, a throat cleared.

“Ah, well, pardon my language, because I realize I should be trying harder⁠—”

“Thank you,” came a higher voice as a svelte rodent walked down the inside of the wall toward us.

“Yeah, sure. Anyway, I probably shouldn’t just blame them rats, because anyone escaping or trying to escape makes everything a damn—can I say damn?”

“Say whatever you want,” the svelte rodent said, coming more into the light where I could tell that I was wrong in calling them a rodent, because they were more like a weasel. A very thin weasel, and rather small, because they were shorter than either Sterling and I, even shorter than the stout red squirrel we were forced to call the Hogan.

“I’m saying damn then,” the Hogan continued. “Whatever, I wanted to say that I don’t blame them, but I wish I could teach them a bit of a lesson to knock it the fu—heck—off with that nonsense because I’m tired of having to go through it.”

“Why don’t you?” I asked.

“‘Scuse me,” the weasel creature said, squeezing between me and Sterling, then between Sterling and the Hogan, before continuing on their way.

“The Nutlord.”

“The Nutlord?”

“You haven’t heard of him?”

I shook my head.

“You?”

Sterling shook his head too.

“What the fuck? How is that?”

“Insular fucks?” Sterling offered.

“See, mildly funny being that it’s a call-back to the thing what I said about them other rats. But still odd that you ain’t heard of the Nutlord.”

“You want to tell us who that is?”

“The Nutlord is to me as I am to you.”

“Your boss?” Sterling asked.

“I’m glad you’re already seeing things so clearly, rat friend. Yes, he is the one who decides what happens here, and I am the one who makes what the Nutlord decides happen.”

“Simple,” I said.

“It is. And he doesn’t like things getting complicated in here because that makes things get bumpy, and he doesn’t like bumps. Escape attempts? Bumpy. Actual escapes? Full shakedown, which could reveal our little secret here, which would make so many lives impossible. I’m hoping I’ve made it abundantly clear that this is to remain a secret, correct?”

“Abundantly,” I said.

“Secret,” Sterling added.

“You are both such quick learners that if I had a heart, it might be warmed. Now, a couple of rules you need to follow, whether or not you get deeper in bed with us. One: if you use the walls, you do not get caught going in or coming out. Don’t care too much what you do, but I think you probably can use some sense, common or otherwise, with that. Just keep this place secret. Two: be on time and in view for counts and checks. Two a day, one at lights on and breakfast, one at dinner and lights out. You miss a count⁠—”

“Bumps,” I said.

“That’s right. Bumps. So, be there. Gods know I recognize the desire to be somewhere else when it gets dark, but make sure, before and after dark at the damn least, you are available. Being that you are both new, probably best you are mostly available and visible for at least long enough for them to forget who you are. Which brings me to three, and then a question, and then we are done, got it? Three: don’t be a dick. Simple. Be nice. We’ll all get along. We’ve got enough assholes here already, and they all work for me. Although, maybe we’re down one now, aren’t we…? Also, is Sarum around?”

The Hogan moved me to the side to look past me and then shoved Sterling aside to peer around him.

“Nope,” he said. “So, fuck. I don’t like that. Probably need to look into that and also make sure the Nutlord⁠—”

“Last thing?” I asked.

“I mean, typical polite discourse means you don’t interrupt someone when they’re mid-thought, but, then again, rat friend here says you lack social ability, so I’ll let that slide this one time. What the fuck are you two in this dungeon for?”

“Honestly—” I started.

But the squirrel frowned at me.

“You really want to start that way? You already know I get mad when you lie and I gotta do more work to dig out the truth of the matter, so why not just say what you did and then we go from there?”

“We didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah, that’s the story for out there, not here. What did you actually do, because we need to know how long you might be here and what we can offer you. And, more importantly, what you can offer us.”

“He speaks truth here,” Sterling said. “We were trying to pass through the archives, and⁠—”

“Trespassing, got it. Pretty common here, which means you’ll probably be in place for, what? Two, maybe three weeks, if the magistrate is on schedule. I’m gonna think on things and we can have a chat again in a bit. Maybe we can have some work, maybe you just want to sit and while away the hours counting the mortar falling off the bricks. But I like to give options. So, kindly, fuck off and wait for dinner, eh?”

“Which way do we go?” Sterling asked, and I had to think that it was possible he was legitimately lost.

“Really? We walked, like, ten feet, max,” the Hogan said. “Go back that way, and when you see the brick marked ‘one,’ go out.”

Chapter

Fifteen

The Hogan was right—it was easy to find the way out.

We pushed the brick marked “one,” and it slid open easily. We walked out into a furry maze of squirrel tails, which quickly snapped out of the way as we pushed through into the cell itself.

Sterling and I seemed to be on the same page, as we moseyed to the bars of the cell in unison and sat down at nearly the same time with our backs to the bars so we could watch the little creatures that shared our hole in the dungeon.

“Nice that we made some friends, eh?” Sterling said.

“Yeah. Great. You know, I got a death notice for that Duckbeaver guy.”

“The one you tore the⁠—”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Ah,” he said, pulling at an ear. “I doubt too many individuals will miss a fellow like that.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not sure I believe it even happened.”

“Which aspect of it was unbelievable?”

“I mean, any of it. I wasn’t expecting to find a group of squirrels running the prison.”

“Dungeon.”

“Whatever.”

“But I was mainly thinking on the ripping of the… I didn’t think it would, well, come off so easily.”

“Ooh, yes, that was a surprise. To him as well, it would seem. And yet, rather effective.”

“Sure. Just not, um, ideal? And do we trust what the Hogan said?”

“He did a lot of talking—is there a particular point you did not believe?”

“Yeah, a fair amount. But I’m mostly thinking about the whole using the rapist asshole to do intimidations for him. Being his bruiser because of an ‘understanding’ or whatever.”

“Yes.”

“You do?”

“I mean, I think it is likely a measure of convenience, doing their best with what’s in the prison. Have you ever been to a prison before?”

“A number of times, but this is my first visit as a, um⁠—”

“Boarder?”

“Exactly. I was always in more of an, um, correctional capacity.”

“Interesting. I would love to hear about that part of your life sometime.”

I thought about trying to explain my old life to Sterling. About my beliefs on right and wrong, about crime and punishment. But I realized it wasn’t at all important here. And Sterling, as intelligent as he was, probably wouldn’t really understand, given the extreme cultural differences between this world and mine.

“Maybe,” I said. “There’s a real chance we’ll have some time to kill here, so maybe I can spin a yarn or two. Have you been on this floor before, though?”

“Of course. I had to cross this floor to get to the midden,” Sterling said. “But my experience was limited to that one hallway. And the first time I never saw anything in that hallway, so it was a complete surprise to see that massive creature.”

“Rand the special ogre?”

“Indeed. In retrospect, it is possible that there have been changes since the last time I went through. But also, it’s been some time, and my memory could be playing tricks on me.”

“The prison, I mean dungeon—it’s a surprise, then?”

“Yes. Of course. It feels like everything here is a surprise to me, and almost never a pleasant one.”

“Got any ideas on getting out of here?”

“Nothing strikes me at the moment.”

“No secret stash of tools in your vest?”

Sterling gave me a wry smile, and I saw his tail curl around.

“I would like to keep whatever I might have upon myself a secret,” he whispered softly, leaning toward me. “We are certainly not in a position to assume we can speak freely.”

“Where should I avoid looking to see who’s watching us?” I said.

“You think it is anyone other than the rats?”

“The squirrels.”

“I think they’ve got our number at the moment and likely don’t care too much about what we say or do here. At least right now.”

“Fair enough. You recognize any of these other creatures?”

“Not a one.”

“Do you know of them by chance?”

“No. Oh, of them? Yes, of course. You will have noticed a certain resemblance between myself and some of the others over there, and it is reasonably likely we share a similar background or hometown. And they seek to get back there, much to the chagrin of both the Hogan and the Nutlord.”

“Do you know what a Nutlord is?”

“First, I have heard of him. Or her. Them. And before we go further, I should probably make it quite clear that it is unadvisable to mention my home in any sort of particulars.”

“Why?”

“One of the laws of the land. Something of that nature shall never be mentioned outside of, well, I would presume you know.”

“You told me about it.”

“Yes, well, there were extenuating circumstances.”

“Such as?”

“I thought I would never see Ratopolis again. But if I was going to see that place, it would be because of you, which, in my mind, made it such that I needed to let you know. However, now that I’m so close, I am not going to ruin my chance to return home by speaking out of turn.”

“Should I keep⁠—”

“I thought I was being quite clear about what we should and should not do in this case.”

“Got it. Be quiet.”

“I would appreciate that,” Sterling said. He sat there for a moment, and I thought he might have been thinking or doing something along those lines, but then I realized he was chewing on something.

I glanced at him and raised my eyebrows.

“I’d offer you some, but…”

“I don’t have teeth.”

“I was going to say a need to eat, but I suppose either works.”

“Yeah…”

“You seem to be reasonably acquainted with the squirrels, yes?”

“I mean, we aren’t friends, but I have a vague, um, notion of squirrels, yeah.”

“Today was the first I’d seen one in real life. I have seen mention of them in books. An arboreal people, it is said they rule the treetops of many places. Though what a treetop is I have never quite been able to ascertain. A different type of mushroom perhaps, or⁠—”

“Are, um, others allowed in Ratopolis?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it only rats?”

“Ah, um, no. Of course not.”

He gave me a smile, but I knew him well enough to know he was lying.

I leaned my head back against the bars and stared up at the arched ceiling, thinking about the walls being filled with squirrel tunnels. And that there had been something more up above, something that the squirrels hadn’t yet made use of, which meant there might be a way out through there…

Chapter

Sixteen

The hallway seemed to be getting darker. I frowned, unsure of what was going on.

It was really beginning to bother me how much time I spent trying to figure shit out here.

A moment later, Dorian came through, setting out lanterns. A phark walked along in front of him with a piece of paper that was connected to a plank of wood, counting.

The phark was not having a good time of it. He kept losing track of where he was and starting again. Finally, a larger gray squirrel sidled up to the edge of the cell, leaned against the bars right where the phark was, and whispered to him.

Twice. Because the phark didn’t hear it the first time.

Then the phark turned around and counted the three people in the cell opposite us, which didn’t seem to faze the phark much at all. At which point, the lights-out count was complete, even though lights-out remained ongoing.

Sterling was still next to me, reading a book he’d pulled out of somewhere and chewing on a bit of dried meat.

But then the hallway went dark, and the dungeon got very quiet around us.

I closed my eyes and did a little rearranging so I could see better in the darkness.

Dorian and the phark continued on. I could just make out the sound of the phark’s hobnailed boots clinking on the stone floor.

Immediately, I saw we were basically by ourselves. Every other creature was now at the back, along the walls. They weren’t exactly fighting, but they all worked hard to secure a spot as close to the farthest corner as possible. Someone had stripped Duckbeaver’s corpse and left it up against the bars, along with the two corpses of his followers.

“You think we should still be here?” I asked Sterling, who had put his book away and closed his eyes.

“Should we?” Sterling asked in reply. “No. We should be home. But this is where we are and⁠—”

“I meant here by the bars. Look at everyone else.”

He opened his eyes and peered into the darkness.

“Interesting,” Sterling said. “What’s that there?”

“Where?”

“Forgive me if I choose to be not quite so obvious and point. You do remember my tail can also indicate directions, do you not?”

I glanced down at this tail and followed where it was pointing. Someone was making their way up from the other group of creatures and toward us.

It was unclear if they were trying to be sneaky, but they definitely weren’t coming along with any sort of obvious, “Hey, how you doing?” vibe. They were skulking—probably the best way to put it.

I watched them move toward us. As it noticed me watching, it tried to shift from a skulk to a more casual, less creepy movement. Which it did not pull off well.

I tried to place the thing in relation to the creatures I’d seen around when we arrived.

Sterling went back to pretending he was sleeping. Or he’d actually fallen asleep. It was hard to tell.

I glanced at him a second time but couldn’t decide. He probably wasn’t sleeping, but at the same time, Sterling had proven to be a special kind of weirdo. All that time in the midden would do that to you.

The creature made it almost close enough to touch us before coming to a stop, just at the edge of where either it or ourselves could lunge and make contact. Maybe it was a last moment of safety sort of thing. I could almost feel it trying to decide what to do.

“You, uh, you kill him, you know,” the creature said suddenly, moving the last bit of distance until they were close enough to speak with us quietly.

Now I could finally get a sense of the thing, and it was off-putting. They wore the threadbare rags of one of the poor schlubs who’d been in here for a while, but they didn’t have the intense thinness the rest of the long-timers had. Which made me wonder if their clothes had been stolen by some other cellmate. They wore a hood over their head, obscuring their face.

When I tried to concentrate on seeing the creature itself, it seemed like they got blurry. As if they’d softened their focus, like a fantasy version of Cybill Shepherd in Moonlighting, where all the camera lenses had been oiled. Not to say the thing was as beautiful as Cybill Shepherd in Moonlighting, but, I mean, whatever. The thing didn’t do anything for me. They had smooth gray skin without any hair that I could see, and their fingers were kind of knobby, as if they had really bad arthritis, or just had big joints. And though it was hard to tell in the darkness, it seemed like it might have big pads at the ends of its fingers, like a frog. Or a newt.

“I know,” I replied.

“This may be good thing you do,” the creature said.

“I guess. It wasn’t my intention.”

“Is mistake for you to kill him?”

“I’m just not big on killing, by nature.”

“Oh. Is too bad. Good at killing.”

“Thanks? Not sure I like that about myself.”

“Maybe then is good you stay here. You die soon then.”

“You’re here to kill me?”

“No, no, no, no. This is not ever what I am doing—I am no killer either. Maybe you see, am more a more sneak to survive type of, um, thing. That is my way.”

“So, um, you’re, um—why are we going to die here? The dungeon is just that rough?”

“Dungeon is rough, yes. But is more where you stand at moment that will be problem for you.”

“And where is that?”

“You know not where you is?”

“I mean, I thought I knew, but you seem to know more.”

“Is maybe true. Maybe no.”

This dude was exhausting. I took a deep breath. “Can you explain what we should know about this spot, but don’t?”

“I do this because you do favor for me.”

“What favor?”

“You already do favor. You kill Jerry.”

“That’s the name of Duckbeaver?”

“What is Duckbeaver?”

“Dead, apparently.”

“Is what you call the gardabaer?”

“It is. The gardabaer was named Jerry?”

“Is what he call himself. Maybe is not true name, but Nōnnah no know.”

“Who’s Nōnnah?”

The creature tapped its chest.

“That’s your name,” I said, and the creature nodded. “I’m Del, and the sleeping one there is Sterling.”

Sterling opened one eye and gave a smile at our new potential friend. “Pleasure,” he whispered.

“Know names,” Nōnnah said. “Remember. But is better talk later, after move.”

“Where should we move?” I asked.

Nōnnah looked around and then pointed at a bare section of one of the stone walls.

“Away from the bars?” Sterling asked.

“Yes,” Nōnnah snapped quickly. “Away from bars.”

“Bear with us a second more,” I said, worried Nōnnah was just trying to ambush us. “Just, can you tell us why?”

“Cleaners.”

“Cleaners?”

“Yes.”

“We need to be worried about the cleaners?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of cleaners are they?”

Just then, as if the universe decided it was as tired of our conversation as I was, a shrill scream echoed through the hallway. It sounded like a primal moment of terror, a scare so profound it robbed whomever was screaming of all their humanity. Or whatever species-ity might apply.

“That is cleaners,” Nōnnah said. The creature was no longer waiting for us, running toward the back wall.

I looked at Sterling, but Sterling wasn’t there—he was already following Nōnnah.

I still wasn’t positive, but I didn’t think this was an ambush. If this Nōnnah fellow wanted to do something to us, he could have just let us stay near the bars, in reach of the cleaners, whatever they were. Unless, of course, there were no cleaners.

But another scream reverberated around the stone walls. This one didn’t sound like fear—it sounded like pain. I could hear flesh being torn. Bones snapping. Something slurping.

And I was moving. Those sounds didn’t seem like they could be faked, and I didn’t want to chance meeting with anything that could make someone make that noise.

Chapter

Seventeen

We crashed into the wall at the one bare spot where no one else was huddled. Basically all our cellmates were cowering in groups, wrapped up in rags with their heads covered, keeping their backs to the bars. Nōnnah followed suit.

I didn’t see any of the squirrels—they had all managed to disappear somewhere. Although, really, I knew exactly where they’d gone. I was just a little surprised they’d all gone.

“What are these cleaners?” I asked, whispering so as not to disturb the group nearest me, who all seemed to be sleeping.

“Not to be talked of,” Nōnnah hissed back, glaring at me with his blurry face. At least, I think he was glaring at me—a minor problem with having a face in perpetual soft focus was that it didn’t lend itself to obvious emotional displays.

“What, they know when we are talking about them?”

“Maybe. But is no good chancing, yes?”

“Huh?”

“I think he means that it might be true, and it might not,” Sterling said. “But he sees no advantage knowing one way or the other, so he might as well just go with the idea it is true so as to not suffer the consequences there should the idea be true. Yet you think it’s not true, so you go about thinking on the things.”

“That’s just as confusing as what he said,” I said.

“And longer,” Nōnnah said.

“Well, I understood myself,” Sterling replied haughtily. “Why I thought I’d find a better quality of intellectualism on this floor is beyond me. Are we safe here?”

“Safer, yes. Safe? Maybe yes, maybe no. Stop talking, be safer still.”

“Fine, good night,” Sterling said. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, but was still sitting up.

I settled down next to Sterling and stared out at the hallway, trying to see across into the neighboring cell.

The larger beings there, the guys with hairy feet, had cots. And blankets. They also only had one wall with bars, so it really seemed like they had nicer conditions. Yet they were also all huddling against the far wall, facing away from the bars. All but one of them kept their blankets all the way over their heads.

I almost started talking again, but as I opened my mouth, Sterling grabbed my arm. He shook his head and put a finger up.

I nodded.

He nodded.

Then he pointed to the hallway and his ears.

I tried to focus on listening.

It was difficult because there was so much noise. More people screaming. More sounds of eating. I couldn’t figure out what Sterling wanted me to⁠—

“It’s getting closer,” Sterling whispered, his voice barely making it to my ears.

His hands were shaking, his whiskers quivered, and his entire body trembled.

He reached out and grabbed my shoulder, his little rat claws digging through my fur so hard I worried he’d pierce my skin.

“It’s okay,” I said, trying to placate the rat, but then I started to feel something. A deep welling of something emerging inside me.

Fear.

Terror.

Horror.

A blend of it all, like a cloud wafting over me, robbing me of any normal sensibility. My brain screamed at me to run. Flee. Hide. But my body went rigid, unable or unwilling to react.

All along the wall, I could see others begin to feel the same thing. It moved over us like a wave.

And even when I thought it had to have reached its zenith, the sense continued. I wanted to turn away, roll up into a ball or something to avoid whatever was coming down the hall, and yet I was frozen in place. I needed to see what was coming.

Sterling gave up the fight, collapsing to the side and curling up in his cloak until he seemed like nothing more than a bundle of rags forgotten in the dark cell.

Finally, a being moved in the hall.

Slow.

The wave of fear fully crashed over me.

My eyes weren’t working quite right, like I was looking through a growing haze, and I had trouble focusing on what was there. Still, I knew something was there because I could hear it. I could sense its movement. And I could smell the hot foulness of the thing. A miasma of death and shit and mold and rot surged over me. I found myself holding a breath I didn’t have, seeing as I didn’t breathe.

But that stupid thought, that little absurdism, shook me a little, and I smiled. I thought about my senses and how if I didn’t really have a nose, maybe I didn’t need to smell if I didn’t want to. So I tried to force my nose to stop working.

The scent disappeared. All the scents, actually.

Then I looked around, as if I might see something that told me where the smells had gone, because it was such a fundamentally bizarre thing to lose a sense.

But in looking around, I moved enough that I gained the attention of the cleaner. I couldn’t help myself—our eyes met.

Massive red, glossy eyes dominated my world. The haze had vanished, and I could see clearly. Not much, but clear. The cleaner’s bulk was on the other side of the bars, though it was reaching through, trying to grab things. What it was using to grab, and what it was trying to grab, I couldn’t tell. But it had thin tentacle-like arms that wove through the bars, almost like an anemone.

I could feel that it wanted me because I’d dared to look at it. It reached its arms out as far as they would go, their ends wiggling slightly, as if that might give it a little more reach. But it was still quite far, so I wasn’t in any real danger. And yet, the realization that it was trying to reach for me pushed me to the brink of sanity.

I tried to close my eyes and turn away, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop looking at the thing.

But I could turn my eyes off, in theory.

So I tried.

Everything went black.

Except not exactly black, because that’d be like I was still seeing things. It all just went away, and I was left just feeling and hearing.

So then I turned off my ears.

And then my sense of touch.

But that didn’t work for some reason—I couldn’t turn that off.

Still, not being able to see, hear, or smell gave me respite. The fear was still there, but I suppose the intrinsic belief in the power of iron bars to keep this weird cleaner being away was strong enough that a smidgen of security began to well up, eventually to the point that I could pull my self back from the brink.

And as I sat there in pseudo-sensory deprivation, I focused on my life in the old world. I tried to remember everything from there. Who I had been. What I had wanted. I thought of Lindsey Queen, in theory still out there, getting ready for our date. The tiny ray of sunshine was so far from my reality now that I had to laugh at it.

Finally, the fear started to recede. I immediately started to push the mana back to my senses, getting them going again until I was back to being in the prison cell.

The fear was gone. As was the smell. And the cleaner. I could just see its bulk moving along to the next cell, catching just the vaguest sense of what it might be. Maybe some sort of slime or snail or—no, it had legs. I grabbed for more information, but it was like a dream. The harder I tried to remember things, the quicker it all slipped away.

“Motherless Brooklyn,” I cursed softly, staring up at the ceiling. “What is this place?”

Chapter

Eighteen

The night was long. How long, I can’t say, because time was even more of a mind-fuck than normal, given, well, everything. I had the feeling that even with a watch, I’d have had trouble keeping track of the hours.

It took a while for the screaming to end, so apparently the cleaners did quite a bit of cleaning throughout the dungeon. Or maybe we were at the start of the prison, or at least the start of the area the cleaners were in charge of. And as they were organic beings, at least as far as I could tell, they had to have a spot where they slept.

A good place to avoid.

Somewhere in the darkness, the screaming finally stopped, leaving us with a sense of—well, not calm. Calm would be too nice for what this was, which was more like a feeling of slight relief. The pressure of the cleaners was gone, but the reality of being imprisoned remained.

I could breathe a little easier until I remembered I didn’t need to breathe. I took some minutes in the darkness to dwell in the stillness, trying to center myself and remind myself of my body. Normally, back in the old world, this would seem a bit froo froo gooptastic, but here, I could really do that. I had my energy inside me, the mana or whatever, and I could move it around my body. I reminded myself that I had two arms, two legs, and a head. I moved my eyes from regular vision to night vision and back again.

Then I tried to shift into other ways, ignoring the pain, feeling confident I could get my vision back to normal. I felt like I was on to something—that there was another way I could get my eyes to see the world, but I just couldn’t quite get there. Like I was climbing a cliff, but it was just a little too difficult with my current skills. It also took a depressing amount of mana to keep pushing. So I stopped and got my eyes back to normal.

I moved on to my ears. I didn’t exactly have ears, at least not that I could feel. My head was just round and furry, with a giant and pointless mouth and two big fucking eyeballs. But could I adjust my “ears” to hear better?

I tried.

Nothing happened.

Leaning against the stone, I decided I needed to have a thing to change in order to change it. Which sounds obvious saying it out loud, but it was different when you’re in the thick of it. You know, trying to change the shape and capabilities of your body with just the magic stuff you’re holding inside. Everyone can relate, right?

I sighed. Which, yeah, once again, only for effect. Then I went back to moving the mana around my body, trying to see what else I could do. Which turned out to be meditate.

So that’s what I did.

Chapter

Nineteen

Squeaks echoed through the hall, coming in a rhythmic pulse. The noise was quickly accompanied by the noises commensurate with a group rising from slumber. Groans, coughing, hacking, calling out to friends and enemies.

Morning had come. Or more appropriately, light was coming. Somewhere nearby, an ogre lit lamps.

And even though it was some distance from us, just the slight illumination kickstarted everyone in our cell to life again. They all rushed to the bars. It was a mad dash, which, given the size of the cell and the size of us in it, must have been hilarious to watch from the outside.

Sterling and I watched as Nōnnah sprinted after the others. He didn’t have the best form, but he did seem to want it a bit more, so he managed to overtake a lot of creatures. I couldn’t really see what was happening over in the front corner, but we were the only ones not partaking.

“What are we missing?” I asked.

Sterling shrugged. Or he was just fiddling with his overcoat. Hard to tell. Either way, he stopped eventually and held out his hand. It had a small blue ball in it.

I held my hand out.

He dropped the blue ball into my hand, and I saw two little eyes looking at me. A blue slimeball. It blinked, and then moved its eyes around its body to look at the other bits of the room, seemingly curious and maybe a little confused.

“What’s this?”

“Bit of breakfast for you,” Sterling replied, chewing on something.

“Wow, thanks,” I said.

But before I sucked the essence out of the poor thing, I checked my character sheet. Specifically, my mana capacity.

MP: 258/270

Close enough to full that it felt wrong to end the little slimeball. It was probably the cutest slime-based entity I’d seen.

“I don’t need it now,” I said, half to myself.

Sterling, who was chewing on a stick now, raised an eyebrow.

“Explain,” he said.

“I’m at full,” I replied.

“Is that… new?”

“Still taking notes on my zardlingness?”

“I would be a fool to stop studying just because we are in an ill-fitting spot.”

“Ill-fitting?”

“Trying to be optimistic.”

“How’s that going?”

“Bit of a challenge, to be honest. But I would appreciate it if you would stop changing the subject.”

“I think it’s new,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I’d be close to empty back, um, a level down.”

“In the midden. We do not need to keep that secret.”

“Yeah. But back to the, um, me, I don’t really have much data to draw on⁠—”

“I am keeping track as best I can,” he said. “And this is the longest stretch of time you’ve gone without a meal. At least in the time we’ve been acquainted.”

“Why do you think I’m fine, then?”

“I continue to believe that the crystals caught within your fur are helping you absorb latent, ambient mana. However, we must not forget that there could be additional variables at play. For example, is there additional mana on this level? Does ambient mana increase as you move up through the tower?”

“No idea.”

“I do not expect you to have an answer—I am simply trying out some ideas. I would suggest holding on to that little fellow in case a time comes when you need them.”

Sterling took out a brush and combed down his fur. He used a palmful of waxy substance, kind of like pomade, to tame the unruly hairs between his ears.

“So,” I said, putting the blue slimeball into an inner pocket on my cloak, “care to tell me where you’re getting all this stuff?”

“No, I do not.”

“You have any other surprises stashed away?”

“Hopefully, all of them,” Sterling said, wandering toward the other rats, “but I would prefer they remain a mystery while we cannot control things.”

I shook my head at the rat, confused by so much of what had happened between us. Why was he keeping secrets at this point, when⁠—

“Seems you made a friend or two in the night,” the Hogan said, rather suddenly standing right next to me.

“Seems like you skipped out on the night.”

“Can you blame me? The darkness is a horror show.”

“You know, could have had a heads-up about those things.”

“The cleaners or Nōnnah?”

“The cleaners. What’s wrong with Nōnnah?”

“Always gloomy. Real vibe killer.”

“I guess I can see that, but it’s not like this is some luxurious vacation destination. It’s a dungeon.”

“Least you stopped calling it a prison.”

“Yay for semantic victories.”

“What with it being a dungeon, I’d have thought you’d know to take victories where you can.”

“Then, double yay?”

“A marginal improvement, but I’ll take it. The not telling you about the cleaners was something of an initial test. If you can’t make it through the night with them around, you aren’t worth much in here. Kinda know you’re already on the way out.”

“What are those things?”

“The cleaners? Not exactly sure, to be honest. Never seen one outside of Gorlami, for one, leading me to think they’re some sort of awful creation from in here.”

“They make creatures here?”

He looked over at me, one furry red eyebrow raised.

“You know, I forget you’re new here, what with you kind of seeming like you were maybe created by the tower.”

“By the tower?”

“In the tower. Or maybe I meant by… It’s a strange thought. And I don’t want to get into it—it’s immaterial.”

“You’re not curious about the tower or the cleaners or⁠—”

“All that stuff has no bearing on what the Nutlord wants, so I don’t care. I do care, a smidge, that the cult is already getting to know your buddy.”

The Hogan flicked his tail out, a bit like he was shaking the fur and loosening himself up, but his tail very clearly directed at Sterling, who was in the middle of a hushed conversation with all the other rats.

“Awesome,” I said, not really sure how to respond, because I wasn’t really ready to judge the rats the way the Hogan had, but I also had zero good feelings about them.

“He’ll leave you behind, you know,” the Hogan said. “Nature of the rats is, “fuck everyone else but us.””

“And the nature of squirrels?”

“In general, or those of us in here?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yeah, we’re mostly criminals with hearts of gold who love you as long as you help us.”

“And in general?”

“Think it’s safe to say we’re all pretty nice until you try to make life hard for us or our clan. And then we remind you that we have big teeth and sharp claws.”

“Climbing trees and eating nuts?”

“See, there you go—being unfunny again. Thought you might have learned.”

“Not yet. Bad habit, I guess.”

“Say the word, and we can help you break that.”

“Didn’t realize that was a service you offer.”

“We offer a lot of services, and that’s a popular one.”

“Making people not funny?”

“Yeah.”

“And Nōnnah’s the vibe killer in here?”

The Hogan frowned at me.

“You know, I think I might just do the business I got to do with you and then let you make shit jokes by yourself.”

“Aw, you don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, well, I’m all heart. Now, I gotta ask: you want to take all your breakfast or just some?”

“What’s the difference?”

“You really need me to explain all versus some?”

“I got that part—but there must be a reason to want my food.”

“Smart squ—that doesn’t work with you, does it? Gotta rethink my sayings with you, unless I just want to call you a squirrel…”

“I’m just assuming these are rhetorical and that you don’t actually want me to weigh in.”

“Good assumption. Look, every prisoner in here gets the same meal, twice a day, every day.”

As if on cue, a huge wooden cart came into view in the hallway, a massive thing covered with small doors, small shelves, and laden with small trays of food. A large metal pot hung off the front, steam escaping in pops and burps from the cast iron lid. It looked a lot like an ogre-sized, ogre-built version of a flight attendant’s galley cart. Two plump pharks pulled the cart via a T-handle, but it seemed like the bulk of the propulsion came from a burly ogre wearing stained white clothes who strained as he pushed the cart from behind.

Dorian, one of the two ogres I had names for, came along as well, lighting lanterns as he went.

“You might think someone would realize we littles don’t rightly need the same portions as the bigs. But so far, ain’t the case, and we aim to keep it that way. Thus, we spread some of the extra food around to a number of prisoners who are interested in making arrangements with us.”

“So I give up a part of my meal, you get to sell it, and then I get a cut?”

“Something like that, sure.”

“What’s the cut?”

“Got to admit it isn’t that simple. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this ain’t exactly a mercantile economy. It’s mostly barter, and I can’t give you a cut of the information I got from the dill weed in cell eighteen who wants enough bread to survive until he gets his head cut off in two weeks, can I?”

“No, but I’m sure the Nutlord gets a cut from that.”

“He gets all he wants from it. But you aren’t the Nutlord, are you?”

“Probably nut.”

“Really?”

“Sorry.”

The Hogan sucked in air in disgust. “The basic gist is that in here, giving up a portion of the meal you most certainly don’t need and can’t actually eat is really kind of how you maintain positive relations with me and mine.”

“Ah, there it is.”

“What?”

“The coercion.”

“I can see how you might think that. But allow me to counter with the truth: this place here, this cell, best serves me and the Nutlord by being a calm and tranquil place of routine. Everyone getting along and⁠—”

“No bumps.”

“Hey, there you go! You were listening. Much better at being smart than a smart-ass, mystery red creature. In order for this place to be, what, bump-less? I want to make sure no one feels pressure or displeasure unless absolutely necessary. So if you, or anyone here, wants nothing to do with us, we’re more than happy to ignore you. But if you want to work with us, you start by sharing the wealth. It’s the least we ask. And notice, we do ask. So, here I am, asking, not coercing—you want to share the food you got that you can’t possibly physically fit inside your fuzzy body?”

“Sure.”

“And how much we talking here?”

“All of it.”

“All of it?”

“All the food.”

“Look, I recognize the quality ain’t there, but if you don’t eat nothin’, you’re not gonna last long here.”

“I’m good. You can have it all.”

“Short-term planning there, red thing. You let me know when you want to start eating, but in the meantime⁠—”

“Consider me all in.”

“Won’t argue, and appreciate your enthusiasm. You think you can talk for the rat as well?”

“I think he’s probably happy with you taking half.”

“Excellent,” the Hogan said with a smile.

He clapped me on the shoulder and then managed to strut his way toward the open door of the cell where absurdly large, for us at least, plates of food were being prepped and slid across the floor.

Chapter

Twenty

While I studiously ignored my food, Sterling left the rat pack and came back over to me, chewing on something that looked a lot like the dried meat I’d had in my pack. Which I no longer had…

Sterling leaned against one of the bars, looking out at the hallway.

“Is that mine?” I asked.

“What?” Sterling replied.

“The meat.”

“You want some?”

“No, just curious where you got it.”

“Your bag.”

“Which is where?”

“Safe. Good talk with the squirrel?”

“Sure. He wants some of our food—he’ll use it to keep his black market trade economy moving.”

“Seems smart.”

“Told him he could take all of mine and half of yours.”

“Fair.”

“What did the rats say?”

“A lot. Talkative bunch.”

“Anything worth sharing?”

“Not yet. They are more… feeling me out.”

Nōnnah skulked back over to us. It was an odd thing to watch in the bright light of what passed for day in the dungeon. I didn’t realize it was possible to skulk in full view, and yet this slightly creepy, sometimes out-of-focus being pulled it off.

“Being new here,” Nōnnah said, “maybe you no know is best you get first pass at pots.”

“Pots?” I asked.

“Yes. Pots. For the, um, you know, the um⁠—”

“Morning ablutions?” Sterling asked, eyes still closed.

“Ab-what?”

“Ablutions?”

“Um—”

“I think he means poop,” I said. “Excretions.”

“I did not,” Sterling said, opening an eye and glaring at me. “I would have said poop, or a synonym thereof. I meant ablutions, which are the morning washings one does to keep oneself clean and proper.”

“Ah. No. Is other one.”

“Poop,” I said.

“Yes. Also other, um, things.”

“Chamber pots, then,” Sterling said.

“Yes. Is how most are, um⁠—”

“Used?”

“Yes.”

“Given our environment, I’d guess abused over merely used.”

“Is maybe both?” Nōnnah asked, I think to himself. Then he nodded. “Yes. Is both.”

“Thank you for the knowledge, but, and I speak only for myself, I have no need of that at the moment.”

Nōnnah frowned at me.

“I can’t go with everyone watching,” I said.

“Is odd,” Nōnnah replied, shaking his head.

“So what is the next part of our routine here, Nōnnah?” Sterling asked, stretching his arms up above his head, the dried meat nowhere to be found.

“Routine?” Nōnnah asked. “Is feeding.”

He pointed at the food, none of which was touched yet, but the inmates were circling around to pick out the best meal as soon as they were allowed to touch the plates.

“Ah. I can see my mistake in not being more clear, what with me thinking it was obvious that food is next. I was wondering if there is anything beyond that.”

“After food?”

“After food.”

“Sometimes.”

“But nothing for sure?”

“No. Only for sure is food at morning and food at night and… things.”

“Cleaners?” I asked.

“Best not talk that.”

“Right, sorry.”

Nōnnah shrugged.

“So what comes after the morning food?” Sterling asked.

“Uh, waiting?”

“Ah. I imagine that will be the bulk of the light?”

“Light?” Nōnnah asked, very confused.

“He means day,” I said.

“Right, day, sorry,” Sterling said, quickly correcting himself.

“Oh. Waiting is yes, what is done.”

“The food—is it typical dungeon fare?”

“Maybe? Nōnnah has little, uh, experience in other places. But food is… edible.”

“Oh, of course—I did not mean to imply anything else. I just thought you might have been here long enough to know how to advise newcomers such as Del and myself on how we might best flourish within these confines?”

“Flourish? Is not possible flourish. Is maybe possible die slower.”

“Ah, wonderful. I suppose we have to adjust our expectations.”

“Unless you is squirrel. Then maybe you get good life here.”

“They don’t seem to care that we aren’t squirrels,” I said.

“They will. You wait, you see.”

“What does that mean? When are they going to care?”

“Care now, just not show it.”

There was a great big clang as the barred door shut.

Nōnnah didn’t rush away, but he did start in the direction of the food, looking back once to see if we were following. Sterling did. And while I didn’t need to eat, it’s not like I had anything else to do.

A small number of creatures eagerly grabbed their food, hurrying away from the menacing gray squirrels who stood nearby. The squirrels didn’t do anything to those creatures—they barely even gave them a second look. But most of our cellmates waited for the squirrels to go along the plates, removing food and placing it in large sacks, which were then thrown over squirrel shoulders and hiked over to the wall.

I noticed the gardabaer’s clothes were now being worn by something that was not the gardabaer. I could get behind sustainable fashion like that, but I did sort of wish they’d taken the time to rinse the blood out. It carried some odd memories for me.

After the squirrels had taken their share, the rest of the prisoners descended upon the food, eating with relatively wild abandon. It was pretty simple stuff: big hunks of black bread, two links of a dark sausage, and something that looked way too green and gelatinous to be natural or safe to consume. The squirrels had taken nearly all the bread and one of the sausages. And even though I had my doubts, it didn’t seem like there was any real issue with eating the green stuff. Apparently it was delicious.

Another clang rang out, and I saw that our friends across the way were eating too. There was a little tag, like a piece of paper, mounted on the cell opposing ours. It hung about three quarters of the way up the cell, which I guessed was about eye level for ogres and a little above head height for the human I’d just seen.

The handwriting wasn’t great, so I had a hard time parsing it out, but I landed on, “6SN, 6FM, NJT, NFT.”

Interesting.

One of the pharks stood near our cell, scribbling something on the clipboard. He ripped the something off the clipboard, at which point I saw it was a piece of paper the same size and shape as the one on the opposite cell and attached it in a similar position on our cell. But whatever the phark had written was impossible to read, what with it facing outward.

Obviously, the numbers were a count of how many people were in the cell. The number six referred to the six furry-footed, round-faced, beardless things in comfortable clothes who were currently downing their meal with surprising enthusiasm. But the “FM” and “SN” were somewhat mysterious. F for Food? Found? M? Meals? Meat? Marked? S for… sleep? N for Night or None or Nix? Six at sleep time, six at feed time? Or did the S mean Souls? Suspects? Sickos? I didn’t have much to go on, but even those weren’t as puzzling as NJT and NFT. What did those mean?

By the time I gave up trying to figure out the code, the phark had shuffled off, disappearing down the hallway. We were left on our lonesomes once again. You know, all twenty-plus of us in the cell.

Chapter

Twenty-One

Isat down with Sterling and Nōnnah. Nōnnah looked over at me mid-mouthful and gave me a slight nod.

“Good of you to finally join us,” Sterling said. “I have been meeting some of these new chaps and chapettes and otherwise, and they are quite exciting. This one here, this is Spider Murphy.”

“Spider Murphy?” I asked.

The creature nodded.

Sterling leaned over to me. “A rather fascinating individual, Spider Murphy,” he whispered, “but I’ve yet to really get her story.”

As you’d expect for someone partially named Spider, she had an exoskeleton and compound eyes. But as far as I could tell, she only had two legs and two arms. Her hands were different because it looked like six fingers were wrapped around her bowl, arranged so that there were two and two and two very close together. Equal sets of two all the way around, so that if she placed her hand down flat, it would make like a Mercedes star, I guess.

She didn’t have much of a face. She had things that looked like mandibles, only they’d been broken off messily at some point and hadn’t ever regrown. Behind those was a—I hesitate to use the term reasonably human, but something that was along the lines of a mammalian—mouth, with soft, fleshy lips and a brilliantly purple tongue. Everywhere else, she was completely black, with the exoskeleton parts having a satin-y finish and the flesh bits more glossy. At least the parts I could see did, since she wore faded gray rags over most of her body.

“Spider Murphy,” Spider Murphy said.

Her voice was gruff, and her cadence was odd, as if she’d just figured out how to put tonal variation in her sentences but didn’t know what the various tones meant yet. On its own, I couldn’t tell if she was asking if my name was Spider Murphy, if she was confused why Sterling thought her name was Spider Murphy, or if she was just stating her name as Spider Murphy. Context clues said the latter, so that’s what I went with.

“Yeah, I’m Del,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you. Who’s this?”

“Ah, yes, that would be Little Joe,” Sterling said. It annoyed me he couldn’t let the little creature answer for himself.

Little Joe was, no surprise, very small. A woodland creature of some variety, but not one I could immediately place. I’d guess mouse, being that, next to Sterling, he seemed remarkably mouse-like. Smaller and cuter, with a tiny face and big ears. But his legs were shaped differently—he had incredibly long feet and reasonably large toes attached to weirdly short legs. He smiled at me and gave a little waggle of his fingers, and then licked his whiskers to clean off any food he’d missed.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Nice to be meeting you,” said Little Joe. “I am Joe. Some call me Little, but in my home I am big and it is a joke and now I am here and it is accurate and I am not sure how to be feeling about that, am I? You are new with Sterling?”

“Yeah, Sterling and I are new here.”

“Did you come today or last night?”

I looked over at Sterling and then glanced over at Nōnnah. “We got here right before lights out. Had that thing with that Duckbeaver guy.”

“Duckbeaver guy?” Little Joe asked, also glancing toward the creature.

“Jerry. Is when you sleeping,” Nōnnah said. “Little Joe is little sick, eh? Doing much sleeping, eh Joe?”

“That’s true. I’ve been sleeping a lot. Something’s not quite right and I do find myself, how do you phrase it?”

“Passing the fuck out,” Spider Murphy blurted.

“Yes, yes, yes—that’s a good way to put it,” Little Joe continued. “I tend to be normal and then I feel this wave of exhaustion and then, you know, I’m out. I’ll wake up later and thankfully some of the creatures in here ain’t quite so atrocious, so they take care of me while I’m, um, unable to account for my own self. So far, I keep waking up alive.”

“Good friends.”

“Decent,” he replied with a smile.

“Is surprise death a real worry here?”

“Not really,” Spider Murphy said. “Much as maybe I dislike dealing with the furry tail fuckers, they keep things inside here mostly calm.”

“Especially now they don’t have to keep that horrible tool Jerry under control,” Little Joe said.

“Which they failed at.”

“Yes, you could say that,” Spider Murphy said. Or asked. I couldn’t tell.

“He did say that,” Nōnnah said. “Is what would be truth. As also what Nōnnah was to say.”

“Good to know,” I said.

“Is much better to have squirrels happy who keep warden happy.” Nōnnah started to whisper very softly. “Warden is bad. Is much bad. Is most better keeping out of warden sight, as warden is…”

“Not a friend to the inmates?” Sterling asked.

“Friend to the torturer,” Little Joe said, his voice barely audible.

“Okay,” I said, “that’s also good to know. The pharks with the food car this morning—do you know what they do here?”

“Morning guards,” Nōnnah said.

“Right, but what they’re doing, is that the count? The morning count, I mean?”

“Yes,” Little Joe said with a nod. “They count how many of us are here in the morning and⁠—.”

“Point of clarification,” Sterling said. “What is morning?”

Basically everyone looked over at Sterling, like they weren’t quite sure what joke he was playing. Or maybe they were waiting for the punchline.

“Oh, funny joke, Sterling,” I said, hoping he’d pick up the vibe.

For a moment, we all waited.

“Right,” Sterling said, forcing out a laugh. “A kidder and a jokester—that’s what I, Sterling, am known for! I am Sterling and I know all about morning.”

“How you not know morning?” Nōnnah asked.

“Not important,” I said, pushing into a different topic. “I’ve been trying to figure out what the pharks are writing. Also, are they writing? Do they actually know how to write and read?”

“Is many questions,” Nōnnah replied quickly. “How we answer?”

“Let’s start with that note. What do they write up there?” I pointed to where the little piece of paper was.

“Why would…” Spider Murphy started.

“Can’t read from other side,” Nōnnah said.

“No idea,” Little Joe added, yawning. “Don’t think it’s that important, really.”

He ate a little faster.

“Okay, but across from us it says 6SN, 6FM, NJT, NFT,” I said. “There are 6 of them over there. Figure the six references how many there are. N for night, M for morning. But that leaves a lot of letters unaccounted for, and I’m curious.”

“A crude tracking system?” Sterling asked.

“Not sure it’s that crude. But I can’t figure out all the letters. Ideas?”

“Not yet, but it would appear I have some time in my schedule today to think upon it.”

I gave the rat a smile, happy he could keep his mood up despite our situation.

“And no one else here has any ideas?” I asked. “Just us two newbies are curious?”

“You have many questions,” Nōnnah said, but not in a polite way. I guess Nōnnah was content to accept things being the way they were.

“I’m a curious sort of guy,” I replied.

“Del must know curious type also danger type guy.”

“How curious are you?” Spider Murphy asked.

I started to answer, but Sterling chuckled and beat me to it.

“I’ve never met anyone as curious as him,” Sterling said. “He wants to know everything. And the weird part is, somehow, he almost always manages to find out.”

“What strikes me as weird,” popped up a new voice, “is how a thing like you wound up with a rat as a traveling partner?”

I looked over at the newcomer, someone a bit weasel-ish that I thought I recognized. If I squinted my eyes and moved my head fast to blur my vision, he looked like someone I’d seen during the fight with Duckbeaver.

“Did I fight you yesterday?” I asked.

“Not really,” came the reply.

“You want to make that a little clearer, because⁠—”

“I was with him, but not really.”

“Oh. Totally cleared up now.”

“You want to clear up that, um, thing about you being with the rat?”

“Well, it’s a funny story,” I said.

“Go on,” the weasel said.

“Well, that’s it, really,” I said. “It’s just a funny story.”

“You gonna tell the story?”

“Nah, it’s not that good.”

“You said it was funny.”

“Sure, but funny doesn’t mean good.”

“I could laugh.”

“Seems like that might hurt.”

“So that’s it? Just a funny story?”

“Yeah, weird how that is. Figure it’s about as good a story as whatever it was you did with that fuckface. And speaking of face, sorry about your face, by the way. Also, I guess, your friend. I mean, I don’t want to make any assumptions, but it seems like you were part of Duckbeaver’s crew, right?”

“Duckbeaver?”

“I’m sorry—I never got to know your boss. How would you describe him?”

“One, not my boss. Two, Jerry was a piece of shit who had just enough utility to the squirrels that they kept him around, but I had to be the one who watched him. Which meant whenever Jerry thought I was ratting on him to the squirrels, I got beat. And then they’d take all the food from Jerry, as food was really the only way to control the idiot, even though I told the boss that Jerry was going to lose control. Which he did, and I’m only glad it was on someone who could put up a moderate defense against him.”

“Yeesh, that guy sucked.”

He nodded. So did the rest of the group.

“Well, anyway, I guess,” I said, extending my hand. “No hard feelings, right? Whatever your past is, it’s past.”

“Kinda seems like we’re working for the same boss at the moment,” the weasel-like fellow said, shaking my hand.

“I mean, are we? I’m just, you know, surviving here with my buddy Sterling.”

“The rat.”

“Yeah, the rat. Although he does have a name. Sterling.”

“I don’t like rats.”

“Everybody has their biases, but you can still be friendly, right? We’re new here, just trying to get along. And for the record, I would have tried to get along with Duckbeaver, and I’m only saying ‘Duckbeaver’ because I just can’t seem to remember his name⁠—”

“Jerry. Was a gardabaer, not ‘Duckbeaver.’”

“Right, yeah. I do apologize for that, and if he were alive, I’d apologize to him for getting it wrong. Thank you. You got a name?” I asked.

“Zikzak.”

“I’m Del. Hey, the squirrels mentioned something about a judge or someone coming every once in a while. Does that happen?”

“Somewhat,” Zikzak said.

“Okay, what really happens?:”

“Is adjudicator,” Nōnnah said. “Adjudicator? Is it what is word?”

He looked over at Spider Murphy.

Spider Murphy nodded. “Yeah. Adjudicator, judge, counsel, whatever.”

“Adjudicator rare come here,” Nōnnah said to me. “More often, not here when supposed be here.”

“Ah,” I said.

“They come down and they call your name or number and you go into the hall,” Zikzak said. “Some magic going on where we can’t hear what’s being said, even though it’s happening right there. Adjudicator decides if you go free or if you have to serve more time. If you get time, you know how long, and they put you in the cell and you do that time. Serve it or whatever. Then they let you go. All of the things written on paper, stored in the room with all the paper. Because we’re little more than just little things written on paper, right? Or, I suppose, you don’t get to leave and you don’t serve time, then they take you to be ssshhinked.”

He made a motion with his hand like having your head cut off.

“Decapitation?” I asked.

“If you’re lucky, decapitation,” Zikzak said.

“Not many are lucky,” Spider Murphy said.

“And what if I’m not lucky?” I asked.

“Is much worse,” Nōnnah said.

“If you’re not lucky,” Zikzak continued, “the warden is going to surprise you with a way out.”

“Is best not be unlucky,” Nōnnah said quietly.

“Okay, from a remaining alive point of view,” I said, “it’s basically all going through the adjudicator⁠—”

“Dead, many more options.”

“Which I understand. Just trying to get a grasp of how things work here.”

“Is different than dungeon where you from?”

“First time in a prison thing,” I lied a little.

“Well, lucky fucking you, huh?” Zikzak snapped.

“I guess so,” I replied, “but⁠—”

“Hey, Little Joe sleeping,” Nōnnah whispered, pointing. “Maybe we stop arguing and just be quiet.”

Little Joe had curled up into a tiny mouse-like ball and was fast asleep. I took my cloak off and spread it over him. He grabbed it and pulled it a little tighter on himself without waking up. The rest of the group just looked at me. I shrugged.

I looked at the other groups of cellmates spread across this rather large cell of ours.

Most everyone just sat around in little groups, having quiet conversations. The squirrels were hidden in the wall. Only the massive guard squirrels were out near the entrance, playing a game of cards on the ground.

Chapter

Twenty-Two

The dungeon was a boring fucking place.

Although, since we were all small and the cell was large, it at least seemed more like having permanent yard time than being stuck inside a tiny room. After a while, I thought about how there weren’t any cots or toilets in this particular cell, unlike all the larger ones, and it made me wonder if this had been a shared space that they’d converted into a cell to handle the wee nasty things. Such as myself.

Various clumps of people milled around, the groups seemingly long established. A few lingered near the bars, peeking out. Maybe they were hoping something might happen, and then they’d be the first to know. Others were still by the back wall, huddled up trying to sleep or just lying there. I could see how this could easily be the type of life you’d prefer to just sleep through. The back wall was also where the few squirrels in the cell hung out, right near the secret door into the wall. Which couldn’t be that secret, given how obviously they were guarding something. And the bulk of the population hung around the middle, just sort of wandering about in sets of three or four, doing vague laps around the cell while chatting about this or that.

The rats were the exception. They existed in one large group, studiously ignoring everyone else. Although I did catch a few of them peering carefully at Sterling.

Sterling and I stuck around at the back wall, listening to Nōnnah and his friends chat on an ever-evolving range of topics. At the moment, they were discussing who might be getting a judicial appointment next, but directly before that, it had been on what kind of pan is best for searing bananas. I’m still not sure how they got from one topic to the other, but I wasn’t paying too much attention. I just let my brain filter out the bulk of it.

I thought about going over to the squirrels, trying to gain access to the walls so I could explore a little, but I didn’t. I’m not exactly sure why, but having to guess, I’d say there was a natural sort of inertial dampening happening. It felt nigh-impossible to develop the wherewithal to do something. No one did anything. We just existed there as a set of disparate groups.

I found it hard to come to grips with such a base sort of boredom. I’d never been in such a situation before, where there was absolutely nothing I could do. I was going to lose my mind.

So I got up, walked over to the bars, and stared out at the hallway.

It was empty.

But I wasn’t really there to see things. I wanted to listen.

I wanted to know what it sounded like when things were calm and, sort of, normal. I could tell people were talking, but not what they said. Their voices echoed off the stone walls, and by the time they reached my theoretical ears, it was little more than background noise.

More than the talking, though, there was this sense of quiet. That the talking I heard was only barely there and that my internal abilities were amplifying it so I could make it out. The prisons I’d visited in the old world, in my first life, were rarely quiet places. There was an impressive amount of activity despite individuals being contained within their cells. Hell, it often seemed that maximum security prisons were louder than the minimum club-fed prisons I visited more often. Of course, that could just be my perception of it, given that noise levels could certainly be different owing to my visits.

This bit of quietude could just be the normal ebb and flow of the day.

The group across the way, the only other beings I could see, mostly lay on their cots. They weren’t talking amongst each other. They were being rather still, so I thought that maybe they’d managed to find their way to sleep.

I thought about sleeping, but I wasn’t tired. And it’s not like there was any way to get comfortable. You try falling asleep on hard, slightly damp rocks while a brilliant light shines down and an anthropomorphic frog goes through a personal journey on a chamber pot. The soothing sound of grunts and semi-liquid impacts somehow didn’t manage to lull me into a slumber.

I could see, based on everyone else, that the challenges I was experiencing weren’t easily solved. At least I didn’t have to deal with a gnawing hunger on top of it all. I remembered how hard that was—I hadn’t had the best of childhoods, and food wasn’t always a guarantee. There were plenty of nights when I couldn’t sleep because my stomach was empty and there was no meal on the horizon.

Here, at least I was sated.

I heard footsteps coming down the hall. Not the deep thunk of ogres or the mild clink of pharks forced to wear hobnail boots, but a more refined noise. A tighter sound that made me think of offices or boardrooms.

I heard some whistles and a few hoots and hollers.

Something slammed into a set of bars, and there were the painful wet noises of someone, or something, being beaten. It’s a strangely specific sound. But the footsteps didn’t stop, so whoever was making the noise was not taking part in the beating.

Then she came around the corner. It was the first person, the first human I’d seen in this world that looked like they put actual effort into their appearance. I don’t want to cast aspersions on the guards that I saw, but none of them seemed to have it together in the looks department. They had greasy hair and uneven beards (even the female guard) and gave off the funk of people who believe bathing to be an awful chore. Which, given what I’d seen of hygiene in this world, might have actually been the truth.

And yet here was someone who bucked that trend. She had long hair that was done in an impressive blend of updo and downdo—is that even a thing? Not really my area of expertise. She wore a tight white button-up shirt topped with a high collar that went right up to her perfect jawline, with sort of poofy sleeves that ended in French cuffs. Then on the bottom, she wore a black skirt that ended right above the ground so I could just make out her high-heeled shoes, the source of the noise. They were different from any of the footwear I’d seen so far by the simple virtue of there being differentiation between the left and right sides. Back in the old world, I hadn’t really paid much attention to clothes, unless it was trying to find out the durability of certain fabrics and wondering how they might fare lasting through an apocalypse, but this woman was just so different in appearance and poise that I felt I had to pay attention to every aspect of her. It kind of looked like she was ready for a ball or an evening event, but instead she chose to deal with whatever issue she was responsible for down here in the dungeon.

Which, apparently, was us. Because while she didn’t pause for whatever violence was going on a few cells back, she did stop right in front of our cell. As she turned, I saw that she carried a clipboard that had papers on it, as well as a little on-board ink pot. She pulled out a feather from her hair, one I hadn’t even seen, and I realized it was her quill. She flipped open the ink pot, dipped the quill in, and then started writing. She scribbled notes without even bothering to look down at what she was writing. Which, on the one hand? Impressive. But on the other hand, maybe she wasn’t actually writing anything at all? Was it all for show? What was she writing? Was it about us?

She looked over the whole group, still writing, and then finally paused. She bit the end of her feather. I watched as she chewed on it for a second, looking across the gathered group of inmates.

“You there,” she said, her voice calm but firm, “red thing. Come forward.”

I stood up and walked toward her.

“Stop there,” she said.

I stopped, about five feet from the bars.

She stared at me for a moment, hand still scribbling along.

“Turn around,” she said.

I turned around.

“Jump for me.”

Had I been nearly anywhere else, I would have given her at least a raised eyebrow. But here, I just did a little jump. Somewhere right at the bare minimum, the sort of grandiose leap where you could certainly fit at least one to two credit cards under my soaring feet.

“Run.”

I jogged away from her.

“In a circle there,” she said, pointing with the end of her quill.

So I ran in a circle. Well, calling it running would be generous—I was going just fast enough to stay out of a high school speed-walking event.

She stood there for a moment longer. She shook her head a few times. She tsked and mumbled to herself.

All of the attention from our cell and the cell across from us was completely focused on this woman, but she didn’t care in the least. She wasn’t oblivious to it—it definitely seemed like she knew we were watching her. She just didn’t give a shit.

We were prisoners, while she was clearly someone of importance. Her clothes dictated she had money. Even I knew that getting things custom-fit to you, the way that they had to have been for these clothes to look the way they did on her body, she had money. And if she had money, she was important.

I sighed, because there was no way of figuring out anything more about the woman. How did she fit into the dungeon? She wasn’t the warden—that was James. She wasn’t the Keeper—that was that other asshole in the robes. She wasn’t a guard…

Could she be the psychiatrist? Was that even a position that existed in this world?

The woman continued to stare at me for a lot longer than I was necessarily comfortable with. Finally, I stopped running in the small circle.

She didn’t say anything, but she also didn’t stop looking at me. I half-wondered if she was daydreaming, having slipped into a thousand-yard stare or something.

But being that she was on the power side of the bars and I was on the worthless-piece-of-crap side, there wasn’t anything I could do about it. So I just stood there and stared back, waiting.

Finally, after writing what seemed like a work of Shakespeare on her clipboard, she nodded a few times and walked away.

It was then, and only then, that I realized she hadn’t been alone. She’d been escorted by three pharks. Two who were normal guard types, wearing too much armor and holding spears incorrectly, and one tiny phark wearing a small uniform that looked hastily assembled and lacking any actual armor. And to boot, Oscar lacked a weapon.

Chapter

Twenty-Three

Oscar smiled at me.

I wanted to reach through the bars and throttle the little phark traitor, but the presence of the two larger pharks kept me in check. However, as they turned to follow the lady, I leaned against the bars.

“Mind coming a little closer?” I asked.

“Gonna have to forgive me when I don’t,” Oscar replied, and yet still took a step closer. “Ain’t really got time to linger—gotta keep up with them over there.”

“Oh, well, I think I can probably make do and strangle you.”

“Hey, whoa, what’s with the hostility?”

“You’re really confused about it?”

“Yeah.”

“You sold us out.”

“I kept you alive.”

“How’s that? You could have said damn near anything to get us to the door to the stairs—” I paused, not wanting to say anything about Ratopolis.

“Nah, anything we did was going to be interrupted by the ogre. Big idiot like that’s more likely to kill us by accident. I knew if I acted as a guard, I could get us into a safe spot⁠—”

“Does this look safe to you?” I gestured at the prison.

“Yeah. Why? What’m I missing?”

“There’s these horrible things that come at night⁠—”

“The cleaners? I know. Nasty, we hide in our rooms while they’re out doing whatever they do.”

“We don’t have rooms to hide in, Oscar.”

“They come in the cells? There wouldn’t be any of you left⁠—”

“We have to cram up against that wall.”

“See? Safe. You made it through without a problem.”

“Without a—are you serious?”

“You have a hole? What?”

“No, just⁠—”

“You’re complaining.’

“I’m pointing out how fucked this is, Oscar. You betrayed us, and now you’re out there and we’re in here.”

“Only for the moment.”

“Yeah, you’ll probably find some way to move up in rank soon.”

“Have to grow a bit first. Then I can be considered for that, but you meant that in a nasty way, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Because⁠—”

“No reason for that. I’m trying to help.”

“I don’t see that⁠—”

“It’s not an immediate thing, you impatient fur bag. Takes a little time to make things happen. It’s only been a single damn night.”

“We could have been gone from here if you⁠—”

“When? When you tried to get out the jars in the archives office? Where there were four of them damn ogres all ready to squish you, just to get a new tasty treat?”

“Maybe.”

“Ain’t no way you could possibly outrun one of ’em. They’re too big. They walk faster’n’you sprint, Del. Now, I’m here, looking out for you, and I will not forget you and, uh⁠—”

“Sterling.”

“I know his name.”

“Do not.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Probably matters to Sterling.”

“I doubt it—he’s got other things on his mind. Now, before we bicker more, because you seem obstinately obsessed with that at the moment⁠—”

“You betrayed us⁠—”

“Matter of perspective. Just know that there’s a lot happening on this floor, and we can exploit those happenings for our own gain⁠—”

“You mean your gain.”

“My gain is your gain at the moment.”

“Seems like your gain is your gain, and Sterling and I are gonna wind up dead.”

“Always a chance here, it would seem. But I swear that I am doing my best to keep my two friends alive and moving toward freedom.”

“Are those two friends me and Sterling?”

“That hurts, fur ball.”

“You forgot my name, didn’t you?”

“No, I choose not to use it. Now, I have to run so I can catch up with my squad, or I’ll miss lunch.”

“At least you get lunch.”

“You need more food?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so—saw them loading up this morning, and it was a damn feast.”

“Before you go, who’s the woman?”

“What woman?”

“The one you’re escorting?”

“No idea.”

“None?”

“Nope. Just told to walk with her through the prison and keep her safe.”

“Did you beat someone up? I heard something⁠—”

“Wasn’t me. Michael did it. Someone tried to grab the woman. And before you ask, I don’t know anything else about her. Someone important, one of three main humans on the floor. Which I know is important, but not why. I have to go. Say hi to the rat for me.”

He sprinted off before I could say anything else.

I glared after him, feeling… conflicted.

What was he doing? What was his plan? Was he the idiot he seemed or the genius he played? Was⁠—

“Ooh boy!” came a holler from across the way.

Chapter

Twenty-Four

One of the halflings in the other cell was smiling at me.

“What?” I asked.

“What? You’re asking what?” the halfling asked. He kind of stumbled off the cot he’d been on. “Well it looks like somebody caught the eye of that mistress there.”

I came up to the bars, as close as I could make it to the halfling cell.

The halfling came over to his bars. Had we been closer, he would have towered over me.

It’s kind of weird being so much shorter than basically everyone.

This dude was maybe, maybe pushing three feet. He had a round, ruddy face, gentle curls, dark brown hair, and big brown eyes. And the kind of nose you see on those old dudes who’ve spent the last thirty-five years polishing bar tops for a few hours before they finally stumble home.

“Who’s the mistress?” I asked.

“Oh-ho-ho!” the halfling replied, drawing it out, seeming to enjoy this moment to explain the discovery. “Well, little red thing, that happens to be the Games Master. Or mistress, depending.”

“The games? What does that mean?”

“Means she’s the mistress of the games, little red thing.”

“Okay, but what are the games?”

“You don’t know about the games?”

“Obviously not—I’m asking you about the games.”

“Calm down there, little boy.”

“I’m not a little boy.”

“Well, you’re little to me. And let’s be honest—ain’t many things in this world littler than me. So yeah, I’ll take advantage and sling back some of the abuse I suffered. I don’t mean nothing by it. Just enjoying being the larger one for a change. You mind about that?”

“A little, but how about you just answer my question? Tell me about the games without making fun of my height?”

“Oh, I suppose. This here is a dungeon. Obviously. I assume you got that part?”

“Yep, well aware.”

“Well, at some point, someone decided that instead of just killing people in private, the better play would be to kill those people in public and charge other people to see that there event. All those people upstairs wanted a little entertainment and were willing to come down and watch. Now, that same person realized that a fight is much more fun to watch than a beheading, and so they got one of them fights going. And more people upstairs wanted to pay and watch. And so it became a thing where us fools downstairs put our lives on the line so that people upstairs get their entertainment. And the people in between—the warden and all them—get their execution as they want. Always gotta have some killing. That’s part and parcel of the whole dungeon thing, eh? And then, you see, it kind of grew. Because some of them people upstairs really liked seeing all this fighting. And then them people running this prison see the money they make from the occasional fight and execution. So it stands to reason…”

“They start the games?”

“That they do. Might be you ain’t as dumb as you look.”

“Well, I might be as dumb as you look.”

“Oh hey now—I do enjoy a good comeback. That wasn’t one, but if you had made one, I would’ve liked it. Now that lady, Malera, the master, she’s the one that runs them games. She figures it all out, makes sure that the show gets put on and that it’s exciting and what them folks upstairs want to spend money on.”

“Okay, so why was she here just now?”

“I keep thinking you’d be able to figure answers out, but hell. If she’s looking at you, that means she’s thinking of putting you somewhere in them games.”

“Does that mean I’m going to be executed?”

“If you don’t know you are going to be executed, probably not. Far as I know, ain’t something they spring on you as a surprise. Besides, you seem like a harmless sort. Probably did something stupid like barf a fur hairball on some noble puke. Pissed down the wrong green pipe. Took a shit in someone’s cereal. That’s what you did, eh?”

“I didn’t do any of those.”

“More’s the pity. Someone’ll come, tell you you’re going to be offered an opportunity. You’re going to be offered a chance to be a fighter.”

“A fighter?”

“Yep. That way you can go fight in them games.”

“Where they kill people.”

“Some people are killed, yeah, but you won’t be. Well, unless you really fail at the fighting part. But mostly, you go up against someone and you take a good cut to the face, go down in the sand, and give up. You get brought back, patched up, maybe get another fight if you were entertaining. But you’ll go up against something. Probably.”

“Is there anything else besides fighting in the games?”

“Plenty. Maybe you’ll do some races. Maybe you’ll be one of them in-between acts. One of them things where you caper about in the sand. While the workers be cleaning up the blood or the guts or stuff.”

“Blood or guts?”

“Ain’t been around much death?”

“More than some, less than others, I guess⁠—”

“Right, well, them killings ain’t pretty. You know, sometimes they shit themselves when they die. Most of the time. I guess it’s dependent. Either way, though, there’s a lot of stuff what gets left after one of them fights. Especially after just the executions. Of course, that depends on the execution, right? Could be a quick fhwop of the axe—then it’s not that much mess. Just, sometimes they do these things, executions by beast or monster or other, depending. And then it’s either no mess or lotsa mess, right? With no mess being what happens when the monster eats whatever’s left. So clean up ain’t much of anything then. But if it’s between two prisoners, there’s always going to be some blood.”

“And they have acts to entertain the audience between fights?”

“Sometimes. Not always. Thing is, I’m not much of a fighter. Or a watcher of fighters. I’m more⁠—

“Someone who shits in cereal?”

“That’s right—got me on that one. I have been known to imbibe a little extra beverage here and there. And I have made a few decisions in my time that have been, well, I wouldn’t say less than intelligent. But they have led me down a path I would not recommend taking. But here I am, doing my time. And soon, hopefully, I’ll be out of this hellhole and back to doing my regular job.”

“What’s your regular job?”

“I will try and pretend I am not affronted by you not knowing what it is I do or who it is I am—normally I’m a bookbinder.”

“You’re a bookbinder?”

“That is the truth of it. I bind books.”

I nodded.

“You know what books are? You know how to read?”

“Yes to both.”

“I didn’t know how to read until I started binding books. And then I was surrounded by all them books. And I figured, why not read some of them while I’m sitting here on my ass binding them, right? Waiting for the glue to dry takes forever. So I started reading them. They’re useful. I found out I didn’t know shit, and I learned a lot. Not much what’d help me out in this situation, being I ain’t got no magic out of ’em, nor got any real abilities or whatnot. Still, feel like I know more now. And I figure that counts for something. Pretty good job, book binding, all things considered. Much worse jobs out there. That fool back there, Larry? Larry’s a nightsoilman.”

“He’s a what?”

“A nightsoilman.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, he goes and picks up poop. Posh people’s poop.”

“Poop?”

“Yeah. He goes and cleans out the outhouses and the chamber pots. Puts most of it in the facility for generating manure that they use for the fields. Human and halfling, dwarf and gnome, lots of elf manure. Any and all poop in the tower, he picks it up, sorts it out, and mostly delivers it to the manure facility because it’s excellent for fertilizing.”

“What book you pick up that from?”

He gave me a wry smile, as if he’d been hoping I’d ask that.

“Cronin’s Explorations on Species Manure and Crop Fertilization Rates,” he said. “Which was a bit dry, if you ask me. Way too much written on a simple topic. Could really just’ve written, ‘have elves poop on farm fields,’ and be done, but that’s just my opinion. Did an extra special binding on it, because that was a request. I used this really, really fine thread to sew the signature. And I put in a little sprinkle of pixie dust in the spine. That really helped pull the book together. On the outside, I used this perfect goat hide leather. Not a single blemish in it. And it held on to the gold foil beautifully. Gotta say, one of my top 20 books I’ve bound. But, you know, maybe bottom 5 books I’ve read. Because, whew, that’s a lot of words about poop.”

“Can I get your name? In case I need a book bound when I get out.”

“Daniel Lepaul.”

“Daniel Lepaul?”

“Yep, that’s me. Daniel Lepaul, Bookbinder.”

“I’m Delano Roosevelt. Furry guy.”

“Delano Roosevelt, a pleasure to meet you.”

“Good to meet you too.”

“Good luck in your games. Try not to die—you seem like a fine little fellow.”

“Thank you.”

Daniel tipped a hat he didn’t have, sauntered back, and threw himself onto his cot. Then he pulled out a small book and started to read it.

I slowly started back to Sterling. I needed to tell him about the games. I had a bad feeling about them.

Chapter

Twenty-Five

It was a quick trip back to Sterling, who gave me a knowing look.

“What?” I asked.

“Oscar.”

“That was him.”

“And he had some excuses?”

“Sort of.”

“I noticed you did not kill him.”

“Maybe you also noticed these bars? Oddly, they keep me from going through them. But I asked him to come close to me, and⁠—”

“What did he say?’

“He said he wouldn’t.”

“I presumed as much…”

I winked, and I gave him a quick rundown of my conversation with Oscar.

Sterling nodded throughout the recap, and when I was done, he just stood there a moment, staring over my shoulder.

“I really want to turn around and see what’s got you so captivated,” I said.

“Nothing. I was merely looking into the distance and thinking.”

“About?”

“Oscar. And pharks.”

“Care to share?”

“These thoughts are hardly anything scientific. I hesitate to even share them with you because I don’t want you to have negative thoughts about my mental faculties, especially when we are in such a perilous position together⁠—”

“Get on with it—I’m not going to judge you.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I bear in mind that it is the nature of the intelligent creature to do such a thing. I hate to presume your feelings on the matter, being that it is not exactly a sure thing, but I imagine you feel as I did that we understood the nature of pharks. The manner in which they grew and what they became.”

“Bigger and dumber.”

“A rather crude approximation of what we had seen, but yes. That there was a prime size for them as intelligent creatures, although, naturally, that intelligence was somewhat⁠—”

“Low?”

“No need to be rude.”

“Is it rude? Oscar wasn’t exactly a genius.”

“He was working with what he had and seemed poised to make a breakthrough.”

“How long had he been poised?”

“As long as I’d known him.”

“And so…?”

“I never gave up hope on the matter. But you are pulling me off of the thought line I’d joined. There was no moment where I presumed a stage existed beyond that we had seen. And yet… perhaps there is? I mean, I cannot really say perhaps, can I, because there obviously is something beyond what we had seen.”

He gestured out at the hallway, just as a phark strolled along in full guard regalia, glaring at all of us prisoners.

“Ah, the universe provides the visual display,” Sterling said. “Behold! The larger, smarter phark.”

“Smarter?”

“Seems to be. I have seen them write, and potentially read.”

“That’s true. So what’s your theory?”

“On what?”

“Pharks. You think they grow larger and dumber and then reach a second stage of intelligence?”

“Possible.”

“But?”

“I did not say a but.”

“It was implied.”

“You put the implication there, not me. I think there has to be an additional level we were not privy to down in the trash. Perhaps the pharks there were unable to push through that level because they were rendered too volatile to survive?”

“Unless there’s a secondary type of phark that never grows to, um, the larger size.”

“That is one of the major elements that has caused me to pause my train of thought. Now, as I have explained my phark feelings to you, can you tell me what it is you have discerned about the human woman who made you run in circles?”

“She’s the one in charge of the games.”

“And what are these games?”

I explained what I’d learned.

“Do you think we are to be part of these games?”

“Seems to be the case.”

“I would imagine she is the Malera who the Keeper requested a novelty show from?”

“That’s my guess as well.”

“So we are to be novelties? And not put to death?”

“I mean, that’s what the dude across the way thinks. That we’re not going to die there.”

Sterling nodded.

“What’s going on with the rats?” I asked.

“Hmm? The rats? Nothing worth considering at the moment.”

He patted me on the shoulder and wandered off, lost in his thoughts. I watched him go, irritated that he’d blown off the one question I’d asked while I’d explained everything I could to him.

Chapter

Twenty-Six

Imeditated to pass some time, using the stretch of nothing to do to try to understand myself a little more. Which does sound a bit ridiculous, but when dealing with a whole new body in a whole new world, sometimes you need a little me time.

As I sat there, playing with mana and myself, a group of three ogres tromped along the hall. One was purple with bunny ears and a rabbit-esque face. A hole had been cut in the back of his pants to let out a poofy, purple rabbit tail. It was an odd look. He was in front and looked to be the leader, as the other two “marched” along next to each other behind the rabbit one. And the use of march is purposeful here, because it looked as if they were imitating soldiers marching but didn’t have the same skill or practice because they were consistently out of step and trying to get in step with each other.

One of the other ogres looked like Dorian, who seemed to me like the most ogreish of ogres. Although, naturally, I didn’t have a ton of experience with ogres, and it was very possible that ogres were more rabbit-like normally. The last one was as furry as the rabbit but had a more weasel-y head. And, for an ogre, they seemed thinner, with a smaller mouth and sharper teeth. At least that’s what I noticed when the thing spoke. He also had a tail hole in his pants, and his long, thin tail nearly reached the ground.

All of them were big and mean-looking, regardless of the cutesy traits they also sported, and they wore thick leather trousers and sleeveless shirts with a large version of the tower crest proudly on the front. I half-expected names to be on their backs.

A fourth guy I didn’t recognize at first hurried after the group. As he got closer, I realized it was just Dorian, still the biggest ogre I’d seen yet. But after he caught up, he held back, stopping at our cell.

I think he thought the others were going to stop, but they continued along, clearly not realizing they were at their destination.

“This one,” Dorian said in his basso profondo. The three ogres came back. The purple one with the rabbit ears, which was doing a good job scraping the ceiling, stood in front of the door.

“This one?” the purple one asked, looking at Dorian in obvious surprise.

“Ja,” came Dorian’s grunted reply.

The three walked back to our cell and looked inside, moving their gazes over all of us little creatures.

“Which one?” Purple asked.

“Dat one,” Dorian said, pointing.

“Which?”

“Gah, dat one, red one.”

“Red furry fucker?”

I sighed, wishing he hadn’t phrased it like that.

“Ja,” Dorian said. “Red one. And rat.”

“Okay,” Purple boomed out. “Red furry fucker come. Also rat.”

Bear in mind, there were a number of rats in the cell. So all the rats stood up and looked at each other and then did that whole Spider-Man point thing. You know, is it me? Is it me? Is it you? I think it’s you. Clearly none of them wanted to leave the cell with the ogres.

“Ugh,” Dorian groaned, letting everyone know he was done with this.

Dorian knew exactly who was wanted, though. He put the very large key into the lock, opened the door, and strode in. The rest of the cell’s residents scurried to get out of the way of his massive steps. Dorian didn’t seem to pay any mind to, well, anything in his path, so that was probably a good idea. He scooped Sterling up and threw him over his shoulder, I guess presuming that one of the other ogres would catch him. Then he grabbed me and tossed me as well.

I’ve never been tossed quite so easily in a way that also felt controlled. I’d been thrown several times in combat in the Midden. And also quite a few times when I was training in my past life. But I’d never been thrown so that someone could catch me. Or in the case of Butterfinger McRabbit, miss. He tried to grab me from the air but fumbled about, bouncing me from hand to hand before I tumbled down the front of his gargantuan purple-violet body, wishing he had worn a softer shirt, thankful he had worn shorts at all, and rolled back into the cell.

“He try escape!” the purple one screamed.

I stood up and looked at him. “I’m back in the cell—how is that trying to escape?”

He stood there, confused, as if he hadn’t expected a retort. Even the other ogres gave him the side eye. Everyone saw him drop me. Weasel—or Ferret? Maybe a ferret—picked me up and set me back out of the cell in between them all, next to where Sterling waited.

“We go,” Purple said. “Yins walk or yins be squish.”

Then the three ogres surrounding us started their march, already out of step.

Dorian was left to lock up shop, which he did, since I heard the big clang behind us.

“What do you think’s going on?” I asked Sterling.

“No talking,” Purple yelled over his shoulder. He’d taken the lead in our wedge formation, stomping proudly along, ears rubbing on the ceiling. I bet that got old. I wondered if the tops of his ears had any fur on them or if they’d been rubbed raw. Maybe he should look into a hat to protect his ears, but then maybe having his ears bent down like that would hurt even more.

We wove through the labyrinth of the prison, and according to Purple’s wishes, there wasn’t any talking. I wondered why ogres had gotten us instead of pharks. The pharks were the guards everywhere else, so why not here? Whatever the case, as we passed prison cells, we got looks. Knowing looks, some of surprise, some of sadness. But there didn’t seem to be the confusion there had been from our cellmates.

“I think we’re going to fight,” I whispered to Sterling.

“Do you think we will be forced to battle each other?” he whispered back.

“No—”

Purple glared over his shoulder at us, and we shut up.

Sterling took a deep breath and held it for a minute before letting it out. He was trying to calm himself.

We continued on until we got to a large open area. Open, in this case meaning a lack of walls, because there was still a low ceiling and regular columns to allow for all the arches. Always arches.

It seemed odd because the rest of the dungeon felt like a hasty renovation, where they’d put tight cells in an area that used to be full of those stasis field things, so I wasn’t sure why this whole area was empty. They could have put more cells in here.

None of the other cells faced this direction, so one was watching us for once, except the ogres who’d escorted us here. They marched us toward a set of doors that were bigger and nicer than anything I’d seen so far. They were heavy metal. When we got to them, the ogre at the front grabbed them without pausing and pulled them open.

The room inside was an entirely new world. Which, while impressive at first, was now getting a bit boring because this was the fourth entirely new environment I’d experienced on this floor. It did make me wonder about the size of the tower I was supposedly inside, since these floors were truly gargantuan in scope.

Environment #4 was almost like being in a sports film. There was warm light, the smell of sweat and blood, and a bunch of burly men and women dutifully focused on what they were about to do.

As we came in, we approached a young woman behind a desk. She looked up at the purple ogre, and he looked back down at her. Then she leaned over the table and peered at us.

“That’s them?” she asked.

“Yis, them,” came the response.

“I don’t see what’s gonna happen here,” the woman said.

“Yins not job to see happen, yins job log in log out.”

“That’s true—I guess that is the job,” she said. “They’re up next. Might as well just get him in position.”

“In position? “

“You are tardy.”

“They were hiding.”

“We were not—” I started, but the ferret ogre straight up growled at me.

“Now please, Frederic,” the woman said.

“Okay, okay,” Purple, a.k.a. Frederic, said, “we go.”

“Pardon me,” I said to the woman, “do you know⁠—”

“No talking,” snapped Ferret.

He gave me a hard push with the tip of his boot, so I stumbled forward a few steps. Sterling managed to grab the back of my shirt and keep me from falling all the way over.

“I’m gonna remember that,” I called back over my shoulder at the ogre.

“Ha,” he replied. “Have good memory for rest of five-minute life, yis?”

“You want to make a bet on this?”

“Is not bet when outcome known.”

“You no bet,” the normal ogre barked. “No betting.”

I didn’t reply because I’d noticed Sterling was little more than a quivering mess.

The purple rabbit ogre was no longer leading us. He’d sort of slipped around the side, so we were now walking in front of the three ogres as they formed a line behind us, urging us to start down a darkened tunnel. Urging being the polite way of saying they were blocking us from going any other way than down the darkened fucking tunnel.

It was easily big enough to fit several humans across comfortably. Like every other bit of construction on this level, it was an arch. Just a taller arch than anywhere else.

Maybe someone had built it especially for the purple rabbit ogre Frederic, because this was the first place I’d seen where the dude’s ogre’s ears had room to stand up straight and tall. He was kind of impressive. I mean, the whole bunny ogre thing just didn’t do much for the whole I-should-be-afraid-of-this-ogre thing. Sure, he had an unbelievable size advantage over me, as well as what seemed like an ungodly amount of massive muscles rippling underneath his soft, velvety fur. But, at the same time, there was a sense of romantasy about the guy. That he was the cute bad boy, the one who could actually be changed. Maybe it was because the rabbit features made him less monstrous. He didn’t have a big maw with huge tusks, or weird wrinkles on his face or strange growths on his skin. Plus he was purple, which, to me at least, just lends itself to whimsy and not horror.

I heard a clicking noise, and a very soft bell rang behind us.

“Okay, is time,” Frederic said. “Yins walk to gate, yins wait at gate. Gate opens, yins go out.”

“Go out where?” I asked.

“Out!” he shouted.

“Other direction,” Ferret said. “Not back in tunnel, out.”

“When time,” Frederic barked, as if he needed to have the last word, “go out.”

“All right. I’m not exactly saying I’m not gonna go, but I’m not saying I’m gonna go either,” I told him. “But like, you kind of need us to move forward. Maybe we’re not gonna move forward, or, you know…”

“Hey!” the purple ogre roared. “Either yins go out or yins be shove up his butt, and Bart try squish yins out. We pay money, bet on who gets squish out butt first. Is good game. Bart best squish, so, maybe we like when yins no go right way so we have fun. Bart have fun.”

Bart, apparently the ogre-like ogre, grunted and farted at the same time. Which I gotta tell you, was both impressive and intimidating, considering I was potentially going to wind up there.

“Now, yins want go forward or yins want go up butt for squish? Yins get choice.”

I sighed and looked over to Sterling.

“Got a preference?” I asked.

“While I do appreciate taking a path less traveled, I doubt there are any sights to see save an ogre colon, and I feel that is a mystery best left alone.”

“Then on we merrily stumble.”

“It has been but a pleasure, my old friend,” Sterling replied. “Except for the old part. I still feel we are rather new friends. Fellows of a certain feather. I’m not making much sense, am I? Neither of us even has feathers. Let’s go.”

And with that, we walked through the darkness toward a chance at victory.

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

We came to a gate at the end of the tunnel. There were holes in the floor beneath the spikes up above, making it clear there was also a portcullis that would come down. I didn’t know what else to expect, though, because there were no clues as to what was on the other side.

It was still strangely silent. Even putting my head against the door, making sure to position myself between two of the portcullis holes, I heard nothing. I was about to ask Sterling what he thought, but then the door disappeared, dropping into the ground.

I can’t even begin to describe how absolute the assault on my senses was. I squinted against brilliant light. A wave of noise, I think mostly people yelling and shouting, washed over us. Had I ears, I probably would have tried to cover them like Sterling was doing. Somehow, without any sort of hesitation, we both moved forward, our feet on sand now. Hot, but not uncomfortable, like the beach on a spring day.

As soon as we were through the portal, the portcullis dropped, locking us in. Somebody had thought ahead and added bits of wire webbing on the bars to make sure even little folks such as ourselves had no way to get through.

Laughter reverberated out, sweeping through the audience as they saw us.

There was an audience—I hadn’t quite put that together until I looked up, squinting to pierce the shadowy areas above us. I could see movement, and I could hear people jeering. There were some claps, but mostly a whole lot of laughing at us.

I began to put pieces together. I know how that sounds—how idiotic did I have to be to not understand what was happening? But really not that long ago, I was a government employee with a desk job, and now I was… a furry little monster guy about to fight like a gladiator? It was a lot to get used to.

Here I was, on sand and under bright lights, with a blocked tunnel behind me. A tan stone wall that had to be at least fifteen feet high, maybe even taller, encircled the sand. Then there was a little bit of a lip, and then rows and rows of people. I could see three other gates exactly like the ones we’d just come out of. Well, except that their doors were still up. So we were the first entrance into the arena.

I heard someone talking, a booming voice like an announcer. But the way that the sound moved through the space made it really difficult to understand, and I couldn’t make out words.

Sterling just stumbled along beside me. It was such an incredible shock to the system. I hadn’t seen such bright light since I’d been in this world, which made me wonder if Sterling had ever seen such a thing. It was incredibly intense, as if someone had brought the sun closer, like they’d mounted it directly above us. A huge expanse of light focused entirely upon the arena floor.

“We’re in the arena,” I told Sterling.

“Oh really?” he replied. “What gave it away? The sand, the people, the gates, the gladiators back there oiling themselves up? They sent us here to die.”

“Well, we will with that kind of attitude,” I started.

“What other attitude would you wish me to have? Something more positive? I cannot even make a joke now. I should just lie down now. Let whatever is going to come through those gates take me quickly. Maybe then they will not tear my bowels out while I am still living and drag them across the hot sand.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Disgusting, yes. But also what happens here.”

I heard a kachunk and spun around to see which door had dropped.

A creature came through the black hole across from where we’d entered. It crashed into the sand, sending sprays of the stuff glittering up into the light. It sat there for a moment, snarling.

We were in legitimate trouble. Even if I were still a human, this thing would be scary. It was probably similar in size to a large badger or maybe a small wolverine. Like, I wouldn’t mind being around a strange dog that size, but I wouldn’t let my kid near it. Conceptually—I don’t have kids, and I’m pretty comfortable with any kind of dog. But as far as size goes, that’s where I’d go.

It had a bluish hide with a bulky, keratin-infused gray area around the mouth and then gross, wiry hair coming off of it, almost like a mane. The legs in the front were noticeably bigger than the ones in the back. Its claws were long and thick, like they were used for digging or running up trees. Its wide mouth was filled with thin, pointy teeth and a big, red tongue that drooped out the side. A little bit of drool came out, making its teeth glisten. A V-shaped brow of that same grayish bone rose up from its pug-like nose, framing deep, amber eyes that were locked on me.

“We’ll have a better chance if we stick together,” I called to Sterling as he high-tailed it out of there. Which finally made the saying make sense, watching him running on all fours with his tail held high. Maybe it came from alley rats leaving their partners in the lurch, running in fear.

I couldn’t blame Sterling for his reaction. The fear across the arena was palpable, and I probably just had the fight response because there didn’t seem to be anywhere for flight to take me. I’d seen the writing on the wall that said, “Do not climb spikes.” And sure enough, as Sterling got closer, there were spikes, just as the writing on the wall had warned.

I felt more than saw the creature making its charge, churning at the sand as it crossed the distance between us in unbelievable time. I stood there, breathing hard, playing out scenarios in my mind that could possibly save me from the pouncing monster crashing down on me.

It felt like facing down a pitcher in baseball. I played Little League for three summers, and there was always that briefest of moment after the pitcher let go of the ball when you had to decide how you were swinging. In this case, I could only think of one thing. Given the structure of the animal’s head, it seemed like it’d have a hard time seeing anything below it, since its mouth and the sort of bony protection around its mouth stuck out farther than its eyes. So as the thing leapt up, preparing to come down in a pounce, I sprinted at it and then tucked into a roll.

I felt him land behind me with a thud, and a spray of sand flew up. I rolled to my feet and turned around, spreading my arms out wide as I faced the back of the creature. Its short legs were more like frog legs than I’d noticed at first—I guess that’s why it was able to make such impressive leaps.

It had a little tail, maybe a foot-ish long with a clump of spikes at the end. It slammed the tail down, whether by instinct or on purpose, and sent another spray of sand up. I blocked it with one arm and moved to the left, since I could feel the creature about to turn to its right. I wanted to stay in his blind spot. I didn’t have any better answers—there was no real plan yet, but I knew I needed to see how the creature moved and figure out what tools I had at my disposal.

I caught a glimpse of Sterling trying to wedge himself in between the wall and the spikes that came out from under the lip that protected the audience. Guess that was one way to hide.

But if this creature decided it wanted to go up into the stands, it was going to go up into the stands. It would just claw its way right through. I shuddered.

Focusing again, I didn’t get much of a magical signature from the creature, just the feeling that there was some sense of magic to the creature. Not that it was magical, but that it had some mana inside it. Certainly not enough for me to pull any of my past tricks, like sucking out all its mana and killing it. That wasn’t going to work here.

But I realized I’d already successfully blocked an attack, and I hadn’t even used magic. I could have fired off a little burst of arcane energy. Thinking about it made me accidentally do it, and I watched as it fizzled off of my fist. Next time, I’d be ready.

It turned suddenly and caught sight of me, even though I was trying to run. Excited, it whipped around to chase me. It jumped in the air again, hoping to pounce on me, I guess. That was my cue, so I pumped my fuzz shield. I felt all the fur I was wearing—well, I wasn’t wearing it; it was all of my fur—stand out straight and harden, as if I were covered in spikes.

As the creature came down, I moved slightly forward so that the beast’s soft underbelly took the brunt of my spiky exterior. Only he didn’t actually have that soft of an underbelly. It was more of that keratinized, callous skin stuff. And so as he crashed down on me, kind of smushing me down, my fuzz shield protected me from getting hurt too much, but it didn’t penetrate him.

He got his big clawed fingers in and tried to tear me open, but it was more like he was just running his fingers down a stone plate. It sounded like he was running a comb through my fur, and that bothered him. He jumped back a few steps and tilted his huge head, looking at me from the side.

I released the fuzz shield, since it was burning through my mana, and shook my hands out. I tried to imagine them turning into claws, with curved talons at the tips of my fingers, like a hawk’s or a falcon’s. Maybe I could get on his back and claw him.

He looked at me again and then turned and burned, bounding across the sand toward Sterling. Despite his best attempts to get up behind the spikes, the little rat just couldn’t fit. He’d gotten his head through and was holding on with his arms, but the bulk of his lower body and all of his tail were within easy grasping range for anything. The monster was most definitely going to grab his tail and pull him down.

I started sprinting, chasing after the creature. No way I’d let it take my friend, not like that. I didn’t have a plan, or much of an arsenal for that matter. But I knew I had one thing: I could burn mana and put holes in the asshole. Since this thing liked pouncing, I tried to judge when its next big jump was going to be. Right as it happened, I fired a pulse out of my hand, trying to compress the magic before I sent it out in one quick bop.

A ball of magical energy shot across, and right as the creature began to launch itself into the air, the ball hit. I’ll assume it used up any luck I had going for me because it hit exactly on the joint where the foot was connected to the leg. I guess the ankle, but this thing was just so different than any anatomy I was used to. There were more joints on its legs than made any sense to me. But my hit ruined its pounce, and it drifted off to an angle.

Instead of going toward Sterling, it hurdled face-first into the wall and smashed back down to the ground.

“Get out of there,” I yelled at Sterling.

“I can’t,” Sterling shouted.

“You’ve got to,” I replied, “or it’s going to eat you.”

Of course, the thing went right back to focusing on me, because clearly I was the dangerous one. It snarled at me, making all sorts of facial expressions that, if we were in the wild, probably would have been its aggression display. Because it definitely seemed like this was a wild-caught creature forced into killing here. I didn’t buy that it could be some sort of purpose-bred execution creature.

I stood my ground and flicked my new claws out, doing my best impersonation of someone who knew what the fuck they were doing in this style of fighting. Granted, I did have quite a bit of martial arts training. It’s just that martial arts are traditionally practiced against other humans. That’s kind of how it works. When you’re fighting things like wolverines, especially things that are technically giant wolverines because you’re so goddamn small, it’s less effective.

The creature reared at me, but this time instead of pouncing, it kind of lunged, bringing one of its claws out in a large swipe. I brought my left hand up to my head and took the hit. It pushed me, and I slid in the sand. As soon as I felt my foot get traction, I got my other fist around and popped it right in the kisser. It was stunned, I guess not expecting anything to hit back that way.

That seemed to work, so I kept going. Pop! Pop! Pop! It got its other paw out and tried another swipe. I felt like a little boxer in Punch Out, jumping up to smash the big boss boxers. It swung across at my head, but I ducked under it, came up, and landed a right hook into its eye. I actually had to reach up. I felt the squishiness of its eyeball. It wasn’t enough to burst or anything like that, but it definitely hurt the thing. The creature took a big step back, trying to figure out what to do next.

Out of nowhere, it jumped and tried to snap me in its jaws. I leapt backward and threw out two mana beams from each hand at the same time. The extra magical energy fired into this creature’s open mouth and also helped push me backward, out of range. I could see the energy lighting up its mouth. There were even smaller teeth lining the inside of its upper mouth, all hooked back, showing that as soon as it got something in there, it would be basically impossible to get back out.

The two beams sizzled the soft flesh at the back of its throat. The creature let out a pitiful shriek. I stopped for a second as I hit the sand with my butt and then slid a little before my head also slammed into the sand. My vision blurred—it was a much harder hit than I’d expected—but I got back on my feet, hands up, breathing heavy.

I know, I know: I didn’t need to breathe. But in that moment I wasn’t paying attention to what I could or couldn’t be doing. It’d be better for me to figure out how not to fall into that trap, but I’d have to figure that out later.

The creature was more hesitant now. It circled around, testing me, trying to see how I’d react. I didn’t move because, as far as I could tell, my best tactic was to play off of him. If I gave him an opening, he could catch me. But I was more nimble than him, so if he attacked first, I was fast enough to throw his attacks off. At least so far that’d worked.

It viewed me as a threat now, and I think it knew there was no way out of this arena. Maybe this was a more seasoned arena killer, and not just a pure wild animal thrown into something it didn’t want to be doing. An idea that was confirmed a second later, when it moved to its left, and I shifted to intercept it, realizing too late that it was a feint.

As soon as I moved, it leapt in the other direction, landing on the sand behind me. I spun around, but it was already lunging forward, its claw out and swiping at me. I jumped back, but it caught a bit of my stomach, ripping through the shirt I had on as if it were nothing and catching my fur. I tried to hit my fuzz shield, but I didn’t have the mana for it. I looked down at a slight tear in my stomach. If I had been a flesh-and-blood creature, it would’ve barely been a nick. But I was some sort of magical weird zardling thing, and that cut in my surface gave a pretty substantial hit to my structural integrity.

White wisps of magical smoke, which I now knew was mana, leaked out. I put a hand over the tear. The creature shifted its weight, and on instinct I just dove forward. I felt the air whoosh as its claws barely missed my head. There was a moment for me to be shocked I’d actually dodged the attack, and then I whipped my fist around, straight into the softer blue hide tucked right behind its bony jaw. I hit it with all the strength I could muster, pushing with my foot and twisting my whole torso around to land the punch. It was a good hit, but it also landed with a magical oomph. I could see a transfer of power, and the creature’s skin darkened as if it was burning. The thing didn’t fly away or anything, but it did push back from me.

Had it been in the real world, and I had hit something like a bear and made it stumble, it would have been a truly momentous event. Granted, I probably still would have died to the bear, but that’s the fun of fighting bears, isn’t it? I pushed the thought out of my head.

The creature was fuming mad now and immediately went on the attack. It snapped its jaw down right where I would have been, except I had dropped down and crawled under its belly one more time, trying to find a soft spot. As it began to jump up, I reached up and grabbed on with all four limbs, shifting my feet quickly into claw-like things to get a better hold. It spun in the air, but I held on. It landed and looked around for me, but I held on, hiding. Clearly, it didn’t have a lot of feeling on its underbelly.

It sniffed the ground and spun about frantically. Finally, it extended its legs higher than normal and brought its head down to look at its belly. And there I was, looking at the creature who was looking at me. I gave him a big, genuine smile.

“Howdy,” I said. “Looking for this?” I punched him in the face again and then dropped off his body. He shook his head and moved around, growling his annoyance. I was leaking mana.

Then a new player entered the fight.

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

Sterling sprinted across the sand with a sharp, pointy stick in his hands. He leapt up, screaming some sort of bestial roar, challenging the creature. Where he got the spear, I don’t know. But by God, I was thankful he had it. Of course, while the screaming probably helped in building up my little rat friend’s confidence, it was a bit shit in keeping his attack from behind a surprise.

The creature spun around to face its new threat. Lightning fast, it got its paw up and swatted Sterling out of the air. Maybe there were beings looking out for us, or maybe it was Sterling’s plan all along, but the spear continued on, sailing over the creature and landing just behind me.

I scrambled across the sand, dove for the spear, and got to my feet, pointing it toward the enemy. Sterling sprinted away and the beast chased after him, forgetting all about me. He had a speed advantage, but he was already huffing and puffing. The potentially elderly rat wasn’t in the best of shape.

“Draw it back this way,” I shouted.

Sterling responded eloquently with a “Phargle barrgel!”

Still, he must have heard me, because he made the turn. It was sharp enough that he had to put down a hand to stop himself from sliding out, and his tail whipped to the opposite side for balance. The quick shift caught the beast by surprise. When he tried to make the same turn, it wasn’t quite as lucky. Its feet slid out from under it, and it tumbled into the sand, spraying a bunch of it up the wall. But it was quick to recover—it seemed to just pull itself back to full speed.

I dug the spear as deep into the sand as I could, trying to get it wedged into whatever was down under the sand. There had to be a hard surface under there somewhere.

“I’m hoping this thing doesn’t understand what I’m saying,” I shouted to Sterling. “I’m gonna try to get it to spear itself using its own momentum.”

“What?” Sterling shouted back, sprinting full out toward me.

“Just keep running straight and try to jump over me.”

“You want me to do what?” Sterling shouted. But again, he must have heard me because he continued barreling right at me. As he got close, he prepared to hurdle me. I ducked down and he flew over me. The creature was right behind him, snarling, close enough to make an attack. I popped up, my feet pushing down on the butt end of the spear, getting the sharp point up.

The creature impacted with his lower jaw, but the metal point of the spear only dug a mild groove into the lip barrier before catching in a small crevice between the bottom of the creature’s lower lip and the start of its plating. A tiny drop of blood formed on that little slice of blue skin there, deep vermilion.

The spear bent into a nearly perfect arch and then snapped. I went flying up into the air, and the creature tumbled under me. Sterling yelled to get its attention, and I came down right on the creature’s back. As I landed in its sort of dreadlock-y hair, I realized I was still holding the pointy end of the spear.

I reached up high and slammed it down into the back of the creature. While the underside was armored, this side only had the hair as defense, so the spear went in deep. I pulled it out and used my other hand to grab some hair and wrap it around my wrist, locking myself in place. Then I just started stabbing away.

The creature roared, trying to reach where I was on its back. I was sure it wouldn’t be long before it realized it could just roll over and squish me. But until then, I’d make every stab count. I started pincushioning that bastard, driving the spear as deep as I could into its back. It was crying and making weird noises that were definitely not anything I wanted to hear.

Finally, it jumped up and rolled over. I shoved the spear in one more time, held on, and let it squish me. It hurt like a motherfucker. But after all that experimenting with Sterling, I knew I could be squished and come back from it.

So as it rolled over, and I was still there, it jammed the spear deeper in. It stopped rolling and slowly got to its feet. Blood was pouring out from all of its wounds. I shoved my hand into one and unleashed a mana blast, and then another mana beam, and then a third. Smoke started to come out of the other holes, and the creature staggered around. I knew there wasn’t much left to it.

I fired one more mana burst and then put my arm as deep into one of the spirals as I could, all the way up to the elbow. I worked my hand around until it was pointing forward and fired a mana beam up toward where I thought the more important organs might be. I poured all the energy I had into it, which wasn’t much, because I was still leaking.

The blast must have hit something vital. The creature managed to take one more step before its limbs stiffened up, and then it just dropped to the sand.

The blood stopped flowing fast, as if its heart was no longer pumping it through the system. It wasn’t breathing. It just lay there. And I lay on top of it.

We’d won. We’d beaten the creature.

I looked around to find Sterling and saw him throwing up on the other side of the arena. It was quiet. Just the sound of one rat retching and the vague sizzle of whatever was still hot inside the monster’s body.

I swiped the death notice away, knowing I’d probably be back in the cell, dying for anything to read later. It wasn’t like it was useful to know anything about this creature now. I worked my arm out of its corpse and stood up. I tried to shake the blood off my arm and kept my left hand tight against my abdomen, trying to hold myself together.

I was somewhere in the neighborhood of 10 percent mana remaining, and I was starting to get that woozy feeling. I focused on repairing the hole, but that burned through half of my remaining mana. I dropped to my knees and just knelt there in the sand with my head down, wishing I could take some deep breaths to calm myself.

And then someone cheered. Followed by clapping and more cheers. People had enjoyed the show. I wanted to flip them off, or throw something at them. But one, I couldn’t throw things that far. And two, this was just the situation I was in. It wouldn’t do any good for me to fight against it just to make it worse.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up to see Sterling helping me to my feet. Kind of whether I wanted to or not.

“We should go,” Sterling said. “I doubt they will keep the gate open very long. It does not seem like they are exactly pleased with the way this turned out.”

I frowned. He gestured with his head, and I saw the Games Master screaming at somebody. And that somebody was standing there, taking the abuse. Apparently that person had suggested this creature for killing us, and now was being punished for the failure.

One of the gates was open, without the portcullis in view. I could see Frederic the Purple Rabbit Ogre standing there, his giant arms crossed, muscles bulging. The heavy iron bands over his wrists looked more decorative than either armor or restraints. He gestured, telling us to come to him.

“Ah, here we go,” Sterling said. “I believe he’s going to escort us back to our delightful room.”

“Goody,” I said.

“Indeed.”

And so the two of us stumbled over to the tunnel. Frederic didn’t say anything. But as we got closer, he turned and started walking down the tunnel. Sterling, still supporting me, helped me hobble along.

“Did you get badly injured?” he asked.

“Just a cut on my midsection, but it’s causing me to leak,” I replied.

I moved my hand, and even though I’d tried to heal it, there were still a few wisps of the white mana smoke coming out, as if I’d done a poor job sewing it back together.

“Ah, yes. Quite the fight.”

“No talking,” came the ogre’s bark.

We were taken through a different tunnel into a different waiting room than where we’d been before. It was a calmer space, and there were a few chairs with cushions instead of just the hard benches that had been in the other room. There were barrels of water, ladles, and wooden cups. And small windows that looked out onto the arena floor.

The ogre pointed to a chair sitting on a raised platform so that you could sit and look out on the arena.

“Sit there,” Frederic said. “Will get you in time to go back to cell.”

He turned and walked away, moving with an odd sort of grace for a creature as big as he was. I looked at Sterling. He looked at me. We climbed into the chair, sitting next to each other like we were toddlers in a La-Z-Boy.

Out on the sands, another ogre dragged the creature’s corpse away. A second ogre shoveled the blood-soaked sand into a wheelbarrow. And a third brought fresh sand out to spread it around. In less than five minutes, you couldn’t tell that there had even been a fight. The arena was smooth once again.

The crowd had gone through its ebb and was now cheering again, ready for the next fight. The gates went up, and a new fighter stepped out on the sand.

Chapter

Twenty-Nine

The seat was a much nicer spot to experience the arena. I could almost understand the announcer—I could tell there were words being said, and some of those words I actually made out. But it felt more like being in a metro station on a rainy day after a particularly invasive group of birds discovered the loudspeakers than, say, a visit to Mile High stadium.

I paid attention as best I could, and eventually I could understand.

“Now for the battle you all came to see: the momentous clash of the titans!” the MC bellowed, his voice amplified by magic. Or I guess it could’ve been by mechanical means. It was impossible to tell.

“The Glaive Lord!” the announcer roared.

One of the gates dropped into the floor, and an imposing human wearing a huge helm and a bit of shoulder armor stepped in. He had on a leather skirt cut into thick strips, and it had like a stylized weapon printed on it. Detail I could really only see because he was coming out of the nearest gate. Naturally, he swung around a spear-sword hybrid, the glaive from his name. It had to be fourteen feet long, with a wicked, curved blade at the top. Its cutting edge gleamed in the light, which kept me from noticing the brutal points on both the top of it and all the way down at the bottom right away. He could swing the spear and catch an opponent with either end.

There was a lot of shouting, and I even heard people trying to get a chant going for the Glaive Lord. You know, “Glaive Lord, Glaive Lord, Glaive Lord!” It caught on in one small section, but nothing past that point.

“And the challenger!” The audience went quiet, and the lights dimmed. The Glaive Lord stood near the center with his feet planted, casually leaning against his weapon. I could tell it was an act, though—this dude was amped to fight the second the gate opened.

“Fighter X!” the MC yelled out. The gate dropped, and a masked warrior with wild, long, dark hair rushed out. He was overstuffed with muscle, bare-chested, and oiled up to a high sheen. He had a similar leather skirt on and held two swords, one in each hand. Each one was long and straight with a bulge at the bottom, right before they reached his huge fists. They looked like they were barely able to fit the hilts of the swords. He didn’t have any other armor except for two metal bands around his wrists.

He charged straight for the Glaive Lord, who was pretending to laugh.

The fight was on. The crowd was going absolutely bananas, maybe because they loved Fighter X—which, what a lame name—or maybe they were just excited by the immediacy of the attack. Which was a little surprising, to be honest. They clashed, and steel met steel, sending sparks off, which didn’t seem like it was supposed to happen.

It was a flurry of blows, just this side of a blur. I could kind of tell what was happening, not with any real knowledge since my familiarity with these weapons was rudimentary at best. But it was one shade off of what I thought would be legitimate fighting. For the first time that evening, and certainly not the last, I got more of a sense of professional wrestling than I did gladiatorial combat.

The Glaive Lord went into a particularly fancy bit of spinning, which put Fighter X on his back foot. He tried to block the succession of hits as the Glaive Lord used both the top and the butt of his weapon to strike out at Fighter X. Finally, Fighter X saw an opening and lunged out, slicing the Glaive Lord’s ribcage. It looked brutal, and a great spray of blood flew out. The Glaive Lord shouted. He stumbled away a few steps, planting his glaive in the sand before turning to face Fighter X.

They shouted at each other, but I couldn’t distinguish what they said. The crowd went absolutely nuts listening to them. The blood seemed to excite them past rationality.

And they wanted more.

I looked over at Sterling to say, “You believe this shit?” but he wasn’t there.

I glanced around and saw that he was just sort of walking around, checking things out. For some reason, I hadn’t considered that we were free to do that. I believed the ogre that we had to stay in the chair until the damn goon squad came to take us back to our cells.

But there was a lot in this room. At one end, a table was relatively laden with food. Plenty of water barrels and wooden cups. Another table had bandages and other first aid supplies. It definitely didn’t seem like anyone would care if we used it.

Sterling came back with a needle and thread and told me to lie down. I did and gritted my teeth as he sewed me back up.

We weren’t alone in the room, but most everyone else was focused on the fight. Judging by the various scrapes and wounds, they looked to be like us—people who had already fought that evening. Maybe this was the winner’s side. I figured I would find out in a second, after either Fighter X or the Glaive Lord was victorious.

I heard another roar from the crowd and looked up to see that the Glaive Lord had struck Fighter X, and blood was gushing out of Fighter X’s scalp. I tried to think of what possible maneuver could have happened with a glaive to cut the man’s scalp without hurting him more. Which kind of further reinforced the whole “is this real or is this wrestling” concept.

The Glaive Lord swung a big overhand chop. Given where his hands were—all the way at the end of the really long glaive—there had to have been an absurd amount of power behind that hit. Fake or not, it’d be a lot to deal with. But Fighter X caught the blade with cross swords. Then he pushed the swords up and rolled his body around, kind of like spinning himself along the shaft of the glaive. He came back with a slice across the Glaive Lord’s midsection. Just the tip of the blade sliced through the man’s belly. Blood came out in a sheet when the Glaive Lord dropped to his knees. He dropped the glaive into the sand.

Fighter X put his swords up in a V, pumping his arms as the crowd started to chant, “Fighter X, Fighter X, Fighter X!” A red flag dropped down on one end of the arena, sending a hush through the crowd. It was a big flag that came down from the ceiling, so it was brightly lit and kind of pretty floating down. I could feel all the attention shift to the other end, away from the flag. A green flag fell from the ceiling at the other end. A collective sigh went through the building.

Fighter X nodded to somebody, did a little flourish with his swords, and walked off the sand. Minutes later, he was in the room with us, gulping down water and breathing hard. An attendant looked at the cut on his scalp. It was a young man who didn’t even look old enough to shave. He brought out a small vial of red… not quite liquid, closer to sludge. He let the stuff drip out a little, kind of like he was pouring honey, and then he worked it into Fighter X’s wound.

Fighter X just gritted his teeth and watched as the Glaive Lord got helped off the sand. He ended up going to a different room, to the third of the four doors. So that meant one door was where we had started from. One was where the beast came out of, one was where we were now, the winner’s room, and the last door went to the loser’s room. At least, I hoped all that happened when you lost was you got sent to a different room.

About fifteen minutes later, as another fight was going on, the Glaive Lord came walking in. He didn’t say anything to Fighter X, but the two shared a mutual nod of respect. The Glaive Lord got some food and water. His midsection had been heavily bandaged, as had a few other spots. There didn’t seem to be any legitimate bleed-through happening, which was odd since a wound of that magnitude on your abdomen should have required more than just simple bandaging. Especially for someone to be upright and hanging out.

I shook my head and looked over at Sterling. He just held up one clawed finger to his lips. He wanted to talk, or he had something to say, but this was not the place for it. I nodded back to him. I returned to watching the fights, our only bit of entertainment here.

By the time the ogres led us back to our prison cell, Dorian was on our heels, going through and turning out all the oil lamps. Or snuffing them out, I guess. Which meant the cleaners were about to arrive. We ignored the looks of wonder and confusion as we shuffled back into the cell and hurried for the back wall, putting ourselves as near to the corner as we could.

We settled in with our little group of Nōnnah, Little Joe, and Spider Murphy. I could tell they had questions, but no one was willing to push through the terrors of the cleaners just to hear the story of how we managed to be returned to the cell.

Sterling passed out a bunch of food he’d stolen from the winner’s room. Chunks of meat and hunks of bread and whatnot. I never asked where he stored it all. He had to have some magical means of storage, but I knew he didn’t want me to ask about it.

The pile of food was damn near as big as him. And boy howdy, if it didn’t disappear on the quick. Little Joe managed to take down a chunk of fruit the size of his head in two bites. I liked watching the people feast. I kind of wished I could join in.

My hands brushed against the pouch that held the little blue slimeball. I could probably drain it, but I was too tired and didn’t want to bother. There was a good chance I wouldn’t run out of mana during the night. So I just leaned my head against the wall, shut my eyes, and allowed myself to sleep. Time to level up.

Chapter

Thirty

Huzzah and congratulations, for you have succeeded in killing a creature! Hear ye, hear ye, for Delano “Del” Roosevelt has killed a desert jahdan! A fantastic effort considering the circumstances, and thus you are rewarded in that fashion with 500 XP. You may display a moderate amount of pride.

What’s this? A hidden quest has been completed!

Quest: Survive the Obicěre Bestiis!

Description: Obicěre Bestiis is most usually a death sentence whereby you are thrown into an arena without armor, with arms, and are expected to die to the beast. You defied this. You survived.

Reward: +1 Spirit, 500 XP

Whizz-bang!

Congratulations are in order! You’ve leveled up! You’re Level 5! What a momentous occasion! How did that happen? Maybe you’ve been trying really hard. Maybe you’ve been slaughtering like a madman. However it happened, it did. Great.

For reaching the initial milestone of Level 5, you may upgrade one ability and choose one new ability. Or, you may upgrade two abilities.

Seam Sense.

Detect weak points in structures. Upgraded, this can also be applied to additional objects and even living beings.

Soundtrack of Your Life.

At the cost of mana, music plays. Beloved songs chosen from the depths of your memory to bring forth motivation and hope in the midst of deepest despair.

Flash of Fur.

You may remove a handful of your fur and animate it for a number of seconds equal to your level, multiplied by the level of this spell. In addition, you can infuse the fur with some of your own mana to allow the fur to operate longer. Whilst animated, the fur will obey your mental commands within a range of your level’s worth of body lengths for your body.

Additionally, your actions have invalidated your current Path (Midden Vanguard). You must choose a new Path from the following:

Model Prisoner.

The Model Prisoner thrives in a constricted environment, and you seem to have a preternatural ability to do well in confinement. You follow orders, you speak when spoken to, and you don’t make a fuss. Next thing, you’ll probably start helping the guards clean up after themselves.

Special Ability – Glossed Over: As a model prisoner, surely the warden isn’t looking for you. You find that the guards, goons, and people in charge just don’t notice you, so you can serve your time without any trouble.

Gladiator.

The Gladiator is not just a warrior but a performer, trained to captivate the audience with dazzling displays of combat skill. Every strike is a spectacle, and every movement is designed to entertain more than kill. Victory is not only in defeating the enemy but in doing so with style.

Special Ability – Grand Flourish: You can perform a flamboyant series of moves that may either connect with your opponent or merely be for show that temporarily boosts crowd favor, reducing incoming damage and restoring some stamina as the audience cheers. A louder and longer cheer has, naturally, a greater effect.

Short King.

Perhaps nothing has been quite so clear as the disparity in your size and virtually every one of your enemies, opponents, friends… damn near everyone. There is no shame in being tiny, and you have started to realize that instead of being a problem, your size is actually one of your greatest advantages.

Special Ability – The Bigger They Are: Being your size, most of your opponents are larger. When you fight a larger opponent, your physical attacks will do slightly more damage to your opponent in relation to the size disparity.

Bonded Aegis.

With the few friendships you’ve made in this challenging world, you realize the strength in numbers. As a nascent Bonded Aegis, you learn the art of protective camaraderie, though you’re only just beginning to tap into this power.

Special Ability – Bonded Pulse (Level 2): When you or one of your close friends is in immediate danger, you share a brief empathetic pulse, giving a momentary warning or sense of your friend’s distress. As a Level 2 ability, this functions over a greater distance and can, on occasion, proc before danger actually has occurred.

I sighed. This was a lot to work through and⁠—

“Do hurry—I don’t have all night.”

Motherless Brooklyn. It was still talking to me.

“More like thinking to you, and you might as well be suitably honored I have chosen to interact with you at all.”

Oh, I am honored, Oh Great and Powerful.

“Better. Although, perhaps still a mite… sardonic.”

Sarcastic, maybe. Sardonic doesn’t work.

“How dare you?”

Don’t be mad because you got a word wrong. And if we are going to chat, mind giving me a hint as to what I should do?

“Of course I mind. I am not here to help you. You are here to help me.”

Saywhatnow?

There was a very long silence. Something so long and profound I imagined that across the various dimensions and realities, somewhere Dexter Montrose was sitting up in bed, shouting out, “That’s what she said,” once again managing to misunderstand both the joke and appropriate workplace behavior.

“Be quicker about this.”

You’re back.

“I was not gone. But I do not wish to remain here overlong. The coming creatures are remarkably unpleasant, something I imagine I need not remind you about.”

I tried to think through the options, especially because there seemed to be a whole lot of decisions that had to be made, and it was within a rather tight time frame. It seemed like the mystery voice—the system or whatever it might have been—was in a hurry to leave and, thus, had managed to drop a few hints it probably didn’t intend on⁠—

“No such thing happened.”

Sure.

“Believe what you will, but the cleaners are already on their way, and you’ll find being ripped from this dream state invalidates all the choices you’ve yet to make.”

How the hell is that fair?

“When was this fair?”

Balls.

I read over the special abilities.

The music was just a waste⁠—

“Not true⁠—”

Given the time crunch, maybe you could just let me think?

Silence.

The music was not the best choice—perhaps that was the more polite means of describing it. The ability to animate myself was… potentially incredibly powerful. But there was no indication what the animated fur could do, if I could sense anything through it. Or that I could manipulate objects or levers via the fur. Mostly, it seemed like it could be used to distract opponents. Useful, but not as powerful as being able to see weak points in structures. There were so many secrets in this tower. Weak points could be key in getting around the seemingly endless dead ends.

I picked Seam Sense. And there was really only one answer in my head regarding an upgrade: Minor Malleable Form.

“Done.”

Moderate Malleable Form

You can use your energies to reform your body in moderate ways. Harden your whole self. Soften your whole self. Make soft spots and hard spots. Lengthen things, shorten things, and try not to lose yourself playing with your new favorite toy: you.

Ew.

“And yet…”

I’m not doing that.

“Not yet. Also, I can feel them coming… might want to⁠—”

Hurry, I got it.

I whipped my eyes back up to the text and read over the new paths. Gladiator could be very useful, but could also be useless after this floor, at which point I’d have to find something new. I was tempted to pick Bonded Aegis, since that would help me keep Sterling alive. But our goals diverged fundamentally after this floor, and while it seemed like selfish thinking, it’s not like that would be useful after the next floor. Thinking longer term… I kind of had to pick the one with the worst name…

“Model Prisoner?”

Also not useful after this level⁠—

“Perhaps it is better to devote one level per path. Did you consider that?”

No.

“Ah. Too bad. You choose Short King⁠—”

Whoa, I did not. You chose it.

“Too late.”

What do you mean?

I waited for an answer, though I knew it wasn’t coming. I sighed, knowing I had to wake up so I could look and see what I’d been stuck with…

Chapter

Thirty-One

The wave of inescapable terror hit me as I came back to consciousness. The cleaners were coming into view, their hunger insatiable and their evil palpable. I could see why even the system, or whatever it called itself, didn’t want to hang around while the cleaners were here.

That made me realize that if I needed to do anything I wanted to keep hidden from the system, I could do it while the cleaners were around. Which was also very problematic, because I didn’t want to have to do anything while the cleaners were out, being that was an excellent way to be cleaned…

I pulled up my character sheet.

Character sheet. Level 5 Short King

Name: Delano Roosevelt

Level: 5

Type: Zardling

Class: Short King

~~HP: N/A~~

SP: 80/80

MP: 270/300

SI: 100

Attributes

Mind: 15

Body: 5

Spirit: 19

Abilities

Minor Mending.

Minor Mending allows your body to heal by expending your own energy. But watch out: you can kill yourself by healing too much!

Moderate Malleable Form.

You can use your energies to reform your body in moderate ways. Harden your whole self. Soften your whole self. Make soft spots and hard spots. Lengthen things, shorten things, and try not to lose yourself playing with your new favorite toy: you.

Flicker Sense.

A passive ability where your body slightly tingles or glows when near hidden threats or treasures in the midden. It’s a vague sensation, requiring you to still interpret and act on the stimuli.

Arcane Pulse.

You can send out a soft pulse of energy, allowing you to sense large sources of magic nearby. At lower levels, however, it’s more of a general feeling than precise detection.

Mana Beam.

Fire off beams of pure magical essence from your mouth, hands, or eyes.

Arcane Counter.

When you successfully dodge or block an attack, you can instantaneously retaliate with a burst of arcane energy, perhaps catching enemies off guard.

Fuzz Shield.

Momentarily hardens your entire fuzzy exterior, providing added protection against both physical and magical attacks.

Curiosity’s Insight.

Amplifies your observational skills, allowing you to identify traps, hidden passages, or concealed threats more effectively.

Seam Sense.

Detect weak points in structures. Upgraded, this can also be applied to additional objects and even living beings.

Motherless Brooklyn… Short king… I hated this place.

I sighed, and I closed my eyes and ignored the world some more.

Chapter

Thirty-Two

Someone banging on the cell door woke me. It was Frederic the bunny ogre.

“Yins come,” he bellowed. His voice echoed off the walls unpleasantly.

No one moved, because he wasn’t exactly clear on who should be going to him, even though I think we all knew.

“Red thing, rat guy, quick!” he shouted.

“Easy there,” I called back. “We’re moving as best we can.”

I blinked a few times like I needed to get the crusties out of my eyes, but they didn’t exist. It was just for show.

“Faster.”

I helped Sterling to his feet. He groaned.

While I was exaggerating my slowness, Sterling looked to be in genuine pain.

“Doing okay?” I asked.

“Still alive,” he replied. “Just some morning aches after our bit of exertion yesterday.”

The bunny ogre waited for us to leave the cell and then slammed the door shut. The phark guard next to him glared at the big dude, but Frederic was already moving, not looking back and seemingly happy to assume we were following.

Which we were.

We took the same basic path as the previous time, going around until we were at the same set of double doors. I tried to ready myself for another fight, wondering why we would be thrown to the wolves again so quickly. Maybe because we’d survived. I wanted to talk to Sterling about it, maybe throw a strategy or two around, but Frederic had the morning grumpies. I figured if I started talking, he’d just sit on me and I’d have to do that whole butt squish game he’d explained before.

At the big double metal doors, Frederic didn’t stop. He didn’t collect two hundred dollars. He merely threw the doors open, not bothering to knock or pause, and powered his way through.

It was a vastly different environment than last night. The space was crowded with humans. The most humans I’d seen here, though that was probably because I hadn’t been able to see into the arena stands.

Every human I’d seen before was here, as well as lots more. There were a few non-humans as well, clustered in small groups, crouching over plates of food as if someone might come and steal it from them. Because that was the other thing—so much food. There was a wide breakfast spread that smelled amazing, somehow overpowering the sweaty locker room stench that’d been so prevalent the previous evening. It was so powerfully reminiscent of home—the breakfast smell, not the locker room smell—that I knew that if I could have cried, I would have. Eggs and bacon. Fried potatoes and toast. And best of all, motherfucking coffee.

“Coffee,” I gasped to myself.

No one cared.

The fighters were working their way along a full breakfast buffet line and then going to sit at trestle tables. Talking in the space was really at a minimum—the whole room was pretty focused on eating.

Part of me was incredibly surprised at what I saw because there was such a display of food. Excess, really. Despite the number of humans here, who were all engaged in pretty athletic events, such as fighting for their lives, I couldn’t imagine all this food could be eaten. I shook my head in disbelief. The squirrels seemed to run a side hustle giving extra food to prisoners, all of whom were terribly thin, and yet… here were pounds of eggs. A whole damn side of a pig converted to bacon. A mountain of potatoes. Bread. Jellies. Fruit. Fresh fucking fruit. Fruits from across seasons. Stone fruits next to apples, citrus next to berries. A whole array of melons, for fuck’s sake, not just the ever-present honeydew. Although, to be fair, I had no idea if the melon I knew as honeydew even existed here.

I just stood there in disbelief.

“Go eat,” the rabbit ogre said. “Get yins when finished. Take yins back cell.”

I looked at the buffet, and then at the ogre, and then at myself. “How exactly would you like me to reach anything on that table?”

He looked at me and then at the table. Then at me, and then at the table.

“Not my problem.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll just go yank on the tablecloth and pull everything down. That sound good?”

He scowled at me. He did not like that idea. A fact made obvious by the way he picked me up and brought me right up to his face.

“No, I no like idea. Yins go sit that table. Food brought yins. Yins make mess, yins squish.”

“Butt squish?”

“If lucky.”

He dropped me, and I fell multiple body lengths before crumpling on the ground. It was during that very brief bit of freefall that I had a thought. A theory, if you will. Being that I could make parts of my body harder, and I could somewhat remove the concept of bones from my internal structure, what if I just let my body go all soft, kind of marshmallow the entirety of myself, save the red fur outside. Would that protect me from the blunt force trauma of a fall?

Before I came to a concrete conclusion along that line of thought, I came to a rather stone conclusion of my fall, hitting with surprising force. Not to injury, but to pain.

“Any table, good sir?” Sterling asked.

“That table,” Frederic replied, pointing a massive paw in the direction of a mostly empty trestle table.

“Thank you, sir.”

And so we went over to “that” table, where we had to work together in order to climb onto the bench and then stand there so we could be in place to reach the food.

And who happened to be right next to us but a certain long-haired fighter. He glanced at us out of the corner of his eye.

I smiled at him.

He did not smile back.

“Great fight last night,” I said to Fighter X.

He remained facing his food, but he glanced over, again out of the corner of his eye, at me. A fork laden with a surprising blend of everything that he could have possibly gotten stopped halfway to his mouth. Totally surprised that someone was talking to him. And also not quite able to understand that it was me. Or maybe irritated it was me. He grunted once and then kept eating.

“You mind if I ask you some questions?” I asked. “I’m just a newer fighter, and⁠—”

He looked at me again. Same thing—he paused his eating and looked at me out of the corner of his eyes without moving the rest of his body.

There was no comment, but he did seem to grimace a little.

He continued eating. Maybe going a little faster.

“The swords you used,” I continued along. “Is there a reason you⁠—”

He snorted once and got up from his seat, grabbed his plate, and turned around. Then he took three steps away and sat down at another table, with his back to us. He grunted one more time, as if to make it clear that he was in a better place, one where he could eat without being interrupted by us idiots.

A few moments later, a phark with long white hair walked over to us and sat two plates down in front of us, each one piled high with food.

The phark sat down.

“Good morning,” he said. “Got some breakfast for you. Not sure what you like, so I just got some of everything there.”

“All good,” I said. “Any coffee left?”

“None.”

“Motherless Brooklyn.”

“Come again?”

“Just a phrase. I’m not exactly sure why I started saying that⁠—”

“I really don’t care. Ran out of fucks just then. You need anything, you come talk to me. Leave the X alone. He doesn’t like talking in the morning. Most of the guys are not wanting to talk to anybody. Don’t take it too personal—that’s just the way it tends to go around here.”

“You’re talking to us.”

“Not a fighter, am I?”

“I don’t know. You’re here. Although I haven’t seen any pharks in here. At least behind the bars.”

“Won’t see ’em. Pharks don’t get to be behind bars. We make mistakes, we lose our heads. So I don’t make mistakes—I make the omelets. If anyone wants one, that is, because it tends to be not a whole lot of omelet eaters amongst these fine fighters here. So unless somebody comes up and orders one or if we run out of eggs, I pretty much just stand back there. Frederic there decided I would be perfect to deal with you two, seeing that you are too small to reach the table. If there’s something special you want, feel free to ask. Happy to go get it for you.”

“Are you allowed to talk to us?”

“Sure. Least, there’s no rule against it. Kind of free to talk to any of these fools around here, so guessing it’s up to me if I want to talk to you.”

“Do you want to talk to us?”

He was silent for a minute. As if this was a difficult question to process, and he needed the time to really think it through. It gave me a second to look over him, and I was fascinated to see how phark-like he was. He didn’t look much different from the pharks I’d met in the midden. Just much bigger. But also intelligent. There was a thinking being behind the big blue eyes. And I didn’t feel that strange fear that he was about to eat us.

“Well, you got something interesting to talk about? Or are we just going to chat about the lack of weather, being that we’re here underground?”

“I mean, I got a lot of questions. I just don’t know if you can answer them for me.”

“Well, you ain’t gonna know unless you get around to asking me, are you?”

“That’s true—I won’t know unless I ask you.”

“Are you having to resist eating us?” Sterling asked.

“How in all the hells is that the first question you ask? Why would I have any desire to eat you two stringy fucks?”

“Ignore him,” I said. “I think he got a head injury last night. Are you a guard here?”

“Nope. I am what is known as a cook.” He gave me a wry smile. I wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“Okay, so you’re a cook.”

“Yep. You know what that is?”

“I do.”

“Well look at you, being all knowledgeable.”

“What do you—is this your main job?”

“Yep. Also, I’m probably not going to ask about you because I⁠—”

“Are out of fucks, got it. How many days a week do you work?”

“All of them.”

“How many hours do you work?”

“As many as needed.”

“What do you do with the rest of your time?”

“You fixing to court me? You’re not exactly my type, and not too many pharks get into the relationship game because that’s just not how we pharks work. Also, I don’t really like pharks⁠—”

“I’m willing to bet you don’t like anyone.”

“Maybe you get me. But you seem like you might like others.”

“I have a few friends.”

“Bah. Too much trouble, friends.”

“I mean…”

“Only ever brought trouble to me.”

“Sure, I guess. I just… I don’t really know a whole lot about anything, really.”

“Seems about right for your age, red thing. Although it is a bit strange for someone as small as you to admit how little you know.”

“I guess I’m different.”

Sterling snorted, as if I’d just made a really good joke.

“You got a name?”

“Delano.”

“Delano.”

“Yeah, most people call me Del, though, so.”

“All right, Del. I’m Sam.”

“Sterling.” I pointed with my thumb over to my partner, who was mid-mouth-stuff. Sterling paused for the briefest second to give Sam a nod.

“First time I get to talk to one of you rats,” Sam said.

“Happy to answer anything you’re interested about,” Sterling responded.

“Maybe I’ll be curious tomorrow.”

“What, um—we’re in a tower, right?” I asked.

“Well, I guess that depends on a few semantical questions. We are currently under the tower. Two levels below ground. But the tower don’t really… I mean, the tower isn’t directly above us right now, being that we extend significantly out from where the original tower sits, and what’s above us directly is more the town what surrounds the tower. So I don’t know if you want to consider that being part of the tower. Though, to be fair, it ain’t exactly fair to call it just a singular tower anymore, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Considering what was a tower became a town, and what was a town became a state.”

“Gorlami.”

“Indeed.”

“Uh, let’s just pretend I know nothing about the tower. Can you, uh, can you describe the tower? Have you seen—are you allowed out?”

“Allowed out of where? The dungeon?”

“The tower.”

“You think I’m stuck here with you fools?”

“I don’t really⁠—”

“I can go out into Gorlami whenever I want, dammit.”

“Where do you live?”

“Pharkton. Before you ask, because I know you will, it’s down here. Used to be the barracks, now it’s Pharkton because… full of pharks. And I know you are gonna ask, ‘Sam, why do you live down here in the dark, surrounded by a dungeon? Well, it’s free. I get paid a hair more’n’a pittance, and what coin I do get I’m not gonna throw away on a shit bed upstairs when I can have a shit bed down here.”

“Better than our shit bed.”

“Not a prisoner, am I?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Also free,” Sterling added, starting to slow his rapacious eating down a tad. I noticed he was taking food off my plate and secreting about his jacket.

“You gonna tell me what you do if I ask?” Sam asked.

I glanced at Sterling, and Sterling shrugged.

“Sure,” I said.

“What’d you do?”

“Got caught poaching pharks.”

“Now that’s a lie. Not one law on the books against that.”

“Seems rough.”

“It is.”

“You want to guess?”

“Pretty sure I need but one. Being the rat is here, gotta be trespassing?”

“That’s the one. Back to the tower, though, if that’s okay⁠—”

“Can’t seem to stop you. Keep waiting for you to eat so you might be quiet and I can leave without feeling like I’m overly impolite, but I’m starting to feel like maybe I can be impolite without feeling bad.”

“Were you feeling polite when you said you were out of fucks?”

“Honesty is impolite?”

“I suppose that’s true. Just a bit of foul language. Um, at the top of the tower is… is a wizard, right?”

“Never a surprise when everyone knows the wizard. Guess that makes sense. The wizard is up there at the top. Supposedly. It’s his tower. Also supposedly. The rest of us are here because of him. Of course, might be better to say we are here because of what he was, what with no one ever talking to him.”

“He doesn’t come ever out?”

“No. Been more’n’a bit of time since anyone seen the man. Quite the pool on if he’ll show up, if he’s dead, if he’s there at all… You want in on it, I can place the bet for you.”

“Did you bet?”

“Typical. You should know not to ask that question.”

“Bah, I’m a strange red furry guy—I don’t have social graces.”

“Don’t tell anybody, but I got my money on he’s actually there. I think he’s behind damn near everything in this damn tower, even all the way down here. It’s just some sort of funky experiment.”

“A funky experiment?”

“Not my choice of phraseology,” Sam said, putting his hands up. “Apparently the wizard has been known to do things such as this in the past, and something… maybe… I’m just saying that from what I heard, it wouldn’t be the first time he, um, engaged in experiments. At least as far as people tell us, you know.” He looked around and swallowed hard, as if, maybe, he’d said too much. “But I’m just a cook. And I happen to like my cushy position, so let’s just decide that maybe that is a topic off the proverbial table. Lots of ears around here.”

Sam gestured, and I saw there were ogres positioned at every wall, watching over us. And for the first time, I wondered if it wasn’t just to keep the prisoners in line.

“Oh, goon squad, huh?” I whispered.

“Goon squad?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, the ogres.”

“You call them the goon squad?”

“I mean, not to their face. But yeah.”

He chuckled. “That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that.”

“I can write it down for you if you want.”

“You can write?”

I nodded. “And I read.”

“You read too?”

I nodded again.

“And he can do math,” Sterling piped in.

“Well don’t you fucking surprise? I wouldn’t tell many people about that. Not too many folk in Gorlami like it when they find out you can read. Big hullaballoo when it came out that pharks were reading, and it became this thing and then they realized they couldn’t really stop it because we’re pharks, so…”

“Can do. One more question⁠—”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I been here long enough to know that right now there’s someone watching you. And if she’s watching you, that means she’s interested in you. And if she’s interested in you, she’s started listening to you and she’s gonna expect me to tell her what I told you and what you told me so she can figure out something about your abilities. I’m willing to bet that the weirdness with last night was due to you, which, frankly I did think already, considering there ain’t much a reason a duo like you should be in a place like this. And I mean the arena and not the prison, because you rats seem to treat this prison as your personal vacationland, which is fine and all but I’d really rather⁠—”

“What did we do that’s so weird?” I asked, realizing I needed to interrupt the old phark, who was strangely loquacious for someone who didn’t want to be overheard.

“Well, you weren’t killed, were you?”

“Not yet. At least as far as I can tell. Not undead, are we?”

“Seem a bit more lively than the last undead I saws, but, then again, not exactly a daily occurrence for me as a cook. The odd bit you two pulled off is more due to, well—normally when they do a damnation to the animals, or damnation by beasts. I forget what they’re calling it these days, but it’s some flowery verbiage to make it seem more than what it is. Used to just be called execution by beasts, but now they have to make it all pretty sounding.” Sam paused as I made the get on with it gesture. “Right, well—normally when that happens, you die. You get put in there, no weapons, no nothing, up against something with teeth and claws what’s bigger and faster than you. You ain’t supposed to walk outta there alive to dine on bacon the next day. Especially not the both of you. That you did has caused what’s known as a consternation. And those powers what be above us are not overly fond of consternations. They prefer easy gold. And being that I see a certain lady looking betwixt you and the rat right now, it would seem as if the time for questions and conversations has shuffled on.”

Sam stared us down for a minute. For a cook, he seemed to know an awful lot about the games, because it most certainly seemed like there was a ton he hadn’t yet told us.

“Any last meal requests?”

“Don’t say that,” I said. “Makes it sound like this is going to be our last meal.”

“You think you’ll get another one?”

“I mean⁠—”

“Too late, the goon squad’s coming back over. Goon squad, I do like that.”

With that, he tapped the table twice, got up, and walked away.

Seconds later, Frederic and the Goon Squad—much better live than recorded—popped up behind us and grabbed us out of our seats.

“Games Master want see yins,” Purple Bunny Boy said. “Yins come now.”

“You’re holding me,” I said. “I can’t go anywhere unless you take me.”

He squinted at me. I could almost see the gears turning as he tried to figure out what I meant.

“Yes,” he said, his breath washing over me in a repugnant onion-heavy wave. “Is good yins remember that.”

I just nodded. Frederic was still in a foul mood, and I didn’t want to give him any excuse to rip my head off and use my fluffy insides to clean his booger-laden nose. The weasel fellow had Sterling up and half tucked under one arm, waiting for us to lead the way. Frederic grunted at the weasel and headed off.

Chapter

Thirty-Three

The Games Master’s office was a beautiful space. I suppose if someone was deep into minimalism, they could find fault with some of the design choices, but otherwise, whomever did the space knocked it out of the park. Which made me wonder, idly, what that idiom would be in a world without home runs or baseball parks.

When we came in, or, rather, when we were carried in, we faced a curved desk, behind which sat the Games Master, the same posh woman who’d made me jog around the prison cell. To our left was a curved wall full of windows looking down over the arena below. A doorway led out to a small balcony, so the Games Master, or her guests, could go out and actually hear the crowd.

A tri-level bar filled with crystal decanters, all of which held amberish liquids of marginally different hues, stood against the nearest wall. At the far end of the room, a couch and two chairs were arranged to promote either fun times or intense discussions. Carpets were layered over the floor so that not a bit of stone peeked through.

“Ah!” Malera exclaimed as we entered, holding a finger up.

Both ogres stopped.

“Not you,” she said. “Your boots do not enter here, do they?”

“No, Master,” said the weasel ogre. He tossed Sterling aside and promptly started to pull his boots off.

Frederic grunted, irritated by being stopped. He glared at the Games Master and chucked me into the room. Then he turned and headed back down the hall without saying another word. I hit the carpet and rolled, coming up to standing.

A second later, Sterling stood next to me. Somehow the barefoot ogre was still leaving dirty footprints on the carpet. His feet were just as disgusting, if not more so, than his boots. He didn’t seem to care, and I wondered if he even knew why he was supposed to take his boots off.

Luckily for the Barefoot Weasel, the Games Master was busy scribbling something, using enough force that it seemed like she’d wear the quill down to the nub any second, so she didn’t notice the ogre’s effects on the carpet.

“Shut the door, please,” she said, making it clear the ogre was to leave.

He did.

The Games Master’s words came out clipped and a little over-enunciated, almost pointedly posh. It all felt forced, as if she were the end product of some My Fair Lady tutelage.

Malera finished whatever she was writing, looked it over, and then shook some sort of powder over the paper, like she’d just salted her notes. She held up the paper and let whatever was on it run into a small dish next to her, and then she slid the paper to the side, clearing her desk. Before she looked at us, though, she brushed her desk clean. Then she sat up straight, leaned forward a little, and peered at us.

“The duo stands before me,” she said. “Quite a surprise, aren’t you?”

I started to respond, but she held up a finger.

“Whatever thought you might have, I have little desire to hear it. You see, we are not here to have a conversation so much as you… are here… to listen… to me.”

I think she thought she sounded tough, taking the pauses like that. But to me, it was just awkward. And whatever intimidation she had gained from her initial statement, she lost when she didn’t continue. Meaning we had nothing to listen to. She just stared at us, eyes dancing from me to Sterling and then back, over and over.

I almost glanced over at Sterling, because it was getting weird.

Finally, she shook her head.

“You know, I try very hard to mirror the attitude of others here,” Malera said, the words tumbling out of her mouth like she needed to say it all quickly. “I try to be hard. To not care, as they do. To view the prisoners and whatnot here as objects instead of people. And yet, I find it difficult to disabuse myself of feelings I imagine as natural. How am I to view you and your kind as beasts? Or as lesser beings, hardly worth acknowledging or valuing? As base tools to be used, exploited, and replaced? I cannot—not without great effort—especially after your performance yesterday. And yet, that is what is expected of me. That is what I need to do… but… I—That anyone I meet within the boundaries of my job should be considered vile creatures undeserving of anything. That it would be best to kill them quickly, but we might as well make something out of their pointless existence.”

I frowned, because there was a whole lot of talk about “us” as if we weren’t standing there in front of her. I was taken aback by the manner in which we were repeatedly told we were personless, vile things whose only use was in entertaining those higher than us with our vainglorious deaths.

“I was told never to speak with you,” she continued, “never get to know you, to never allow any such as yourselves to know me as anything more than another cog in the death machine that is our dungeon. If I wished to preserve my sanity for the long term, I could not allow myself to actually conceive of you as persons, because what we do to you is too terrible. And caring would destroy me.”

The Games Master paused and stared at us again.

I wanted to commiserate, or at least make the case that we were, in fact, sentient enough to care about, but I figured whatever was going on here was highly irregular, and I shouldn’t push things. But I also was getting used to the idea that as a prisoner, I needed to wait to speak until such time it was indicated I should be speaking.

“And yet,” she continued after a moment, “here I am, looking at you two. You seem normal. Maybe intelligent, even, and caring. I’ve seen what you have done, and I find myself uncomfortably curious about you. Not so much you, Rat, but you, Red Thing. Well, perhaps a little about you, Rat, since Red Thing seems to care for you. But do I ask your names? Do I attempt to see beyond these little novelties that you have become for us? Or do I just keep you as Rat and Red…”

She paused again. I was beginning to get irritated that Sterling always got top billing. Why not Red and Rat? But then she started talking again, and it took all the willpower I could muster to not roll my eyes.

“Initially, I felt it was important to break that rule because I knew it would be impossible to run a program such as this without understanding the individuals. I must, where I am to make entertainment, without knowing the individuals the mob comes to see. But that tends to be a small number of individuals, and certainly never any such as yourselves. You see, the problem is, you were supposed to die. And you didn’t.”

“Sorry,” Sterling said suddenly, almost as if he couldn’t help himself.

Malera raised one perfect eyebrow.

“Perhaps you are confused. And because this is the first time we have interacted, I am going to be a little more forgiving than usual, but you should never speak to any of us unless you are being asked a direct question. Understood?”

Sterling just stood there, staring ahead.

“That was a direct question, Rat. You may answer.”

“Yes, I understand, and I thank you for the explanation.”

“Excellent. Moving on—I should not have put my internal monologue out to you. These are just my own thoughts, and I hasten to say that there is no reason I will treat you any differently. You are inmates here and have been sentenced to death, so I hope what I have divulged is something we can hold in confidence.”

I raised my hand.

She looked at me, confused.

“Why is your hand raised?” Malera asked.

“I was hoping to ask a question.”

“No. There is rather much to speak on, and I hope you will not hold my overt surprise at your survival against me either. Most everyone, well, everyone, expected that we would witness the death of two small creatures via an Obicěre Bestiis. It is exceedingly rare to have invoked such a beast and find the beast is the one dying. It is less rare in the more common Damnatio Ad Bestias, but it has happened. I actually looked in the records, since it was such a curiosity. You two are the first to do so. All of which leads me to say that this is a rather unique situation, and some things must be done out of order.

“You see, there are benefits for those who entertain in our arena, because we understand it is a dangerous endeavor. Statistically, it is far more likely you will either die or be so gravely injured that you cannot continue than it is that you will actually make it out.

“So as you already know, there is additional food available to the fighters. You are fed well so that you are able to perform at the highest levels. You will also have access to healing, not just for the injuries sustained within the arena itself but for those you pick up in your daily lives in the dungeon as well. By working with us, we take a vested interest in your continued ability to perform.

“This presumes, of course, that you agree to working with us.” The Games Master took a breath and hardened her gaze. “Now, normally, this is the time in my admittedly long speech when I offer the individual the chance to agree that they are actually working with us. However, for you there is only one possible answer: you are working with us.”

She paused, I think waiting for us to say something. Or, rather, waiting for us to try to say something so she could yell at us.

“Should you choose to recuse yourself from continued arena work,” she said, “I will have to report that to my overseer, the Keeper himself. And the Keeper shall want to know why you are still alive. And I will not have an adequate answer, and the Keeper will likely put your fate in the hands of the Warden. Something, I assure you, everyone desperately wishes to avoid. So, if there are no concerns…?”

I think we both felt that there was no actual response we could make.

“Wonderful,” she said with a stunning smile. “We shall continue to the rules. The first one, something I imagine you will enjoy, is that based upon your crime, you may fight for your freedom. Oddly, your intake paperwork seems somewhat incomplete. As in, there is none. I don’t see what infraction you have been accused or found guilty of, so it is possible your crime has yet to be adjudicated. But given the two of you, I would imagine it is a small crime. Not because of your physical stature—though let’s be real, you are rather tiny—but because I have my doubts as to what you could accomplish against any human. Additionally, I have seen quite a few of your brethren come through here.” She nodded to Sterling. “I would imagine you were taken for trespassing?”

She raised her voice at the end to indicate it was a question.

Sterling nodded, so I nodded too.

“Right, I assumed as much. That means it will be twelve victories for your freedom.”

“Twelve victories?” I asked. “Each?”

“I presume you fight as a team. If you do, then twelve for each of you is the same as apart. If you decide to go your separate ways, you will each need to have twelve wins. If you take every fight offered to you, you will get the fight benefits. You may refuse fights, but then you will not get rations. You may refuse one out of three fights. If you refuse more than that, it will be assumed that you are out of the arena system. As there are some questions I would require responses to, I will permit you to speak freely for the movement. Do you understand what I have said?”

“Yes,” Sterling said, “but I do have a quick question: what if we refuse a fight, and then we take two fights, and then we refuse a fight? Is that three? Where does the three come in?”

She sighed and picked up her quill, tapping it on the table.

“Little rat, it is left purposefully vague. Because ultimately, if you are inside the system and having success, we prefer to keep you there. I don’t know if you know how arenas work, or even how entertainment works, but the mob does not come for the blood or the violence or the spectacle. They come for the stories. And they return to see how those stories grow and evolve. The mob becomes your fan. And fans spend money. And we are in the business of making money. So we like when we can have a story develop, and after your unexpected victory, there has been a rather surprising amount of discussion around the two of you. People are starting to latch onto the little fighters, and therefore we would like you to remain. And if we want you to remain, we are more likely to find reasons to keep you here as opposed to reasons to get rid of you. Similarly, if you are no longer useful, or, fiends forbid, you become an issue, you will find that the rules may very well be twisted to dismiss you from service. Now, may I continue?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “We get it about the refusals.”

I did a little hand wave at Sterling to keep him from piping back up because I saw him wanting to raise objections and dig down in search of a loophole. But I knew the “rules” were not in place in any manner that could benefit us.

“Thank you,” Malera said. “Now, if you win fights, you earn winnings. Your winnings will be held for you until such time as you have earned your freedom, as there is little reason for you to have coinage in the prison itself. You may bet those winnings on any fight that you are not involved in⁠—”

“What do you mean, bet?” Sterling asked.

“You do not know what betting is?”

“No, just⁠—”

“I think he means to ask,” I said, “is there a bookie somewhere?”

“You have not had a chance to see all that the arena has to offer. Yes, there is someone available to you to arrange your wagers. As you have won a fight against a beast, you have each been given a prize of twenty guilders. If you were fighting as a single, it would be for”—she paused and thought—“thirty guilders total. But as you are a pair, it is twenty apiece.”

“And that will be the take for each win?” I asked.

“No, that is only for this win. If you fight another beast, a single beast would be twenty each for you. If you are fighting against two, it would be forty. These things are traditionally explained on the day of the event, based upon the difficulty and your ability to draw a crowd. But the minimum is typically around ten guilders each for a non-death fight. For an entertainment event, it would be slightly less than that. For beast fights, it’s usually more. For monster fights, even more, and for tournament events or death fights, the most.

“Now, if you lose a fight and survive, you will also lose half of all your winnings, but you will remain in the system. And as I see you, Rat, already posing a question, you lose half your current total every time, rounding up in your favor. So even if you do nothing but lose in perpetuity, you will, as long as you have won once, wind up something by the end of it.”

“So there’s no flat fee for fighting?” I asked.

“No. You fight, and you gain access to all the benefits. You win, you also get coin.”

“Okay, got it.”

“You will be asked to take part in executions. This is an aspect of our arena that I understand is not necessarily palatable to everyone. So if you do not wish to take an execution, you may refuse it without it being counted as a fight refusal. But if you do it, you will be granted winnings as if it were a fight.”

“So we get paid to kill people?”

“If that is the manner in which you would like to think of it, yes. You would be paid to kill ‘people.’”

“Do they count as victories for the getting out?”

“We shall see, won’t we? Let me remind you again: if you are well-behaved and you prove to be spectacular showmen, you will find that there are many advantages for you. But if you are more inclined to make trouble, you will find that the rules become a little more intense. Do you understand that?”

“I think so,” I said.

“I do have—” Sterling started, but I stomped on his foot. “No more questions.”

“I appreciate that you are so amenable to being part of this little system we have developed here,” the Games Master said. “It really helps everyone, being that it allows us to run the dungeon with so many benefits on offer. And I am intrigued at the opportunities your unique structure provides.”

She smiled at us. I was about to ask her about getting medicine for Little Joe, but then her smile disappeared and her face went hard.

“But remember, above everything else, we are not friends. We are not business partners. This is a dungeon, and you are prisoners. Should you push me or try me—not even far, just in the slightest—your lives will be forfeit. Am I understood?”

“We get it,” I said. “Be model prisoners and showmen.”

“If you can, yes. It is likely we will not have reason to speak again. Good day.”

I didn’t hear or see anything to indicate that she contacted somebody. But the door opened, and the ogres stood ready to escort us away.

“This way,” Frederic bellowed.

“You needn’t yell,” Malera whined.

“Sorry,” he said over his shoulder, already moving and expecting us to follow.

Chapter

Thirty-Four

Iassumed we’d be taken back to the cell, returned to our group of small creature criminals, but I hoped we’d get another run through the food and fun area. Not that I wanted to eat—having tasty food to barter with was always valuable. And even though my first chat with another idiot who’d agreed to put his life on the line for the entertainment of others had gone rather poorly, I still wanted to try talking to some of the other gladiators—see if I could glean anything from them.

Sadly though, we were taking a different route out of the arena, a direct path through a new door that the ogres shoved open, revealing brilliant daylight streaming down from above.

I stopped in my tracks, confused.

This was not the right play, at least as far as the ogres were concerned, because the big guy behind me gave me a hard kick with his big dirty boot.

I went sailing into the space and smashed, face-first, into something that I think was supposed to be grass. Or, maybe it had been grass at one point, but now it was straw-covered mud.

After a quick bounce, I rolled to my feet—a maneuver I was being forced to become better and better at—and faced the door.

Which was closed.

Sterling stood there with me in the day-lit room.

“Unique entrance,” he said, not taking his eyes off the “sky.” “What do you suppose this is?”

I squinted up and tried to see through the intense light.

It looked like a sky. But the like in that sentence was doing an awful lot of heavy lifting, because I’d seen way better trompe l’oeil skies in Vegas. The lighting, which was bright as hell, helped to sell things since it wasn’t comfortable to look up for long. And if you weren’t looking up, it really did seem like we were outside on a beautiful spring day. Minus the heavy stone walls surrounding us—those put something of a damper on things.

“I think it’s a fake sky,” I said, “made to let us walk around in daylight so we don’t go insane from never seeing the outside.”

“Sky.”

“Yeah.”

“What is that?”

“What is what?”

“The sky?”

“I, um…” I frowned. “I don’t actually know how to describe it. It’s just, um, like a basic concept for me, and, um, I guess if you’ve never been outside, or out of the tower, maybe you don’t know what it is, do you?”

“I have not, so I admit that I do not. Are you able to describe the basic concept?”

“I think? It’s, um, the thing that’s not the ground? Imagine the biggest space you’ve ever seen, but then remove the ceiling and the walls. Vast beyond anything you could imagine, because it just stretches on and on forever. And that’s where the sun is, a great ball of fire that crosses the sky during the day, and, um”—I paused because I wasn’t sure how many, if any, moons there were in this world—“at night, when the sun, the ball of fire, goes below the horizon, there’s no more light and it gets dark until these little stars come out, which are basically like the sun but much, much farther away.”

“So the night is like the dark and the day is like the light?”

“Exactly. The sky is kind of like where the world breathes, too. It’s where the air is, and as the world spins around, that makes the air move somewhat, and as the air moves, it gets hotter and colder depending on⁠—”

“The sun being on that part of the, um⁠—”

“Right, the ball that is the planet. It’s like a, um⁠—”

“Ball?”

“Yeah, I just said that, right? So, that’s kind of how wind happens. And weather. Which is, um, a really simple way of trying to explain sky, which I might not have done correctly because of⁠—”

“It is a simple but complicated concept?”

“Well, yeah. But also because your world may be different than mine, and you might not have that at all outside the tower. It could be that there is no ball planet, and it’s just a small plate held up by a really strong man who’s balancing on the back of a mythical turtle.”

“But what’s the turtle on?”

“A block of godly cheese?”

“Are you just saying random things?”

“Yes.”

“And you require this, sun, to survive?”

“I think most of us who, um, are used to daylight get weird when we don’t have it anymore.”

“Interesting.”

“I think so.”

Sterling was about to say something when he stopped, his eyes focusing on something over my shoulder.

I glanced back.

A group of rats approached us. Or, considering it was the group who shared our cell, who’d been so very interested in Sterling, it’d probably be more true to say that a group of rats approached Sterling with the implicit desire that by the time they arrived, I’d have gotten the hint and skedaddled. The apparent leader had on a flat cap pulled low, which caused his ears to stick out to the sides at an odd angle. But it also seemed to do a pretty swell job at keeping the sun, for lack of a better term, out of his eyes.

“A good day to the two of you,” the lead rat said, speaking so softly that I had a difficult time actually deciphering his words. “We have come to speak to our brother.”

“We’re related?” I asked. “Do I get a hug? Nothing?”

The rat just stared at me, unwilling to crack even the tiniest of smiles for the joke.

I glanced at Sterling. He gave me a nod.

I thought for a second and decided I wasn’t worried about my rat comrade. If he could survive in the midden, he could probably handle yard time in this bizarre prison.

“I’ll take a little stroll, then,” I said, making my way around the area.

Chapter

Thirty-Five

There wasn’t much to say about the yard itself—it was a big open space with none of the little things that might make you believe you were actually outdoors. No grass grew between the cracks, no insects anywhere. Well, except for the big things that looked like insects, like Spider Murphy.

What surprised me was that we weren’t in here by ourselves. The little cell, I mean. There were quite a few other inmates wandering around, all of whom had cliqued up and were having quiet conversations. There didn’t seem to be much in the way of group intermingling either, which is why it was confusing when a stout bearded fellow about three-ish feet tall and nearly as wide walked over to where I was pretending to stare at the stone tile on the ground.

“Granite,” he said.

I looked up at him, trying to decide if this was a traditional greeting of some kind.

“Slate,” I replied.

It was his turn to look confused, the massive eyebrows above his deep blue eyes contorting almost comically.

“Pretty sure it’s granite.”

“Ahh. So this isn’t a stone greeting, where we trade rock names?”

“Is that a thing for you?”

“No,” I said. “But I thought maybe it was for you.”

“Because I’m a dwarf?”

“Because you came up to me and the first word out of your mouth was granite.”

“Oh. I thought you were interested in the stone there. Which is granite.”

“I appreciate the knowledge. Hey, um, any chance that you have a secret granite dissolver solution in your pocket?”

“Planning to break out through this floor here?”

“No, but maybe somewhere else.”

“Do you realize the penalty for such talk?”

“One, obviously I was testing you, and two, no. I do not.”

“Clever. You fight well.”

“Bit of a topic shift.”

“Yes. But also the primary reason I wanted to speak with you.”

“To compliment my fighting?”

“Yes. And to speak to you about your plans for your time within the arena.”

“Can’t say I have much planned beyond survival, really.”

“Seems shortsighted.”

“Maybe, but also kind of important?” I said. “The whole fighting thing was rather a surprise.”

“Which makes your victory all the more impressive.”

“Thank you?”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

“Then I retract the interrogative lilt at the end of my statement.”

“You are an odd one.”

“It’s kind of depressing how often I’ve been hearing that lately.”

“I have not seen many like you.”

“Furry?”

“Yes, but that plus intelligent.”

“Usually you meet just furry dumb-dumbs?”

“I’d say I’d seen them from a distance or chosen not to have any sort of interaction with them.”

“Is it gauche to ask why you’re here?”

“To talk to you.”

“So that’s a yes.”

He shrugged. I knew I shouldn’t expect an answer as to why he’d been imprisoned, but it still bugged me. I was curious. I still considered myself an innocent dude who’d been thrown here to die for no reason whatsoever.

“The group I work with is interested in you,” the dwarf continued, “as you are something new within the arena. And I think you might find that you could benefit from being involved with us.”

“You want to clarify a little?”

“Clarify what?”

“What do you mean ‘work with’? Are you going to fight alongside⁠—”

“No.”

“Then?”

“Then… do I really need to spell it out?” he asked and then glanced over at a group of dwarf fellows who were all looking back at us.

“I mean, yes. How am I supposed to know what you mean?”

He sighed. “Simply put, you will win when we request you to do so, and you will lose when we need you to do so as well,” he said.

“So you can bet to make the big monies.”

“Yes.”

“And what do I get out of this deal?”

“Are you unfamiliar with us?”

“Obviously.”

He frowned. “You have not heard of the Purple Gang?”

“Sorry.”

“Well then.” He smiled. “You have no idea how much better your life here can be…”

“You think, maybe, we jumped things a little? We didn’t even say hello. What’s your name?”

His face turned hard. “Bjarhúhm.”

“Nice to meet you, Bjarhúhm. I’m Del.”

“Your name is Del?”

“It is. Say, do you worry that maybe this is a bad idea since we’re obviously bad at communicating with each other?”

“No.”

“Just me? Okay.”

“It’s a good idea because this is what’s best for you.”

“I feel like you’re not quite thinking about what you’re doing here,” a new voice said, and I looked over to see a familiar red squirrel strolling along.

“I should have known—” Bjarhúhm started to say.

“Yep,” the Hogan interrupted. “And before you add in some sort of a threat here, Bjarhúhm, why don’t you remember who is really in charge here…”

The dwarf glared at the squirrel.

I thought about wandering away, but as I took a single backward step, I ran into a furry body. Gray squirrels were there, big, bushy tails held up, hands behind their backs, not looking at me, busy watching the dwarf.

“You think you scare me?” Bjarhúhm asked. “You think we care about your belief that you actually have power in here? It’s an illusion.”

“We can demonstrate what we can do if you’d like,” the Hogan said. “If you have doubts, that is.”

Another dwarf made his way over to the group. He put his hand on Bjarhúhm’s shoulder.

“Might I be of assistance here?” a new dwarf asked.

Bjarhúhm’s head snapped over, ready to fight, but he quickly realized who’d come up to him.

“I was doing as requested,” Bjarhúhm said, “putting an offer together for this young… thing, Del.”

“And I declined,” I said quickly.

“Ah,” New Dwarf said. “Is it because you already have an agreement with the Nutlord?”

I looked over to the Hogan, who gave me a quick wink and a slight smile.

“While there isn’t anything official,” he said, “the Nutlord has expressed an interest in this red thing.”

“So it would seem that we are within our rights to offer this unclaimed individual an opportunity, yes?”

“Oh, but he has said no to you.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t realize what we can offer.”

I was about to say something when a gray tail whipped across my face.

“I think he knows. We all know what the Purple Gang can do, but I doubt you realize how difficult it is to reach any of us in the small cell.”

“We realize how delicate you all are,” New Dwarf said. “And we would hate to see your lives in this most difficult of environments become even more challenging.”

“Are you really thinking through things? Because I can let the Nutlord know⁠—”

“You are not the only one with connections to the outside world, squirrel.”

“I have no doubts about that, Gersahn,” the Hogan said. “But there’s quite a difference between what we are able to accomplish here and what you are able to. Would you prefer to ask your friends outside to make sure the Purple Gang has enough to eat?”

“Are you thinking of breaking the deal you’ve already made?”

“You do realize that we are a criminal organization, right?”

“You don’t scare⁠—”

“It’s not about scaring. It’s about us doing what we need to do when we need to do it without having to bother with things like fulfilling deals with a gang who’s decided they want to fight us. If you want to be good little dwarves, we can keep our deals, and you can have more than a single bite of bread twice a day. Or, you can see what we do when you’re on our bad side and wonder what, exactly, is being served in the clay bowls that doesn’t smell quite right any longer.”

Bjarhúhm’s knuckles turned bright white as he clenched his stout fist.

“Gents,” the Hogan started, “I would prefer that we keep this civil, especially given what we all know will happen if we choose to get into an altercation here.”

“We would never be so foolish as to do that,” Gersahn said. “Right, Bjarhúhm?”

“Right,” Bjarhúhm said through clenched teeth.

“Now,” the Hogan said, “there is a simple question that needs a simple answer here. Del, would you like to work with the Purple Gang and throw fights for them?”

“It wasn’t quite that simple,” Bjarhúhm snapped. “He could⁠—”

“No,” I said. “No desire.”

“There,” Red said. “Now this young ma… red thing can go about his day, and we can finish this conversation in such a way where an understanding is reached, yes?”

“Sure,” Gersahn said.

Bjarhúhm glared at me. It really felt like he was trying to intimidate me, which sort of worked because he was so much bigger than me. But also, because I’d already dealt with things even bigger than him without dying, it just didn’t faze me anymore.

He bent down and looked me in the eyes.

“You will find your time here unbearable,” he said.

“It already is,” I said. “It’s prison.”

One of the gray squirrels snickered, and the other gray one slapped the snickering one.

“Gersahn,” the Hogan said. “Let us send the underlings away and finish this.”

“Bjarhúhm,” Gersahn said. “This is at an end.”

Bjarhúhm glared at me. Then he glared at Gersahn, and then glared at Red. Lots of glaring going on. Seemed to be the only thing that Bjarhúhm had in his social expression toolkit. But after having glared at everyone around, he stalked back whence he’d come, toward a group of dwarves I imagined to be the rest of the Purple Gang. As soon as he got into the group, some serious words were exchanged, along with more glares at me.

I smiled and walked away from the squirrels and Gersahn.

“Making friends?” Sterling asked, walking up to me.

“Sure,” I said. “The dwarf is from a group of fight fans who want us to take dives in certain fights.”

“They want us to rig the fights?”

“Exactly.”

“And that benefits us how?”

“That’s what I asked. They seemed to indicate they’d make the dungeon nicer for us if we joined them.”

“How would they do that?”

“By not making it worse.”

“What? How does that make sense?”

“It didn’t. At least not to me. I guess I should have asked if you’re interested in working with them before saying no.”

“Ah yes, I suppose that would have been the more appropriate thing, although I tend to agree with your judgment in this case. It seems quite like a foolish endeavor.”

“Yup.”

“Did they have any means of keeping us from being harmed whilst in fixed fights?”

“No.”

“Ridiculous. Did they consider that issue?”

“To be fair, I didn’t really get to speak with them that long, so none of my questions were answered. Also, I didn’t ask any, which might have also been part of the problem of not having any answered.”

“And the Nutlord’s servants swooped in to save you?”

“It seemed more like they swooped in to claim me.”

“Oh. That’s less to my liking.”

“Same. But I didn’t really see a way out of that one.”

“We’re working for them officially now?”

“No, but apparently the Nutlord himself is interested in us.”

“I do not like that either.”

I just shrugged.

“Did you have fun with your friends?”

“Perhaps more so than you did, but I would hesitate to call them friends.”

“The rats aren’t friends?”

“They are rather intense⁠—”

“Oh?”

“—in that they seek to return to Ratopolis in all due haste. Though it would seem they are not at all concerned with the consequences of their actions, which could be difficult in that regard.”

“What does that mean? They’re going to fight the guards?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Not exactly.”

“Poison?”

“No, though that might be something to consider. They are planning an escape.”

“And they want you in on it?”

“They seem keen on that, yes.”

“And how keen are you?”

“Keen? I would not use that word to describe my desire to work with them. They are more confident in their abilities than they should be, given what they claim to be able to do.”

“You don’t think, um—” I paused and glanced around, trying to figure out if anyone around us was listening in. It didn’t seem like it. “Do you think we should be trying to escape right now?”

“Perhaps. We have found ourselves in a confusing system. The rats do what they do in secret from both the official runners of the dungeon and the unofficial ones. Which is, perhaps, the reason for them speaking only with me. But if we were to try to escape, we would need to do something similar, and since we are already persons of interest, that could be increasingly difficult.”

“So you’re saying that it’s tough to get out now because we’d have to keep things secret from the squirrels and the guards, but it’s going to be more difficult later because we might be more interesting then?”

“I had not quite thought of that, but yes, I imagine that would be the case.”

“So you don’t know what to do.”

“Not in any concrete manner, no. I think it would be…” He paused, and then shook his rat head. “I had planned to say something, to insinuate that everything was fine, but… I cannot lie about how concerned I am for our overall safety here.”

“I think we can be assured we’re not safe.”

“Which adds a second reason that leaving sooner is better.”

“I mean, obviously.”

“Except that it would mean we are flying blind.”

“Given how the last flight worked, maybe⁠—”

“Please do not mention that—I am still rather sore about that disaster.”

“Sure. So do the rats have a plan?”

“They claim to, yes. But I can’t discern how their plan might impact our own, as they have their own ideas. And, more importantly, their own timeline.”

“When do they want to leave?”

“I fear they are slow to trust me. Or anyone. Our initial conversations have mostly been those that run the vein of discovery and bona fidication, wherein they did their best to expose me as a plant and not the type with leaves. You know, I’m still so used to speaking with Oscar that I… Anyway, they have been trying to pinpoint me as an outsider seeking to gain access to the city. I believe they finally believe I am who I say I am, and this was something in the manner of a more vague interest check. I let them know I was interested, but with no real agreement to join in their tomfoolery.”

“Ah.”

“Were you hoping you could steal their idea?”

“Well, we. Or, I mean, you.”

“Right. Much easier for me to steal it and supply it to you and then⁠—”

“Easy there, Sterling. I’m not planning on leaving you behind.”

“How kind of you.”

“You’re welcome.”

A loud bell rang out. Sterling and I jumped in surprise, but the rest of the prisoners in the yard just shuffled toward the exit, lining up along the wall.

“End of yard time?” I guessed.

“Seems like it,” Sterling replied.

A large ogre stepped inside the open door, bending down a little to clear the lintel. He was another strange bird-ogre mix, but this time a little more, um, turkey-like? He had a longer neck as well as the wattle thing dangling below his chin, so it had some turkey roots.

He pivoted his head in sharp increments, which felt very bird-like, and scanned the prisoners. It caused the wattle to flap around comically. But his eyes were sharp, and the talons on the ends of his big hands were genuinely scary. Not to mention his incredible size.

“Red Thing and Rat!” the turkey ogre bellowed. “Come.”

He slapped his thigh as if we were dogs.

I looked over at Sterling. He just sighed.

“No respect here,” I said.

“I was going to make a cannot find good help quip,” Sterling replied, already moving toward the wall. “But we shall go with yours. A bit better.”

“They’re both a little weak,” I said as we went over to the wall to stand in line.

“No, come here, now,” the ogre bellowed, pointing to the ground in front of him.

I did as such, and Sterling followed right along.

“Come,” he said, and he headed out of the yard.

We followed.

Chapter

Thirty-Six

Another ogre, this one an owl-based hybrid, stepped in behind us as we followed the turkey through the prison. I was starting to get a mental map of the place, and I recognized some of the twists and turns we’d taken.

“Oi!” the owl ogre yelled as we got to a four-way intersection. “Not that way.”

Turkey stopped and looked back at Owl.

“Oo’s in front? Me. I decide—” Turkey started.

“Not right way,” Owl barked.

“Is right way! Arena over there,” Turkey shouted, pointing his feather-covered arm that ended in a weird yellow bird-skin hand straight ahead.

I frowned for two reasons. One, why were we going back to the arena? Two, this was a very normal part of the corridor with stone brick walls and stone floor and occasional torches. No open cells there, and some decorative support pillars midway along, which each had sconces holding lots of candles and, as was always the case here, covered in melted wax. As I thought about the first two things, a third came up, in that it seemed like all the corridors of the prison managed to connect to each other, so what did it matter which way we went? Except that it might be a slightly longer walk.

“No go that way,” Owl said. “Is⁠—”

“Is right way, is fast way, and is way we go!” Turkey finished with a rough bark. Then he marched resolutely forward.

Owl mumbled behind us, making his irritation clear.

“Can hear you,” Turkey called back.

“Not care!” Owl hollered.

“You is idiot,” the turkey ogre said. “Not even know⁠—”

Except as he started past what I’d assumed was a decorative support pillar, the pillar seemed to pull apart and reveal massive teeth. As if the bricks were actually hiding a huge mouth. The wall deformed as the pillar jaws leaned out and straight up chomped into the turkey-ogre.

The large teeth punched through the thick hide of the ogre, pulling him to the left side of the corridor as the jaw closed.

The ogre shouted in surprise, then pain, then anger, and started swinging its giant feather fist, pounding against what looked very much like stone brick.

“Bah!” the owl-ogre said, stepping between us while pulling out a metal club with some nasty spikes on the end. “Gerrofim!”

He slammed the club into the wall, the spikes sending off sparks as it skidded across the stone skin of the pillar creature with a clattering, skritchy sort of noise. Owl immediately swung the club around again, the head blurring as it whistled through the air, hitting with immense force and sending another round of sparks into the gloomy hall.

It didn’t seem to do a whole lot to the wall. Which, you know, made sense. What was a club meant to pulverize flesh going to do to a wall made of stone? Because while it was no longer exactly a wall, it seemed to have a stoney covering, no matter the interior, which had seemed more flesh-like when the maw had opened.

Turkey continued to wail at the wall with his fists, which also didn’t seem to be doing a whole lot. Each swing of his one free arm seemed to do less and less.

“Not sure which way we play this,” I said to Sterling, but he wasn’t there.

“Not sure there is a way,” he said.

I whipped my head to the right and saw Sterling had moved so that I was now in between him and the wall monster.

“Nowhere to run,” he said. “We just wait here to see how this pans out and maybe…”

“I don’t really like just watching them get eaten.”

“It is a little macabre, I agree. But—no.”

“No what?”

“You mean to help fight it?”

“I mean…”

I didn’t finish the thought because I was already visualizing plans of attack in my head. And also debating if I should get involved. In the dungeon, guards were gods, so it made sense to have the gods on our side. I held no misconceptions that the ogres would let us escape, but maybe they’d look the other way a time or two. And that could help us immensely.

But still, looking at the monster clamped down on them and thinking about what I could possibly do⁠—

I noticed a brick above the creature that looked different. A marginally loose brick that I could see shifting ever so much as the turkey ogre fought to pull itself free from the massive maw.

“Up there,” I said. “Loose brick.”

“I am quite sure that will be extremely useful,” Sterling called after me, even though I was already running. “Perhaps you can use it to smash yourself in the head so you will forget to partake in these ridiculous activities!”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence!”

Being as small as I was and needing to get high as I did, I had three options. One: climb the wall. Two and three: climb an ogre. Just needed to decide which one.

Obviously, Owl made more sense, being that he wasn’t being eaten by a wall, but running up Turkey meant I’d get near the brick a little faster. Owl might very well resent being used as a ladder and fight me or flick me off, whereas Turkey did not have such a luxury.

Turkey it was, so I sprinted toward the poor bastard, going up to his thigh before I needed to grab onto the heavy hide trousers to keep moving onward and upward.

“Augh, he on me!” Turkey yelled.

I pushed a little of my magic into my fingers, causing the ends to hook over and make it easier to hold onto the turkey-ogre’s clothing as I hurried up him.

“What you do—” I heard Owl bellowing, I think at me, but I just ignored him as I climbed up the long neck of the turkey ogre to his feathered head, which was a little slippery, to be honest. I had to pause at the top to reset, spot the loose brick, and then run along the ogre’s beak before launching myself at the wall, remaking my hands on the way to make sure I had the right setup for climbing along large rocks and tight groutlines.

As I took off, I caught a blur from the corner of my eye and saw a club smashing down on Turkey’s head. Apparently Owl’s attempt to smash me? Who knows.

Turkey howled in pain, drooping a little so that the mouth wall was keeping him upright.

I hit the wall and started scrabbling up toward the brick.

The club hit the wall right below my feet, sending sparks into my fur as well as really pushing me to move faster. I had seconds to prove I was helping before the owl ogre pulped me—if I could be pulped, because it was possible I’d just be smooshed. I didn’t feel like testing that though.

Up a few bricks, and then I was at my destination, right below the loose brick. I thinned out my arms and shoved them into where there had been grout, pushing out some of the remaining grout until I felt empty space behind the stone. I forced my fingers to bend the wrong way and poured more mana into my Malleable Form ability to make them rigid.

I made my feet more suction-cup-like and got my legs set on the wall. Then I pulled.

Nothing happened. But then, slowly, very slowly, the brick began to shift.

Also important, the owl-ogre had gotten curious as to what I was doing and became not quite as ready to smash me.

The brick came out, smashed me a little against the wall, and then tumbled down to bounce off the turkey ogre’s feathered dome.

I pulled myself up, yanked my feet off the wall with a soft pop, and crawled inside.

Warm, fetid air hit my face. Like something was breathing on me, except I only saw empty space and then another wall in front of me. Once I was fully into the wall, I could look down into the empty space, and I saw something there. An organic something that seemed foul and wrong and only half a brick below me. It looked like moldy, slimy silly putty reaching out to the stones of the wall with a thousand tiny tentacles tipped with tiny hands and even tinier fingers. Up close, it smelled truly off, like rancid oil mixed with a forgotten pot of effluence. Don’t ask me how I know.

What I didn’t understand was how the thing, whatever it was, was able to fit the chunk of the turkey ogre into itself, because the space between the walls was not very large. I could step across it without too much trouble, balancing with one foot on each wall.

Staring at the beast, I realized that I had no real weapon to attack it. But the sheen on its skin, the putrid smell, maybe…

I pulled myself back out and saw the owl looking up at me expectantly while the turkey ogre seemed either dead or on the way there.

“There’s something in the wall,” I started.

“Obviously,” the owl ogre replied in his basso profundo.

“—and I have an idea,” I finished.

“Faster.”

“I need the candles—get me the candles.”

“Candles?”

“Fire, the light, those—forget it.”

I moved laterally along the brick wall for half a brick before the owl grabbed the candles and gave them to me. At which point, I rolled my eyes at him, grabbed one of the candles, snapped the top off, and pulled it with me into the wall, still lit.

I had to keep the flame protected with my body as I crawled. There seemed to be an air interchange happening, with air being sucked in and forced out in a breathing-like rhythm. But I got the candle to the edge, and I already saw that this was going to suck, because as the flame reached the empty space between the wall, the fumes coming off the beast lit up.

And then there was an explosion.

Chapter

Thirty-Seven

The world was a blur for the briefest of seconds before I felt an absolutely ungodly amount of overwhelming pain. Then everything went black.

Chapter

Thirty-Eight

Idon’t know how long I was out for—that’s one of the joys of being unconscious, I guess. It really seems like one minute to the next without delay. Which, to be honest, was probably the best way to pass the time in the dungeon.

I was no longer in the hallway when I woke up, which was weird. I was in a new space, one that I only barely recognized as being “still in the dungeon.”

“There you are,” Sterling said.

I looked over to see that he was lying on the next stone bench over, covered in bandages and sporting a very swollen eye that was probably black, but being that it was covered with fur, wasn’t as obvious.

“Yup,” I groaned out, “here I am. Where is here?”

“The arena.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Healing area.”

“Ah,” I said, and let my head lay back down, bonking it a little harder on the stone bench than I’d anticipated and sending a round of bright light flashes through my vision.

Two notifications hovered in the edges of my vision, and I focused on them for a moment so I could read them. I was somewhat dismayed to learn that my vision was still blurry when reading things in my head. It took longer to read than I wanted, but eventually the world stopped spinning, the letters stopped doubling, and I could make out something legible.

Huzzah and congratulations, for you have succeeded in helping to kill a creature! Hear ye, hear ye, for Delano “Del” Roosevelt has killed a fowl-ogre hybrid! A fantastic effort considering the size disparity! You are rewarded in that fashion with 350 XP. You may display a minimum amount of pride.

XP for nothing, couldn’t hate that.

Huzzah and congratulations, for you have succeeded in killing a creature! Hear ye, hear ye, for Delano “Del” Roosevelt has killed a mimic (greater)! A fantastic effort considering the circumstances, and thus you are rewarded in that fashion with 750 XP and the base level skill: Notice Mimic. You may display a moderate amount of pride.

Notice Mimic (Greater)

If there is a mimic notably larger than yourself, you are more likely to notice it prior to it revealing itself.

Could be useful. I also felt a smidgen of irritation that I’d inadvertently killed an ogre.

“Which one died?” I asked.

“Which what?” Sterling replied in a whisper.

“Ogre.”

“The one in the mouth.”

“The turkey.”

“What?”

“Never mind. What happened to the other one?”

“Brought us here and then went away. Probably to get better healing than what is here.”

“He was hurt?”

“You blew up the wall. Shot bricks everywhere. I took one to the face.”

“Sorry.”

“I doubt you did it on purpose. Seems like you did the only thing that could be done in that case.”

“Did it make a hole in the wall?”

“Of course.”

“You get a look at it?”

“That I did.”

“And?”

“And I feel that is a topic for a later date. Although it was interesting to see who was being kept in that dark cell.”

“Who?”

“A rather horrid furry beast that seemed quite angry to be lit on fire.”

“Why’s that interesting?”

“Morbidly interesting. I watched it dance around whilst on fire in an otherwise darkened area. Somewhat beautiful, all things considered. And I do not think it died.”

A notification popped up.

Huzzah and congratulations, for you have succeeded in helping to immolate a creature! Hear ye, hear ye, for Delano “Del” Roosevelt has killed an oggleboggle wall biter with fire totally on purpose! A fantastic effort! You are rewarded in that fashion with 3 XP. Accidental killings really do not deserve rewards, do they? Feel bad…

I groaned.

“It died.”

“Oh. Well. Perhaps it was a great evil and you did the world a favor by burning it to death, eh?”

“I mean…” I just sighed instead of finishing the sentence. “This place is hard.”

“It is a prison,” a different voice said, and a young woman stood over me, giving me a wan smile. “Are you in pain?”

I frowned and tried to sit up to get a better look at her, but she put a hand on my chest and shoved me back down, gently.

“Pain?” she asked.

“Sort of?” I asked.

“Any status effects I should know about?” she asked, coming around to stand at the base of the stone bench so she wasn’t upside down to me any longer.

“No?”

“Any broken bones?”

“I’m not sure I have bones.”

“Ah. So no.”

“Sure.”

“Cuts? Lacerations?”

“Not that I can tell.”

“Anything?”

“Besides general aching?”

“Yes.”

“Not that I can tell.”

“Good. Then you’re ready to get out, right?”

“Um, maybe?”

“If there’s something wrong⁠—”

“No, just, um, a little blurry.”

“What is?”

“Everything.”

She frowned and bent down close to my face, staring first at one eye and then the other. I got a very close-up view of the woman, and she was pretty, at least to me, with powerfully green eyes and light hair. I kind of felt like she was from central casting for a “nurse,” wearing a white set of robes that was tight in the torso and loose around the legs, with a large white hood that managed to hold a fair amount of blonde hair. She pulled out a small set of lenses attached to a frame, something vaguely like loupe glasses, where she could flip different lenses down in front of her eyes. She used one lens at a time, peering over my eyes and then at my head.

“It is likely an effect of your head trauma,” she finally said. “And my guess is that it will dissipate as your healing continues. I can try to help you, if you feel that might be, well, helpful.”

“You can heal?” I asked.

“I can,” she said with a wry smile. “Else it might be odd for me to be a healer. Of course, I can only say that I am able to heal most creatures at the least, and I have never yet studied one such as yourself, which makes me curious if I am able to heal you beyond the structural.”

“Structural?”

“For example, sewing your arm back on.”

“My arm was blown off?”

“It was an example.”

“So it wasn’t blown off?”

“No. You came in whole.”

“That’s a plus.”

“I would think so. I have, so far, only kept an eye on you, while your friend here has been the one to receive more of my ministrations.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Yes.”

“I am right here,” Sterling said.

“You will be fine,” the healer said.

“I know.”

“I was being concerned,” I said. “And I thought⁠—”

“I am fine.”

“I know that now.”

“You both seem quite well at the moment,” the healer said. “So if you don’t mind, I would appreciate having my tables back in case something goes wrong during practice.”

“Practice?” I asked.

Sterling hopped off the table, moving slowly and with more than a little extra care.

“Yes,” Sterling said, mid-grunt, “it would appear that practice happens most days here, where we elite arena fighters are given the chance to practice killing each other for the entertainment of others.”

“Oh,” I said.

“It is where we were headed prior to us being so rudely interrupted.”

“Where? Practice?”

“Yes.”

“I can request you be given more time in the arena if you feel you haven’t had enough time.”

“Um, sure,” I said.

Sterling stopped mid-limp and looked over his shoulder at me.

“Oh really?” Sterling said. “You want to practice?”

“I’d rather do that than go back to the cell.”

Sterling seemed to think on that for a moment and then nodded. “Fair. This way?” he asked the healer, pointing in the direction of the sand and walking that way before giving the healer a chance to actually answer him.

“He’s thankful,” I said. “As am I.”

“I appreciate your appreciation,” she said. “But I merely do my job. I hope not to see you again.”

I followed Sterling around the backstage area and up a long, dark tunnel onto the sandy arena.

It was painfully bright, and I had to grab onto the exit tunnel for a moment before I could get myself together and not fall over.

There was a lot of noise on the sand, and as my eyes got used to the light, I realized the arena was crowded. Lots of fighters were moving around, but I could only point out a few as engaging in something along the lines of practice fighting. Some were just walking around on the sand; others huddled in groups, talking. I suppose it’s reasonable to think they might be talking strategy, but it mostly looked like they were shooting the shit.

“What is it you would like to practice?” Sterling asked.

I paused to think. It would be useful to practice with the weapons we had available, provided we’d be allowed to use them in the next bout. Or I could use the time and space to practice my new abilities. But since I probably didn’t need to sleep during the next stage of darkness, I’d have time to work on those in as much privacy as was possible within the dungeon. I wouldn’t have access to the practice weapons anywhere but the arena… Better, then, to work through what I could with the things I couldn’t in our cell.

“Fighting?” I asked. “With weapons?”

I pointed over at the rack of practice weapons along one wall.

“Right,” Sterling said, “I suppose that might be a useful thing to do whilst here, where there are weapons. Minor quibble, really: which of those weapons do you think would fit our style of fighting?”

“We have a style of fighting?” I asked. “Mostly it’s just you running away and me getting hurt.”

“Yes, well, a shit style is still a style. Anyway, I was trying to politely point out that we are not of size to wield any of the available armaments.”

“I think we could make something work. I’ll look for something that might cause damage to a charging creature, and you look for something that might help you get away.”

“So, for you, a spear. For me, perhaps a door.”

“Not sure I see one of those on the stand here…”

All the weapons were scaled for humans. There was a shield along the lines of a buckler there, something that would barely cover a normal forearm, and yet, for me, it’d probably work best as a tower shield. And even then, not particularly well, because the leather straps on the back of the shield, which Sterling pointed out were called enarmes, wouldn’t fit any part of me, nor would they allow me to hold on to the shield in a way I’d need.

“Dagger?” Sterling asked, pointing at a dagger.

“That’s huge,” I said.

“It is the smallest weapon here, and out of reach.”

It was at waist level, which, for us, meant overhead, where we couldn’t reach it.

“You need a little help?” called out a voice. “Maybe I could pick you up so you could get a better look at things?”

Fighter X was looking at us, sneering.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” I said, pointing at the dagger. “I’d like to practice with that.”

He just stared at me, as if he couldn’t understand how I couldn’t understand that he’d been messing with me.

Then he shook his head and turned back to his sycophants, likely to make fun of me. Or Sterling.

I looked at Sterling, who was jumping up to try and get the dagger.

He did not have hops, and while I figured I could probably reach up and touch the base of the knife, somehow he couldn’t even do that.

“You can stop,” I said.

“You don’t want the dagger?” he asked, out of breath.

“Not that bad.”

“So what should we do?” Sterling asked, leaning against the wooden rack.

“Not be in the arena,” a gruff voice said, and a white phark walked up and started to clean up the weapons and the rack. He was very furry, very white, and somehow, the arena sand didn’t stick to him.

“Kinda have to be,” I said.

“Do you? Seems as if you’d be happier back in the, um, whatchamacallit.”

“Backstage?”

“Sure.”

I squinted and realized he was the same grumpy phark I’d met before, the one who’d brought us food in the morning session. But this time, he was picking up the weapons, shaking the sand off, and putting them back in their appropriate place on the stand. A lot like re-racking all the plates in the weight room.

“Do you also work here?” I asked.

“As opposed to where?” he barked in reply.

“The buffet.”

“Same place, ain’t it?”

“Seems different to be out here and, um, in the kitchen. I thought you were a cook.”

“Don’t need a cook right now when no one is eating, do they?”

“No, but⁠—”

“Besides, not like those in charge care the least what my job might actually be when there’s work they feel needs doing. Or, that they hate seeing someone who might just be relaxing a moment.”

“Got it. You do any other jobs here?”

“Everything as needed.”

“You teach fighting?”

He stopped cleaning up the rack and looked down at me.

“Do I look like I do?”

I gave him a once-over and tried to get a better sense of the phark. He seemed old. Which was a weird thing to say about a phark, because really they had an ageless quality to them. But this phark had scars here and there, something I probably would have missed except for having the time to study the guy. There were a few spots on his body where the flow of his fur didn’t quite work, like there was some error in the growth patterns, and once, when he turned quickly, I could see the mangled skin hidden underneath, puckered up into a grayish scar running halfway around his neck. His eyes were clear but deep, like they’d seen some shit. And he stood up straight, his body lean and muscular, and⁠—

“You figure it out yet?”

“What was I figuring out?”

“Dunno, whatever you were staring at me so long for.”

“I guess,” I said. “Just thinking that maybe you do look like a fighter. That maybe this isn’t your first job, or your first life.”

He frowned.

“I don’t do that here,” he said with a sigh, turning back to cleaning up. “Not anymore.”

“But you did do it once.”

“I know you know you are being watched,” he said softly, still focused on his work.

I glanced around and didn’t see anyone looking at me.

“Only sometimes on the sands,” the old guy said. “But always from on high. She watches. Plots. Plans. Just like at breakfast—she watches. As do her people. What you do here defines what she’ll throw at you.”

“Does that include you?”

“It could. Always could be she asks me what I think.”

“So I shouldn’t show anything I can do?”

“Or do we show everything?” Sterling asked.

I felt like I could hear the phark clench his teeth.

“Do what you like,” he hissed. “I care little. I doubt there’s anything I could do to help you, as even the worst fighter on the sand would destroy you two without breaking a sweat. Hells, I could just as likely imagine you’d die to their sweat. You two being here is⁠—”

“A novelty,” I said.

“Yes. Which means your fighting ability is not important, is it?”

“More that we entertain the people, eh?”

“You better. You ’bout to ask me to teach you to dance?”

“Can you?” I asked with a smile.

He glared at me.

“I’ll take that as a no,” I said. “But I think we are.”

“Are what?”

“Entertaining.”

“Clearly, to some capacity, else you would not be here. But a novelty can only be a novelty for so long before it becomes annoying. And once that happens, you will best serve the arena by being killed. The true secret to novelty is how much the crowd enjoys the cloyed destroyed.”

“Lovely turn of phrase,” I said, “and I hadn’t considered that we might have that to look forward to.”

“Glad I could give you a peek at your future.”

The phark gave me half a smile, something that felt more sad than anything else. He tossed the dagger at my feet and moved along, heading toward a pile of towels on the ground.

Sterling leaned against the weapon rack, looking out across the sand, watching the other fighters “practice.”

“That was an illuminating conversation,” the rat said.

“You think?”

“No, not really.”

“You already knew all the things he told us?”

“Most of them. I assumed the Games Master would be watching over us—meaning all of us in the games, not just you and me—any time she could. She is under pressure to deliver entertainment to the masses.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “but he has an insider view of what’s going on here. Maybe.”

“You disagree?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know enough about the rest of the world to make an educated guess here.”

“I find myself in the strange position where I once thought I knew quite a bit more than you, and in this space of time where we have not necessarily learned anything new, I realize that I have become the more ignorant one. Like me, learning about the sky.”

“I don’t think it’s that weird. You’re just willing to accept that there are things you don’t know about. Kind of a sign of intelligence, really.”

“Perhaps. Although it is unimportant⁠—”

“Your knowledge of things outside the tower? I think that’s important.”

“Maybe in the long term, but at the moment, knowledge about the tower is most pressing. For example, it would help us to know what population is coming to the arena.”

“Why?”

“A greater population would help ensure that we remain a novelty for longer.”

“Makes sen⁠—”

“If we are going before the same set of souls night after night, I cannot imagine we will be… entertaining for long.”

“I can’t say for sure if she has the benefit of operating in an area where there is little competition for entertainment, so it might be that she does not have a challenge.”

“But you think she does.”

“I think she might. I think there might be more people and more society up there than we think.”

“And why would you say that, my furry friend?”

“You’re just as furry as me⁠—”

“Not true. I have a delightful velvety coat.”

“Whatever. I just think that, given what we’ve seen, with the infrastructure present, there has to be a decent population upstairs. You wouldn’t need a prison this big or a trash heap so big that there are regular infusions of corpses that allow for the undead to become the norm⁠—”

“When you put it like that⁠—”

“Stop interrupting me!”

“Oh, right, I am doing that, aren’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Apologies. I find I’m nervous.”

“Why?”

“Must I spell it out? Look at where we are. Look at who else is here. Look at what might happen to us if we were to face one of these actual fighters as opponents. We would be crushed without mercy, because that would be more entertaining.”

“Unless we make friends with them.”

“With the fighters? You think any of these men or women are interested in befriending us? This is an inherently transactional world, Del. We can offer them nothing.”

“Might be able to get them…” I didn’t finish saying “food” because I realized it wasn’t anything they needed.

“They have thought of that, the powers that be. They provide extra food because food can be bartered in prison, and they do not want that.”

“No, I guess not.”

“We have nothing to offer. And that is fine, because I do not think it behooves us to put our eggs into this hellacious basket. It would do for us to recuse ourselves from here, if at all possible.”

“Because we might get annoying?”

“Yes.”

“You think we will?”

“I am not the target demographic for this style of ‘entertainment.’ I find it vulgar at base and somewhat unbelievable, considering what is on offer in Ra⁠—”

“Better stuff there?” I said, interrupting Sterling before he could say the name of the place. “And sorry to interrupt you.”

“No, quite all right,” he said with a nod. “I should be more careful. But, yes, I would say there is certainly a greater variety of fun available in that place than merely visceral violence.”

“No arenas there?”

“I have heard tales of blood sports, but they are certainly not well-attended. Or they are not attended by those in my social circles. Why bother with this trash when you could attend a play or an opera?”

“Got me there.”

“But that is hardly pertinent at the moment, is it?”

“No,” I said, climbing up the side of the weapon rack and pushing a dagger off into the sand below. “We should probably do some practicing.”

“I appreciate that you think I could assist you in some way here⁠—”

“You managed to help against the desert jahdan.”

“Only after hiding.”

“Maybe hiding is what you do. Hide and distract.”

“I fear I am not fast enough to distract well.”

“So you don’t go for speed. Maybe a grass skirt and a suggestive dance?”

“Let us curtail that line of thinking before we start, shall we?”

“I don’t know—I think you have moves.”

Sterling raised his eyebrows at me, his drollness quite nearly palpable.

“Fine, no dancing.”

Sterling shook his head, not wanting to get into my nonsense, even if I was just trying to make him feel better. He wandered away from me, toward the wall.

I stood there in the sand, the large dagger at my feet. The blade on its own was nearly as big as me. Add in the hilt, and it was bigger than me. It didn’t exactly matter, though. What mattered was figuring out a way Sterling and I could win fights in the arena.

Obviously, if we had to throw down against any of the actual fighters, we’d be at an incredible disadvantage. We were tiny and… weak? I wasn’t sure.

How could we possibly go against, say, Fighter X and have even the slightest fantasy of actually winning? The man was at least six feet tall, virtually all muscle, and the way he casually moved a sword in the air made it clear he was exceptionally familiar with the weapon.

I watched him spar with a partner, an older, hairy man with surprising speed, given his paunch. He fought with a shield and spear against Fighter X’s single sword. But even with the reach advantage and a shield, Fighter X seemed like he could hit his partner whenever he wanted. That said, both men had a fluidity to their movement and facileness with their weapons that made me jealous. And made it exponentially clear we’d have to fight dirty if we were going to win. Which we probably weren’t. I was banking on the idea that we wouldn’t be up against “normal-sized” people, because I couldn’t see that as being entertaining to the masses.

Watching them fight, I noticed how flashy X was. Me, a glorified accountant from the twenty-first century, I didn’t have a ton of experience with swordplay, but even I could tell he had a bunch of extraneous flourishes and spins, moves that would likely wind up with him getting stabbed in any normal fight. So maybe practice—this whole endeavor—wasn’t actually about fighting. It was about showmanship. About adding splash and pizzazz into the fight. About making their moves sparkle before killing someone or something.

Of course, it’s not like I had space to be worried about that. I needed to focus on survival. I grabbed the dagger and hefted it up onto my shoulder. It was heavy and unwieldy. I needed to use both hands just to get a reasonable grip around it. Even after lengthening my fingers with magic and giving my hands some extra tackiness, I still didn’t have the sort of control I’d need to fight with the weapon.

Hell, I couldn’t manage to hit Sterling with it, and he wasn’t even paying attention to me. He was busy staring at the aggregate between the tightly laid bricks that made up the archway we’d entered the arena through. My swing was so out of control I wound up lying in the sand next to the dagger.

“I wonder why they used a different material here,” he said, before glancing back over his shoulder at me. “Are you resting?”

“Sure,” I said. “Let’s call it that.”

“You have a plan, then?”

“No.”

“Pity. What about ideas on the material change?”

“Total mystery.”

“Another pity.”

“Yeah. Real pity there.”

“I will just ignore your sarcasm, I suppose.”

“Maybe there’s a reason the material changes,” I started, but then a bell rang.

All the fighters headed toward us and the tunnel entrance. Playtime was over.

I dragged the dagger over to the weapon rack and joined Sterling in walking out of the arena.

Chapter

Thirty-Nine

Back in the cell, I had to admit that our arena excursions were probably saving my sanity. The rest of the prisoners in our cell were staring at the walls. Or the ceiling. Beyond that, lying down on the stone floor or leaning against the stone wall seemed the only activities available. Which, you know, I could see as a possible way to pass the time.

The only real point of note was the continued decline of Little Joe, who really looked to be doing poorly. His eyes were sunken, his breath shallow and his lungs rattled. I worried he wouldn’t make it through the night.

I was feeling run down, so I pulled out the little blue slime I’d been keeping, and I took a little of his energy for myself. It was difficult to stop because there was something very alluring about the influx of magical power. And yet, it had puppy dog eyes, and I couldn’t kill the thing while it was looking at me like that.

“I have been thinking that it might behoove us to arrange some means of slimeball storage for you,” Sterling said, eating a bit of pungent cheese.

“Beyond my pouch?” I asked.

“As well as beyond my own storage capabilities. Something more along the lines of what I constructed for you one level below.”

“The pen?”

“Yes.”

“In here?”

“Unless you have access to some pocket dimension you have neglected to tell me about, I fear this is the only place.”

“Okay, how?”

“There are any number of bits and pieces we might use to make a small pen here.”

“You don’t think it’d be a little obvious?”

“How do you mean?”

“Someone is going to notice it.”

“Ah, yes, well, I imagine it will be visible.”

“How’s that going to work?”

“The visibility? Well, light⁠—”

“The dungeon’s not gonna stand for that.”

“You think the ogres will care one way or another?”

“Sometimes I’m not sure they think. I have no idea about them, but the warden will hate it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s something out of their control, and jailers don’t like things out of their control, do they?”

“I know little of jails, jailors, or prisons. But I do know slimeballs, and they are not doing well at present.”

“Where are they?”

“In a safe place.”

“Do you have a secret pocket dimension you haven’t told me about?”

“I would never,” he said, in one of the more obvious lies.

Which meant I was instantly insanely curious. But I knew it wasn’t wise for us to get into the specifics of something cool like that around our cellmates. They might not care, but, then again, they might.

“Either we attempt to build a place for them to exist,” Sterling said, “or we let them die.”

“Then we should ask the squirrels if we can build a little something in the walls.”

“Which would require us to actually work with them.”

“Right.’

“I doubt that is going to be a good thing in the long run.”

“I think,” I said carefully, “if we are here for a long run, we’re in some real trouble regardless.”

“All right, then! I will await you telling me where I might build a pen for these little fellows,” he said, patting my shoulder before walking away. I was impressed with how he’d fully put the issue into my hands without me even managing to point out it was his idea.

Chapter

Forty

For a moment, it almost felt like I had a job. A mission. Maybe even a quest?

Quest: Build a Pen

Description: The slimeballs require a home that is not in a pouch on the person, or rat, of Sterling the ratinkerer. Build them a home, put them in the home, let them live in their new home.

Reward: 100 XP and happy slimeballs. And you know what that leads to…

Penalty for Failure/Refusal: Sad slimeballs. Who will not procreate.

Would you like to accept?

Yes/No

As I accepted the quest, I had to wonder if my thought process had, somehow, caused the quest to proc.

No matter, though—time to look for some squirrels.

The black squirrels, the really big ones, stood in front of the wall, guarding. I didn’t see any of the others about, so I went over to the guards.

One glanced at me quickly and then turned away. As if he’d assessed everything he needed to know about me and instantly determined I was irrelevant.

“Uh, hi,” I said. “Do you think you could let me in?”

There was no change in the guard.

“Do you—” I started, louder.

The big squirrel slowly turned his head to look at me.

“What?” he asked, the word coming out like a bark.

“I need to see your boss,” I replied.

“Good luck. He ain’t here.”

“Where is he?”

“Why would I know what he does?”

“Aren’t you the guard or something?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, but⁠—”

“He’s not here. He’s very far away.”

“Very far away?”

“Why would he be here?”

“Isn’t he, I mean—is your boss the Nutlord?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, that’s on me. I’m not looking for that boss. The other boss.”

He squinted at me.

“He means the Hogan,” the other guard said with a sigh. “He’s otherwise engaged at the moment.”

“When he has a moment, I’d like to ask him a question.”

“Noted.”

I stood there, waiting to see if he was going to do something.

He did not.

Which means it was going to be happening on his time, not mine.

“Thank you,” I said, and headed off, looking for something else to occupy my time.

Spider Murphy was standing at the bars, looking into the hallway.

I decided to join him.

“What are we waiting for?” I asked.

“I hope to see the magistrate,” Spider Murphy replied.

“Ah,” I replied. “Is the, um, magistrate coming today?”

“No idea.”

“You’re just hopeful?”

“Yes. ’Tis the only way out.”

“Oh.”

“Unless one is you, eh?”

“What do you mean?”

“You is getting to be gone somewhere, eh?”

“Um, yeah.”

“And is way out?”

“Maybe?”

“You can talk about it?”

“Talk about where Sterling and I have gone?”

“Yes.”

“There’s, um, an arena, and we got thrown in there to be eaten by a, um, beast. But we killed it before it could kill us, and now we’re, um, fighting there? Or are allowed to fight there.”

“Not an easy exit.”

“No, doesn’t seem like it.”

“Probably prefer to stick with the magistrate.”

“I bet. I’d like that, too, but they haven’t given me the option.”

“Neither me. Magistrate has not shown up.”

“Was he or she supposed to?”

“Not sure. I have no made the magistrate schedule. Should, though. Would be here. And set me free.”

“Is this a bad time to ask what you did?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, still having not looked at me, completely focused on the hallway.

I just stood there next to him for a moment, listening to the prison.

For a moment, it was quiet. Or, rather, I thought it was quiet, but as I went from just letting the noises of the place wash over me to actively listening, I realized how many different sounds there were. A wide gamut of whispering and soft talking, of course. A range of footsteps, likely a whole panoply of boots. Someone singing to themselves. A sharp noise I couldn’t place. Locks clanging shut and being pulled open. And the occasional wince-inducing sound of flesh being struck. Followed, usually, by a scream of pain.

“I’m a little lost on the time of day,” I said.

“That you think it matters is telling.”

“I mean, I guess it’d be better to say that I’m not sure what comes next in the dungeon day.”

“Ah. Darkness.”

“Cleaning.”

She nodded without saying anything, like she was worried about getting their attention.

We remained there a minute or two more. I was in the middle of thinking of a new conversation topic when Spider Murphy finally turned to look at me.

I think she meant to smile at me, but it didn’t really come out as a smile so much as a sad sort of giving up.

Then she walked away, and I was left on my own. Again.

I was starting to wonder if it was me…

Chapter

Forty-One

Of course, being on my own meant that I could do a little self-exploration. I could see how my body could bend to my will and what⁠—

Or not.

Because four squirrels were headed my way. The Hogan, plus three gray bruisers. They had different vests on, happily eschewing matching the rest of the prisoners in our shabby chic motif.

“Ah, our favorite mystery being,” Red said, smiling as he neared me. “What a lovely day when I hear you are looking for me just as I am looking for you.”

“Providence,” I replied.

“Indeed. Now, would you like to go first, or would you like me to go first?”

“Um…”

“Tell me what you need.”

“I would like to use some space you’ve got in the back to build a little pen.”

“A pen? For what?”

“Slimeballs.”

He tilted his head and gave me a look like he thought I was an idiot. Well, more of an idiot, because it’s not like he’d ever professed confidence in my mental faculties.

“Come again?”

“Slimeballs,” I repeated. “We have some, and we’d like to, um…”

“Put them in a pen?”

“Exactly.”

“To what end?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why? To breed them? To stare at them? Frolic with them?”

“Breed and scientific investigation.”

“So it is more for the rat than yourself.”

“Why would you say that?”

“You do not strike me as the type to spend time engaging in hobby-style science.”

I wanted to throw something back at him. Say that he didn’t know me, that I liked to science the shit out of things. But what did it matter? If he thought it was for Sterling, let him.

“Yeah, I guess I’m doing him a favor,” I replied.

“I think that could be arranged,” he replied.

“And what is it I need to do in return?”

He gave me a wry smile.

“Oh, just a little thing that I can probably get to in a moment, because I might be interested in something you happened to be involved with today.”

“Breakfast?”

“No.”

“The dwarf?”

“What happened with the ogres escorting you to the arena today?”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes. Tell me about it.”

“Is this the trade for the slimeball pen?”

“Do you think it could be?”

“Isn’t information currency here?”

“On occasion.”

“And on this occasion?”

“I’m not quite sure it is an equal trade. What you ask is that we give up something, and we cannot really get it back. You merely have information I can get other ways, just not quite as accurately or easily.”

He had me there.

“I think it’s more of a sign of a mimic infestation,” I said, really not feeling like it was worth it trying to negotiate with him when he really had more of the cards than I did.

“A mimic infestation?”

“Supposedly.”

“In the prison?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen one in the cell?”

“No, but, I mean, isn’t that, um, what they’re known for?”

“Yeah, well, is it so weird I’d be hoping you have some means to identify the things? Tell me all the things that make you think there’s a mimic infestation here,” the Hogan finally said.

So I went over what I’d seen in the Warden’s office and what the warden had said. And then I told him what I’d seen that day with the ogres.

The Hogan listened attentively. As soon as I finished, he whispered to one of the three gray squirrels, who then ran off toward the black squirrels and the wall, disappearing inside without any sort of delay.

“Mimics are nasty business,” the Hogan finally said.

“Are they a common plague or⁠—”

“Not especially. Can’t say that it’s anything within my experience, being that⁠—”

“Can we answer?” Gray Two asked.

The Hogan’s eyes started to go wide even as he started a sneer.

“No,” he hissed. “You don’t know⁠—”

“He knows,” Gray One said. “Had to clear mimics out of Skoggnarl, he did.”

“Shut it,” Red snapped. “Don’t say that.”

“Say what? Skoggnarl?”

“Now you’ve said it twice. You aren’t even supposed to be talking⁠—”

“To be fair,” I said, “I wouldn’t know I needed to care about that word if you hadn’t yelled at Gray One about it.”

“Gray One?” the Hogan asked.

“I guess that’s me,” Gray One said.

“Am I Gray Two?” Gray Two asked.

“To me you are,” I said.

“Neat,” he said.

“Stop,” the Hogan said, holding up his little red paws.

“You had to hunt mimics?” I asked.

Gray Two nodded.

“It was bad,” Gray Two said, looking at his feet.

He wasn’t wearing shoes, which was unusual because most of the other creatures had boots. Obviously not really the boots I thought of initially because these weren’t creatures with human-shaped feet, but they still had some form of footwear. Not the squirrels, though.

The Hogan stared at the ceiling and pulled on his ears. “Augh, blightnuts. Tell him about Skoggnarl.”

“Me?” Gray One asked.

“Were you there?”

“No.”

“Why would you tell him about it, then?”

“That’s what I was wondering.”

The Hogan took a deep breath and let out an impressively long sigh, but I didn’t think it did much to lower his frustration level.

“Okay, so I’ll do it,” Gray Two said.

“Yes. I wouldn’t think I would need to make it that clear, but apparently I do. Grint was there, so he should tell our new friend about it. Stoke, you were not, so stand there looking pretty and quiet. Very quiet.”

“Got it,” Stoke, a.k.a. Gray One, said. “Being quiet.”

“You looking to hire an assistant or two? I got some for cheap,” the Hogan snapped.

Stoke seemed to look suitably chagrined.

“I’ll take it into consideration,” I said.

“Me now?” Grint, a.k.a. Gray Two, asked.

“In the name of Quercanor, I swear—” the Hogan started, his hands coming up with fingers outstretched, ready to claw Grint up.

“It was a season back,” Grint said quickly. “I were in Skoggnarl then, on loan to the Frithleaf… can I say that?”

“I’m done trying to keep it quiet. Just get this over with so I can rip my eyes out in peace.”

“You sure you should do that?”

“Augh!” the Hogan shouted, and then stalked away.

The two gray squirrels watched their red boss for a second, then turned back to me.

“You were saying?” I politely prompted.

“Um…”

“Frithleaf?”

“The Frithleaf needed more muscle, right? So I got tapped to go there and be, um, uh⁠—”

“Muscle?”

“Yes, right. Skoggnarl is, um, it can be rough. It’s older and, um, can be hard because there are lots of… others? I don’t know if I’m allowed to say…”

“I think you can say anything right now,” I replied, trying to take advantage of the missing Hogan.

“Okay. The Emberclaw have been moving nearer and nearer to Skoggnarl, and they been violent. Bad raids and the Frithleaf been having trouble making payments up the tree. I get there, and see it is bad. Problems all over the place, and the Frithleaf tell the Trunk that it’s best to close up early, get all Skoggnarl in before usual. Snow’s not even falling yet, so it’s unusual to close a place like that, but with everything happening, the Frithleaf think is best. Big talks around Skoggnarl, lots of chatter along the Trunk, but it’s agreed: Skoggnarl calls All In. I’m not in the talks, because I’m just muscle, but I think they were thinking Emberclaw will move on with no one to eat or work.”

“But that didn’t work?”

“Not sure. Everyone is busy watching for Emberclaw penetration, attacks from outside, but we come up with a different problem. Skoggnarl’s closed, but still, there are disappearances. Nutlord says we need to find out why, that the Frithleaf has to make it right because the Nutlord knows we can’t do what we do if the tree ain’t healthy. So even though we ain’t official Skoggnarl squirrels, we start our look to find why. We find nothing. No Emberclaw attacks. No penetration. Nothing from the Down Below. Skoggnarl is buttoned up tight. Best I seen in all the snows. Still, more disappear. Frithleaf is being blamed by Skoggnarl, by everyone, even though we are trying to help, even going where Skoggnarl —”

“What is Frithleaf?”

“We work for them.”

“Right, but what do you do?”

“Whatever the Nutlord requests.”

“And what does he request?”

“For me it was to help Skoggnarl.”

“Help them against Emberclaw?”

“Yes. Or however they needed. The Skoggnarl Trunk ask for Frithleaf help, and Nutlord asks Grint to go to Skoggnarl and help.”

“I really don’t mean to push you on this, because I have nowhere to go and I’m enjoying the chat, but are you going to get to the mimic part of this story soon?”

“Rude. Thought background was important.”

“It is—I shouldn’t have said anything. So you know you were mentioning that you’d closed up Skoggnarl before the snows, but that there were still disappearances happening.”

“Yes. Many disappearances, and no one knows how⁠—”

“You mean no one knows why,” Stoke said. “How is the mimic eats them.”

“No one knew that yet,” Grint snapped. “At the time, they were just disappearing. Mystery. Poof. No sign, just gone. Skoggnarl guards are patrolling, but there are still disappearances. The Skoggnarl Frithleaf head asks me and Grimble to post up in bottom area. So we do. We see nothing, but somehow, there’s still a disappearance. But the people there—they don’t care that we say we are there to help. So a mob shows up. They blame us. Don’t care what we say or what anyone says. They attack us. I don’t want to fight them, because they’re just citizens, you know? But if I don’t, they might kill me. Or Grimble. Or some others in the Firthleaf, and that’s, I mean, rule number one, right? So when the blood is flowing, I hop in, and the guard has to stop us all. After the mob fight, Grimble’s not there. Daylar says Grimble ran from the mob, down the trunk. So I go to find Grimble, and I find him. Mostly. Kinda like half of Grimble. Other half is just gone.”

“What do you mean gone?”

“I mean something bit him. Ate most of him in one big chomp. Lotsa teeth. Being what we are, that’s real damn rare anywhere, what with not eating meat and, you know⁠—”

“Not eating each other.”

“Right. I know it has to be something else. First thought: Emberclaw. They do like to eat us, but it’s usually not, you know, quite like that. Not that big. Sometimes bites, but usually more, um, butchered? I’m wondering if it’s some new Emberclaw Assassin, some high-level beast thing, and if yes, that’s like a big big problem, because we’re all going to be dead before end of snow if we’re locked in with that thing. On top of that, I’m mad as all the hells because Grimble is, shit, was a good friend. Now it’s personal. Not just the Nutlord ordering me around—now I’m there for vengeance.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. So I don’t ask for orders, I go and watch. Careful like. Hide myself and keep watch down near the mob fight. I move rarely. Secret. I’m the monster now. All through dark corridors in the bottom of Skoggnarl. Nothing. Nothing. More nothing. But when I’m on the eve of giving up, I’m walking back to get a bite to eat, I see a door. A door I know wasn’t there before, because I was watching the hallway for the last damn night, and I know down to the last acorn shell what is in that hall. That was a whole new damn door.”

“The mimic!” I said.

“Exactly,” Grint replied. He smiled, then shook his head. “Of course, I didn’t know about the mimic yet. I knew there was a door. So I go to Red Sable, and Red Sable comes with me to see new door. We get there, no door. But after I close my eyes and point out every other bit of trash in the hall, I point out all the other doors, I know where everything on that stupid floor is, Red Sable realizes I speak truth, and he believes me. He’s got an idea. Not a great idea, but it’s better than anything else we’ve done. He says that we take a spear, poke each and every door. Sometimes, we make a hole in wood, sometimes, the people on the other side of the door get mad as hell because we put a spear through their door. But one door is different. One time, the door makes noise.”

“The mimic,” Stoke said.

“Are you kidding me?”

“What?”

“Who’s telling the story?” Grint snapped.

“Grint.”

“You took the best part!”

“Sorry.”

“Well, you might as well finish now.”

“It’s your story.”

“You do it,” Grint said, turning his back on us and crossing his arms across his muscular chest. I’m sure he meant to look all hard and angry, but his gruff demeanor was somewhat sullied by his überfluff tail.

Stoke shrugged.

“Um,” Stoke started, “they go poke doors. Some make hole in wood, some make mad⁠—”

“I already say that,” Grint grumbled.

“Then you tell it,” Stoke replied.

Grint turned back to face me, rolling his eyes.

“After that, we knew there were mimics,” he said. “And we knew we had to find them and kill them. But that was very hard, because mimics, um, mimic. We had to do a lot of hunting and also lots of stabbing and lots of injuries. Started to seem like they were hunting us as much as we were hunting them. Snow is over by the time the council calls full safe in Skoggnarl. Killed many, many mimics, all sizes and shapes.”

“It was bad,” the Hogan said, standing right next to me.

“You were there?” I asked.

The Hogan nodded.

“By the end, I was,” he said. “Skoggnarl was… is not what it once was. It… There’s a good chance it will not remain within the Forest.”

“Not… what?”

“It is not important. What is important is the danger inherent in a mimic infestation, though, obviously, Skoggnarl is a very different place than the Tower. I’d feel confident that there are certain experts available here, in the Tower, that we would never have access to outside, in the Forest. The only real problem is being stuck in here.”

“The dungeon?”

“Quite a bit easier for us to be hunted than do the hunting here.”

“Okay, so⁠—”

He just gave me a look that told me it would be better to just take a moment to think. Or that it would be better for him if I stopped talking.

I stared at the squirrel, both daring him to speak and curious as to what he might say, because I understood I couldn’t speak next.

He looked at me. Then around at the dungeon, and at the squirrels on either side of him. I could see emotions and thoughts rocket back and forth through him. Finally, he spoke.

“What’s the cost?”

“Cost of what?” I asked.

“Of you doing business with me. On this. I do believe in fairness here, and the information you gave is a… well, it has to be worth something. And I’m pretty sure it’ll wind up being at least that of the damn slimeball bullshit you want the rat to build in my spare room. And while I know I might find the means of coercing your assistance in the little job I got that needs doing—this quest that could be yours—I need it done right. Which means I need volunteer energy, not conscript minimal effort. So. What is it?”

“Is there a limit?”

“To what you can ask for? Seems a poor question to pose to the opposition in your negotiation, eh?”

“Get Sterling and I out.”

“No.”

“That was quick.”

“Because it’s not even on the table.”

“How not on the table?”

“Inedible.”

“I don’t think I get what that means.”

“That particular desire is an impossibility. Besides my organization not being in the business of escape…”

“Besides what?”

“Kind of misspoke there, and I was hoping you would just leave it.”

“Seems a poor time for misspeaking.”

“Yeah, well, this ain’t some contractual discussion. It’s all down to mutual understanding, not a semantical argument over individual words.”

“What about a different way of getting Sterling and I out?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?’

“How would that work?”

“You could change the sentence we have?”

“What, pray tell, do you think your sentence is?”

“I don’t⁠—”

“You know.”

I sighed. Because I did know.

“Death by novelty arena act.”

“Right. Can’t change those sorts of sentences.”

“Not to be a cynic,” I said, “but it seems like there’s no real incentive to help you.”

“There isn’t really, hence why I’m asking for what you want.”

“What else⁠—”

“Here’s the thing, just so we are on the same page in regard to what you are asking. The Keeper’s orders are tough to change because the Keeper has a good memory. He is not one to need paper to remember what he wrote or said or did or ordered. Second, the Games Master knows. Third, the Warden also knows and is angered by it. He wants to kill you. Not so much the rat—he’s killed plenty of those, so he’s more looking for new things to cut down to get a bonus to his XP.”

“Always nice to be wanted.”

“You know, I’m starting to come around on your humor. It’s nice, amidst all this bullshittery. Be a damn shame when you’re gone.”

“Thanks?”

“If this was just the warden’s orders, or just something that had gone through the normal chain of command, it might be different. The warden spent quite some time stopping fights with his face, and now he’s got the memory of a fine sieve. Course, he still dreams of heroism, hence why he’s so keen on leveling up by executing everyone and everything. Seems to think it’s a bit of a loophole in the system, but I’m not sure it’s that simple.”

“That’s why he does it?”

“Read the very words in a letter to his brother when his brother asked as much.”

“You read his mail?”

“I have been known to find my reading material anywhere and everywhere when the need presents itself,” he said, giving me a smile. Then winking.

“I get it. You can stop.”

“Lovely. Which means we are back to the original postulation. What will it cost?”

“Kind of hard to want anything while being marked for death.”

“I can imagine. Well, have to imagine what with never having been in that unpleasant position.”

“What about—I mean, is there some form of judicial review process or, um, the magistrate?”

“You could, in theory, do something with the magistrate, but since your case would likely be marked as decided, what with the whole sentence already set to be carried out, I doubt the magistrate would look at it.”

“That’s where you’d come in.”

“How’s that?”

“You get the magistrate to look at it.”

“Kind of you to think I could do such a thing. Let’s pretend I can⁠—”

“Oh you can. Come on.”

“Maybe I could do such a thing, but my capability to cause the magistrate to appear is exceptionally limited. Especially given current events.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, given your current status.”

“As a walking dead man?”

“A man?”

“Red thing.”

“Better.”

“To clarify, then, what you’re telling me is that I am fucked and there’s nothing you can do for me, but that you can get me anything I want because you need me to work for you. Did I get that right?”

“Oddly, that’s pretty spot on.”

The Hogan smiled, but I noticed that Stoke looked legitimately confused and was on the verge of opening his mouth to ask a question when the Hogan’s fluffy red tail lashed out, smacking the poor guy across the face.

“Puts me in a tough spot,” I said.

“Hence why we are having this unbelievably long, drawn-out conversation despite the prodigious and surely growing list of shit I need to accomplish before end of light today.”

“What about an IOU?” I asked.

“What in the hells is that?”

“You will owe me something.”

“An unspecified something?”

“That’s right.”

“To be claimed at a later date?”

“That’s typically how it works.”

“Can’t say I’m overly comfortable with that particular arrangement.”

“I don’t really see a way around it. Unless there’s something that Sterling wants.”

“Are you a pair or something?”

“Well, if you can remove the sexual overtones, then that would be along the lines of accurate. I’d call us a duo. And before you feel the need to point out any opinions on the loyalty of rats, I already know your feelings on the matter. You don’t need to remind me.”

“And yet, I would be remiss if I didn’t.”

“Consider me reminded.”

“And you are willing to do a little thing for me should I do something for Sterling?”

“I’m willing to do this little thing for you,” I said carefully, knowing I was about to get into something I couldn’t likely get out of, “provided you’re willing to do something for me. Which might or might not be something Sterling needs right now.”

“I think we have an arrangement,” the Hogan said, and I immediately hated his smile. “Now, about this little thing…”

Chapter

Forty-Two

It was not a small little thing.

I knew it wouldn’t be, but I’d hoped I was wrong.

The Hogan wanted me to take a piece of paper into the warden’s office. It wasn’t a small piece of paper, either—it was large and rolled into a tube that he hung off my back. I had to get into the warden’s files, find the correct file, retrieve the sentence, and put my piece of paper over the written portion of the sentence. A little mana into the paper, and the two pieces would become one, changing the written portion of the sentence into something a tad more survivable for a prisoner who had friends with money outside.

I had been given a small map, a path through the walls that would bring me from point A, my cell, to point B, the warden’s office. But the map wasn’t exactly to scale, nor drawn well, nor was it complete. So when I did, invariably, make a wrong turn, it was a monumental mental exercise to get back on track.

I didn’t like moving through the walls. It was dark and dusty, and strange things were hiding there—large spider things, with too many legs. They were nasty-looking, with a ton of eyes all on me. I kept thinking they were going to come down and get me, but they seemed to like hanging out right next to the ceiling.

There was also the mimic question.

I had to wonder if anything I saw might be, in fact, a mimic. The only real bonus was the general lack of random objects in the space between the walls, mostly chunks of mortar and balls of tumble-dust. This meant that, technically, I only really needed to worry about mimics pretending to be bricks. Or, um, ceiling bricks.

I actually did come across two of the larger mimic wall things. They seemed almost like tentacle monsters with mild mimic qualities. And, much like the first, they were coated in an oily substance and were surrounded by the same unpleasant chemical odor. Luckily, the big lugs didn’t seem to be paying attention to me. Or anything else on the inside of the walls, which allowed me to pass by unmolested.

On the far side of the second larger wall-mimic, I saw drops of liquid falling into a small pool. Or, if I were a larger being, probably something that’d be more akin to a puddle. Looking up, I could see that there was a leak from something on the other side of the ceiling, something that was more on the slime side of things than the liquid, because the stuff would droop down in impossibly long tendrils before it finally released. It almost reached low enough that I could reach up and touch the stuff before it inevitably snapped back up against the ceiling.

I approached with caution, not just because of the monstrous beast hanging out just above, pretending to be part of the wall, but also because I knew that puddles had often been ambush opportunities in the midden.

The puddle had a strong chemical smell to it, so I reminded myself I had no nose and could ignore it. A quick glance at my stats, though, told a different story, as my mana was dropping steadily to keep my structural integrity at full.

Despite the darkness, I could discern a mild shimmer across the surface, a bit like a gasoline rainbow on a street puddle. Which was odd, because that implied there were two different liquids not quite mixing together.

Maybe that had something to do with its caustic outgassing.

I was really damn curious about the stuff, so I checked my pouch for a vessel, but I didn’t have anything.

I’d just have to leave it behind.

Chapter

Forty-Three

There was something somewhat soothing about the manner in which I was divorced from the dungeon itself. It was quiet in there, and the danger seemed more… apparent, I suppose. Or more natural. I could understand where the danger came from, even if I might not be able to see it. The dungeon, though, was such a damn unknown. It seemed like the warden could decide on a whim to just throw us to the wolves. In a damn literal sense. The Games Master could appear in front of our cell and announce we had to fight the entire Roman Legion, and there was nothing we could do. It was like living in the path of some mystery natural disaster, with no chance to prep for it.

Which, for me, was an incredibly specific nightmare to be living through. I hated it.

I got to my destination, the “Ward N Office” scratched clearly in the back of a brick. There was an arrow to the right and a number four, then an arrow up and the number six.

Counting over four bricks and then up six bricks, I saw… another brick. Nothing special about it.

But I did have this fun little ability now, Seam Sense, and I could take it out for a little spin.

I thought about the ability, moving mana into it, and I felt a slight shift in my head, as if my eyes went one space to the right, metaphorically speaking. And my view of the world went wild. It was as if I were looking at an overlaid wireframe model of every bit of structure around. I could see the edges of the bricks, where they connected or didn’t connect, and as I looked at a singular point, I could see a vague color appearing: green for solid, yellow for not so much, and red for weak. Most of the bricks in the wall were somewhere in the green-yellow spectrum, except for two spots. One was a brick six up and four over to the right. It was red all the way around.

The other was all the way at the top, on the ceiling. But only half the brick was red, as if, somehow, I could move only the left half of the block “mortared” into the ceiling.

I didn’t want to climb up and find out, but I was curious all the same. Instead, I climbed to the brick that was six up and four over. The climbing was easier once I rearranged my fingers a little, making them puff up as I stuck them in the gaps, using my fingers like rock climbers’ cams. I pushed on the brick.

Nothing.

I sighed. Never easy.

I managed to get my toes and left hand into what I felt was a stable position, and then I pulled on the brick. It moved a little, spilling dust everywhere.

I felt like I was going to sneeze.

No breathing, I said to myself. No need to sneeze.

After a little more effort on my arm, the brick swung inward on some sort of metal rod. The fresh air of the warden’s office blew over me, and I couldn’t help but sigh.

I crawled through the hole and then sat on the edge, looking at the office from a whole new perspective.

Chapter

Forty-Four

It wasn’t clear if the mimic hunters had made a visit to the office because everything looked the same. I didn’t notice any mimics hanging out, but they’d be pretty shit mimics if I could notice them from afar. Which I would prefer, because I really didn’t feel like fighting, well, anything that night.

I hated not having a weapon. I hated that guns weren’t a thing here. All that time learning to shoot, learning to hand-load hot rounds and light rounds based on what I needed to do… useless here. Unless I could figure out the means to making gunpowder. I knew the recipes, but not how those recipes might apply in this fucked-up world. Maybe my fur was somehow actually purified cellulose. If I could find the right pools of acid (one of pure sulfuric and one of pure nitric), I could throw some cordite together. But then, it’s not like I had any of the metalworking equipment I’d need to actually put a bullet together. Or even a basic cannon.

So guns were out. And in that moment, hanging out around seven feet above the posh carpet of the Warden’s office, all I wanted was a high-caliber rifle with a thermal scope. Mimics had to have at least some heat coming off them.

Which made me wonder.

I tried moving my eyes around—not like looking around the room in a suspicious manner, more like trying to alter the shape and workings of my eyeballs themselves.

There had to be a way to see thermals, but I just got a headache.

I let my feet kick against the bricks as I closed my eyes and held my head, reaching back into the depths of my knowledge to see if I could remember anything about how thermal imaging worked. It wasn’t just some trick of the light… was it? I felt like I remembered something about infrared radiation coming off of all objects. If that was the case, it was just seeing in a different wavelength. And if I could get my eyes to work in darkness, why couldn’t I do that for thermal? It would just be pushing my eyes further along the path from color to night vision. Deeper into the infrared territory.

I supposed it would depend largely on how I’d managed to get my eyes to see in the dark. If it was just me reshaping things to allow in enough light, that as long as there was a teensy bit of light, I could see, or if it was, in fact, me seeing in the infrared spectrum.

Might be worth some experimentation. Later, though. I had a job to do.

I wanted to leap off the wall, make some heroic landing, but I knew that wasn’t going to end well. I needed to be a little more professional with things. So I started climbing down, and my mind drifted to my behavior since I’d come to this world. I realized I’d left a lot of my professionalism behind. My attention to detail, my desire to prepare for eventualities. I was fully reactive in this life, bouncing from event to event with little driving me besides not dying. And that my one friend in the world didn’t die either. But that couldn’t really be a long-term strategy. I’d been lucky. Now, I needed more than that. I needed proper preparation.

Which I would start right after this stupid quest…

Which… had I missed the quest notification?

You have accepted the quest:

Quest: Paper Work

Description: Complete the falsification of the record without being noticed.

Reward: A favor from the Hogan.

Penalty for Failure/Refusal: Dissatisfaction from the Hogan, potential Nutlord anger

System was sleeping on the job.

Was not.

Then why⁠—

Shush! It is not time for us to talk. Take your quest and finish it quickly. Consider this little hint a bit of a… um…

Hint?

Whatever. Finish it fast, and then get back. You have little time.

Great.

I waited to see if there was more, but there wasn’t. The system, or whatever, was done. Still, if it were to be believed, there was reason for me to hurry.

So I did, rushing across the carpet, my furry feet silent on the plush pile.

I slipped around the desk, going under the chair to reach the file cabinet. I climbed the cabinet, getting to the top in seconds, where I stopped for a moment to observe the room.

No movement. Quietude. Nothing even came through the door to the outside world, the dungeon.

I leaned over and opened the drawer.

Which presented me with an annoying bit of logistics.

I had to climb onto the front of the drawer, hooking my toes onto the rail slides so I could stand up and start flipping through the files, reading across the names until I saw my target.

Hiram Mulvahil.

I pulled his file out and put it on top of the wooden file cabinet. It was a simple document, just a piece of parchment with loopy handwriting detailing the name of the person, the alleged offense, the date of imprisonment, and, finally, the sentence and who did the sentencing.

I pulled the leather tube around to the front and opened it up with a slight pop. Then I carefully took the piece of parchment out, mindful that I didn’t want to damage it or let any magic into the paper early, ruining whatever weird process I was about to engage with.

I hadn’t looked at the piece of paper, and I was a little surprised that it didn’t have the same loopy writing on it. Instead, it just had what seemed like clouds of ink.

Laying the paper on the parchment, I was having some serious doubts. It didn’t look like a match in the slightest. There hadn’t been any discussion of what I needed to do in terms of placement. Just slap the paper on the parchment and throw in some magic.

Still, magic could do miracles, right?

I let a mild pulse of magic out of my hand. The paper started to flutter slightly, whipping along as if it were in a wind tunnel.

And then it just sort of merged with the parchment, the black clouds swirling around until I saw the same loopy handwriting, denoting all the same details. Except for one. The sentence had changed to “time served,” and the man was due to be released at next light.

Which was a little weird.

Why say that?

Whatever.

I was done.

But it didn’t seem like the system agreed with me because the “quest complete” notification didn’t pop up.

I still had something to do.

I checked the quest again.

Quest: Paper Work

Description: Complete the falsification of the record without being noticed.

Ah.

Still needed to get out without being noticed.

Shouldn’t be a problem.

I got the parchment back into the folder, and the folder back into the drawer, and then the drawer closed without a problem. I had a momentary thought about when folders and filing systems were developed, and how they worked with the technology level I’d seen at play here, but I decided that was probably the least of my concerns.

I’d even made it halfway down the cabinet before curiosity reared its ugly head and I stopped.

My file had to be in there.

Maybe it was worth taking a look—to see if there was something in it that could give me a smidge of a notion of what was going on.

I climbed back up and repeated the process, working to get the drawer open and combing through the folders until I found me.

Or, rather, I found “Red Thing - Del?”

Gotta be me, right?

I pulled it out and took a peek at the parchment inside.

Definitely me.

It didn’t have nearly as much about me as Hiram Mulvahil’s file had about him. In fact, the only thing said was that I was to be put to death via “novelty/variety show in arena.”

I could see why the Hogan had been unwilling to change my sentence. Because how could someone forget such a bizarre sentence?

I stared at the paper for a moment, running through potential situations in my head. If there was anything I could do so I might be freed. In the old world, I could’ve easily forged the document—I had a ton of training in currency counterfeiting, which meant I knew nearly all there was to know about forgery. But like all the gun training, almost all of it was useless here. I could tell you all sorts of ways to blend cotton and match any paper made in the past fifty years but had no clue where to even begin with parchment. And no idea how to match the damn pseudo-calligraphy.

There were pots of ink on the desk, lined up next to a cup of feathers ready to be cut into quills. Or, if I was lucky, maybe there was one ready to go. Because on top of all the other nonsense, even if I did know how to make a feather into a quill, I was too small to use a human-sized knife to do it. The chance of me using one of the quills to forge the keeper’s orders was so slim as to be impossible. Still…

I hopped onto the desk to take a quick look at things. Better than just giving up, right?

Just in case, though, I put my file back. Right where I’d found it. Made all of it look just as it was. Then I scurried down the cabinet, up the desk, and tried to ignore how weird it was to be in a world where I could do something like climb a damn desk.

I took a fresh sheet of parchment from the stack so I could work on it, and then looked at the feathers. There, tucked in amongst the others, was one quill. Perfectly ready to be used.

I lifted it up. It felt awkward as hell.

This is an experiment, I told myself. Might be worth a little awkwardness.

I paused, staring at the three ink pots in front of me. The first was black. The second was black. And the third was black. All the same black. Every bit about them was exactly the same, down to the little extra loop over the a, making it look a little like it was blBck ink. Which, I supposed, might be possible. Maybe it was a brand name. But it had a more home-spun look, like someone had used the blBck ink to write out a label to identify the contents of the glass bottles.

Which made me wonder…

One of the jars was closer.

Not by much, but I knew that when I’d gotten onto the desk, all three were in line. Which matched the rest of the desk, which was a model of neatness.

And now, one was closer.

Or two were.

The middle ink pot was behind the other two.

I squinted at the bottles and leaned back a little, almost daring them to move again.

They didn’t.

I stepped back and quickly returned the feather to its holding spot. In that very brief time looking away, both ink pots managed to close at least half the distance to me.

And once again, as I looked at them, they stopped. Completely. Just sat there being, you know, ink pots.

They were mimics. Juveniles, based on their size, but again, could be totally different because I had no real idea⁠—

The left one got closer.

How were they moving without me noticing?

I focused on the left one, and it was completely still. I was completely still.

I shifted my vision to between the two ink pots.

And now the right one was nearly close enough to touch.

I took a step back and nearly fell off the desk.

More than anything, I could feel the ink pot closing the distance, and I activated Fuzz Shield.

My fur went rigid, like spikes all over my body, just as I felt something clamp onto me. Like a vice, but with teeth. Which I guess is just jaws.

My fur held, and instead of the teeth puncturing my soft and plush exterior, they were held at bay.

Looking down, I saw that I was being bitten. By an ink pot. With jaws. Vertical jaws. Which were disconcerting, seeing as we’re so used to horizontal jaws.

Warm, fetid breath swirled out of the jaws, reinforcing the biologic nature of the creature biting me. Also disconcerting was the dichotomy of the creature’s internals versus its externals. It looked fully like an ink pot from the outside. A glass bottle filled with a liquid with a hand-made, hand-written label on the front. And yet, inside, I could see the roof of the creature’s mouth. Although if it’s a vertical mouth, which one was the roof? The left side had a fat tongue, but then so did the right. Two tongues. Two rooves?

I wiggled a little, and I felt the jaw tighten, pinning my arms to my sides.

The tongues moved around my body in a really unpleasant manner, maybe like it was tasting me? Or it was doing something else, something a little more unseemly. It felt gross, and it left behind a thick coating, like I’d been dipped in resin.

I was stuck. And getting a little stuck-ier with every passing second. The fuzz shield kept me from being crushed, though I could feel periodic pulses as the mimic, or possessed ink pot, tried to push its teeth through my mana-infused fluff. Which was something I could only keep up for a short time because motherless Brooklyn did it burn through mana.

I wasn’t sure what to do.

But then, help came.

Sort of.

Ink Pot Two bit Ink Pot One.

Chapter

Forty-Five

Ink Pot One released me immediately, making a weird squealing noise as Ink Pot Two chomped down and tried to turn itself to face its new enemy. They were on top of each other, and their mimicry began to fail somewhat as they shifted their physical forms to most anything that might give them a slight advantage over the other, getting limbs and tentacles out to grab and pull.

I wanted to just leap off the desk and run away.

But also, I wanted to kill the mimics. Try to figure out what they were. How they worked. If they were as dangerous as the squirrels had said, I wanted to get more information about them. And watching the two of them fight over me could help me understand them better.

I took a few steps away from the fighters, leaving shiny, gloopy footprints behind, trying to get to the only weapon I could find—the feathers.

But grabbing a feather out of the pen cup was enough movement to make the two mimics stop what they were doing. They turned their eyes toward me.

Oh, they had eyes now. Lots of them. Well, each had more than two, which I would consider a lot. They were strange, beady things that seemingly came out at random spots on bodies that only vaguely resembled ink pots at this point.

The one that hadn’t bitten me rippled, its flesh undulating unpleasantly. When it came to stillness, it looked like an ink pot again. And even though I’d watched the damn transformation, I still had trouble thinking of it as a monster and not a bit of office supplies.

Ink Pot One was no longer worried about pretending to be an ink pot. He was in full-on monster mode, coming at me with jaws wide, having decided his comrade was of no concern.

I lunged forward, thrusting the feather out like a spear, aiming the pointy end right at the mouth of the mimic.

It was a large target—and an apparently unwitting target because the ink pot mimic didn’t change course at all. I stabbed the feather into what turned out to be soft flesh at the back of the mimic’s mouth.

A terrible noise came out of it—a blend of pain, confusion, and the gurgle of liquids overwhelming an esophagus.

I yanked the feather out, and dark blood gushed out from between the teeth.

I stabbed him again, and the feather kinked, breaking.

The ink pot made a half-hearted lunge for me, but I dodged the attack easily and activated my Arcane Counter to unleash a mana-infused kick that sent the mimic hurtling over the edge of the desk.

It took the feather with it, so I turned and grabbed another feather spear, ready to rock.

But when I turned back to face the other mimic, it was gone.

Sort of.

It was back with the other ink pot, pretending to be an ink pot. And I had no idea which one was real.

I stared at the ink pots.

Identical. It was really fucking impressive. And what was the play? Did I need to attack⁠—

I got a notification.

Huzzah and congratulations, for you have succeeded in making a kill! Hear ye, hear ye, for Delano “Del” Roosevelt has killed a juvenile mimic! For this grand murder of a child, you receive 30 XP.

That was nice. Well, not for the mimic, but for me. Kept me from having to worry about the thing on the ground. A quick peek over the edge told me the little monster had bled out.

And the other mimic didn’t seem like it wanted to fight any longer. It was just hanging out, being an ink pot.

For a moment, I debated what to do, wondering if I should just poke both ink pots until one reacted, kill it, and then use the ink in the other to try and forge a document. But there was a lot of mimic blood on the desk. And also on the single sheet of parchment I’d pulled off from the stack of formerly spotless parchment off to the side.

It was a mess. I had no way to clean it up, and it didn’t seem like the XP was worth making more of a mess.

“Balls,” I said. “How about we call truce for now?”

I accepted the silence as tacit approval of the idea, and while I didn’t turn my back on the damn thing, I dropped the feather and climbed down the desk to the floor. I took a quick peek at the corpse currently ruining the carpet. I was surprised to see that it hadn’t turned into an amorphous gray blob, kind of like it was stuck between forms. A little bit of it still looked like an ink pot with jaws, a wide tongue hanging out of its mouth, slightly stuck between gaps in its teeth.

It was weird. And gross.

I wiped my feet on the carpet, making sure I didn’t leave bloody footprints as I worked my way to the exit. As soon as I closed the open brick, putting myself back into the wall, the quest completed.

You successfully completed a quest!

Quest: Paper Work

Description: Complete the falsification of the record without being noticed.

Reward: You have earned a favor from the Hogan, as well as come into the good graces of the Nutlord. If he notices you, that is.

Great, I thought. The whole thing felt like a waste of time…

Chapter

Forty-Six

It was a quicker trip back through the walls. Close to the cell, some gray squirrels intercepted me. They didn’t speak to me but watched me closely until, I think, they decided I was who I said I was. Then they stood aside to let me into the more “developed” portion of the inner walls.

The Hogan, trying not to look like he’d just woken up, came forth to meet me.

“I hope you’re here with a tale of success,” he said.

“Something like that.”

“Please, not ‘like that.’ What happened?”

“There were some mimics there.”

“And?”

“And they weren’t… I did the switch you needed, but I had to kill a mimic.”

“You had to?”

“It was either that or die,” I said, which wasn’t exactly true, but not like he needed to know that.

“I presume it left a mess?”

“Yes,” I said, and then gave a brief description of what had happened and how I’d left the mimic on the floor.

“Not ideal…”

“No,” I said.

“You didn’t need to add that,” he said. “I knew what you thought.”

He paced back and forth for a bit. Then he paused, nodded, and turned back to me.

“I think, all things considered, that we’ll be fine. In this situation, at least.”

“Is the warden an idiot?”

“Yes, and that certainly helps us. But what could the answer be other than that the mimics themselves got into a fight? I doubt he will imagine that someone small got into his office…”

“Sure,” I said, having my doubts. I didn’t think that the Warden was quite as oblivious as the Hogan thought. Although, it’s not like I had a whole lot to go on—the warden was a bit of a mystery to me.

The Hogan nodded again.

“I appreciate you doing the job well,” he said. “Not as well as I hoped, but I think it will be fine. I believe your rat ‘friend’ finished doing what he wanted. You should take a look at it. Or, do something else. As long as it’s not bothering me.”

“Great,” I said, giving him a smile I really didn’t feel.

He turned quickly, and I had to lean back to avoid his stupid bushy tail.

I let him get away from me, seeing that he was heading up to what I took to be his bedroom, a platform three-fourths up the wall.

I had to wander around until I found Sterling, who was sleeping above a large group of snoozing slimeballs. He snored lightly. I didn’t want to wake him, so I just sat down with my back against the crude wall of the slimeball pen and stared up into the vague darkness above, just waiting for another day to begin.

And as I did, I got a lovely notice.

What is this?! You have succeeded and failed a quest!

Quest: Build a Pen

Description: The slimeballs required a home. You did not build them their home, but you did make it possible for their home to be built. You receive a partial reward.

Reward: 100 XP and happy slimeballs. And you know what that leads to…

Seemed petty, but that was a thought I forced to leave quickly. I didn’t want the disembodied voice that could read my thoughts reading that thought. Because you never want a petty piece of shit to actually know you know it’s a petty piece of shit. Instead, I blanked my mind and forced myself into a fitful sleep.

Chapter

Forty-Seven

While there was a decided advantage to not sleeping out in the cell itself, it did require getting up early so we could get to the main cell and pretend that we’d been there all along. Just another day in this weird fuckin’ place, right?

The gray squirrels ran amongst the inner wall, making sure everyone was up and heading out into the cell before the ogres came around to do the lights. We emerged into darkness, listening as the poor schlubs around us coughed and hacked their lungs out in the damp, stale air. Similar noises echoed out through the prison, playing the accompanying track to the grunts of the ogres and the bickering of the pharks. It was just awful.

I crossed my arms and watched as Dorian came along, lighting the torches and marking the great chamberpot race.

Always a fun time, and no one really won.

Then came breakfast—a bit of sausage and a hunk of bread. The squirrels came and took their cut, and, once that happened, my cellmates tucked in and ate.

Sterling, on the other hand, leaned on the wall next to me, looking out over the place.

“I daresay it would do for me to thank you,” he said. “Whatever you did for the Hogan, he has been more than generous with me since then. I do not wish for you to get angry at this, but I did request that some of that largesse be held back, though, as there are surely things we have to figure out, must yet be⁠—”

“I get it,” I interrupted.

“Yes, well, yes. I might have started rambling a bit, just—well, it has been a little bit of time since I’ve had the chance to sleep well. In comfort. Safety. So I find there’s a new pep in my step today. A little⁠—”

“I get it.”

“Right.”

“We’re sentenced to death.”

“Yes, I knew that.”

“The Hogan won’t get us out of that.”

“Did you imagine he could?”

“Yes. You didn’t?”

“I had considered it, but I think he thinks more highly of himself than is anywhere close to reality.”

“That’s fair.”

“I felt rather certain when we were tossed into the arena to die at the hands of that thing. Hence why, in my mind at least, we are trying to find an alternate means out of here.”

“Besides the arena?”

“I know you may have some marginal belief in that, but I cannot see it panning out for us.”

“I mean, it has to be the way it works, or none of the prisoners would do it.”

“Or, they just need to believe it is an actual exit, even if it isn’t.”

“I can’t imagine⁠—”

“After this dark of sleep, let us not ruin it by allowing the horrors of our world to intrude. For the first bit of the light, let us have a little hope.”

“Fine.”

“You don’t sound very hopeful.”

“I’m not.”

“Perhaps if you faked it⁠—”

I glared at the old rat.

He smiled at me, his whiskers bouncing a little.

I wanted to let Sterling know how things had gone during my nighttime adventure, but I figured it would be better to keep it to myself. At least until there was a better chance at not spilling secrets due to someone half-listening to our conversation.

“You over yourself?” he asked.

“What?”

“You seemed poised to anger. Wondering if you’ve gotten over that.”

“I’m not ‘poised to anger,’ whatever that means. I’m thinking about us having no easy way out of here. And since I’d really rather not die in this shithole, that might be making me ever so irritable.”

“I doubt we will die here.”

“That’s just because you’re feeling optimistic this morning.”

“Maybe. Or perhaps I am rested enough to see our situation with clarity for the first time.”

“Do tell, Sterling,” I said. “Unleash all that wisdom upon me. Or us.”

“Likely better if it were just you. And please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be rude. We shall be in close proximity for quite some time; it would be best to be civil with each other, if no one else. Second, there are at least two means of egress from this…”

“Shithole.”

“Right, I was about to use cesspit, but I suppose shithole is better. Back to what I was saying—there are two modes of egress as I see them, at least at the moment.”

“The Rats⁠—”

“Yes,” he said, interrupting me as the others began to filter closer toward us. “Rather keep things a little vague, what with all the ears here.”

“Sure.”

“The way of the, um, kind, if you will. But also, the path of the friend.”

I thought for a second. “You mean a certain furry individual who we knew from times before, who may or may not have betrayed us?”

“I do. Though I thought we had spoken on his actions and you understand why he had done⁠—”

“Knowing why doesn’t alter the betrayal.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“And I don’t see how he can do anything to get us out of here.”

“You lack vision.”

“Maybe, just…” I trailed off as the sound of loud footsteps became prevalent.

A group tromped through the halls, and judging by the increase in volume, they were coming our way.

All the prisoners sensed something was up, and, almost as one, they came closer to the bars. I think we all sensed that whatever was coming, it was surely meant for someone else.

Nope.

The warden, flanked by ogres and followed by pharks, strode into view. He marched front and center, coming to a stop in front of the door.

“Ah,” the warden said, almost as if discovering us, “the cell I thought least likely to cause me trouble… and yet, here I am.”

He spoke as if we all knew why he was there. But given the genuine confusion on everyone’s faces, no one did.

“There is little need for all of you to suffer for the actions of a single bad actor. Or two. Simply point out the malefactor, and perhaps I can be persuaded toward lenience. Possibly even mercy. But prolong my visit here… force me to spend my vital time and energy on discerning the truth of this mess, and I shall ensure each and every one of you pissants rue this day.”

It was very tempting to say that I already rued the day. That it was a dungeon. We were all likely in the midst of ruing over our days. But the extreme violence emanating from the man kept my snark in check. He was on the hunt, excited to grind out XP from executing us.

Of course, no one was willing to tell the warden that we were guilty of something because⁠—

“Me,” Little Joe said. “It was me.”

His admission of guilt came out of fucking nowhere. Everyone in the cell gasped.

Except the Hogan. He clearly wasn’t surprised. He had a look of… maybe regret? Like he’d had a hand in sending someone to their death. Although, it could have just been me projecting my thoughts and feelings onto the squirrel.

“You?” the warden asked.

“Me.”

“You.”

“Me.”

The warden stared at the tiny mouse creature, like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. He opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to lose whatever words he had.

No one said anything. Not even the group that had been hanging out the most with Little Joe. Nōnnah, Spider Murphy, and Zikzak all stood there in a stunned silence.

For my part, I assumed the warden had to be here about the mess I’d left. But it’s not like I’d left anything behind that could point the asshole in my direction. Or even our direction. That he was here at all struck me as… a fishing expedition? Something along those lines.

“I have no idea who that is,” the warden said to the phark next to him. The phark’s eyes opened in surprise, as if he’d been sleeping, and he stood up straight.

“Don’t know him either,” the phark finally said after giving the little mouse a look. “Tough to pronounce judgment without name.”

“Joseph,” Little Joe said. “Joseph Whitacomb.”

“And you claim guilt in this matter?” the warden asked.

“I do.”

“Then I suppose your willingness to accept blame will keep your friends here from sharing your fate. Only you will face the cleaners.” Another gasp from our cell. Joe, for his part, just gave a shake of his head. Like he wasn’t surprised at the punishment, but annoyed he had to go through it.

“Take him,” the warden barked. Two pharks came from either side of the warden, colliding a little before getting themselves together to grab onto Little Joe. One pulled out a set of manacles and held them out, but then realized the size disparity between manacle and mouse. If anyone looked like they had no reason to be restrained, it would be Little Joe. He looked like he was basically asleep on his feet.

The left phark snatched Little Joe up and dropped him in a bag, pulling the drawstring tight so that just the little guy’s head stuck out the top. And with a nod, the pharks left the cell, taking the mouse with them.

The warden stared at us all a moment longer, his eyes lingering on me for an uncomfortable amount of time. Not in a knowing way, more like a hungry way. Like I was the prize he wanted. I’m sure I was a novelty that’d give him that XP bump he so desperately craved.

Then he turned and left, suddenly. Most of the group followed him, except two ogres. The taller one, with the head of some tropical bird, pointed a feathered and clawed finger at me.

“You,” he said, “come.”

I sighed. Sterling and I were taken for our buffet.

Chapter

Forty-Eight

The buffet was packed.

Or at least it seemed like there were a lot of people there, even though I knew most likely it was the same number of people. I doubted there were a whole lot of new fighters recruited into the arena program.

No one paid attention to us, which was not at all a surprise. Just the way things worked for us, and that was fine. I didn’t want much attention at the moment anyway, given how shit everything had become.

I was still processing Little Joe’s sentence and what he had volunteered for. I knew Sterling was, too, since he had his pensive face on. Although, knowing the rat, he’d probably have said, “Man, I was going for thoughtful.”

Actually, that’s not true—he wouldn’t have made that joke. But I wanted to make that joke. I wanted to be somewhere where people would know what that joke was. Not in a buffet where I couldn’t eat, assaulted by the smells of things I wanted, taunted by bacon.

Sam the white phark had been assigned to us again, and he brought food over, setting heaping plates in front of us at our little slice of table, kept separate from the real fighters. We novelty schmucks got to eat by ourselves with our minder because he came along and sat across from us. Sterling, for whatever he was needing to do from a mental standpoint, had no qualms about digging in and throwing down, doing an impressive job of making eggs, bacon, pancakes, fruit—all of it—disappear at a stunning speed.

Sam watched for a moment, mesmerized at the culinary catastrophe unfolding in front of him. Then he glanced my way. I think he was about to make a comment about Sterling’s speed-eating, but he paused, looking at my plate and then at me.

“What?” I asked.

“Just wondering if you’re missing something,” the phark replied.

“I’m missing a lot of things,” I said, “but nothing from here.”

The phark frowned. “I feel like you’re making some sort of statement with that, but the problem is, I don’t get it. Coupled with I don’t care. But I have been given the job of feeding you twits, and while your rat buddy seems more than willing to make me look like I’m doing my job, you are not. So perhaps you can tell me what it is you would like to eat so I might put it on the plate, and then you can eat it or look like you’re eating it.”

“He doesn’t really eat,” Sterling said through a full mouth of food.

“Well, what does he not really eat, then?”

“Magic.”

“Magic. And how do you make that work?”

“Poorly,” I said.

“Well, nothing but jokes, eh? It’s always so fucking pleasant being with twits who think they’re smart. Do you realize some of us have to work for a living? Can’t just laze about and do whatever it is you do.”

“You mean be imprisoned?”

“Yes. Like that’s so easy. It seems a mite easier than having to do work for a living. You don’t have to do anything, do you?”

“Well, I mean, we kind of have to fight for our lives, don’t we?”

“Do you? You fought once. Now you just hang upon the hopes that you’ll fight again.”

“I think we’re gonna fight again.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll step upon the sands, but whether or not you call that fighting, I’d like to fight.”

“Well, yeah. But I mean, do you like fighting?”

“It’s not about me—it’s about you. Then again, I’m not allowed to talk about much with you, so maybe we should talk about me. Except that I hate talking about me. I find my life is irritating more than exhilarating, and I wonder how long I must suffer before I am finally allowed to take that last leap and embrace the sweet release of death.”

“Well, you certainly woke up on the wrong side of the shit heap this morning, didn’t you?”

“Yes, well, we all have our days, don’t we?”

“I guess. I don’t know that I can ever feel that way.”

“What? Irritated?”

“More despondent to the point of suicidal ideation.”

“Well, look at that glump of great big words to show that you’re better than me.”

“Just different views on life.”

“What, you will live at all costs?”

“I mean, yeah. That’s kind of exactly what I mean. I will live at all costs.”

“Even if it means sacrificing the rat?”

“Now you’re just jumping to make ridiculous conclusions and forcing me into making them too. No, that’s not a cost I would take, because I would make sure he stays alive as well.”

“So if it was either you or him, what are you doing?”

“Finding a third way.”

Sterling kind of smiled and nodded. “That is why I like him. He’s a good one. Of course, might be he says that because he knows I would willingly sacrifice myself so he could live.”

“See?” Sam added. “You’re the weird one here.”

“Lovely,” I said. “Great to be the odd one out.”

The phark raised his bushy eyebrows at me, then grabbed a slice of bacon from my plate and popped it into his mouth. Then he looked around, as if maybe he shouldn’t have done that, and he might get in trouble.

“Did you say you couldn’t talk about something?” I asked.

“Might have,” he replied, spraying bacon bits across the table.

“What can’t you talk about?”

“Can’t talk about it! Otherwise we’d be talking about it, and then where would we be?”

“In trouble,” Sterling said.

“Exactly. Prefer to avoid that.”

“Okay,” I said. “Who’d you be in trouble with?”

“Them.”

‘Them who?”

“The ubiquitous They. Those that watch us and tell us what to do.”

“And who are they?”

“The Warden, the Keeper, the Games Master,” Sterling said. “All of them.”

“And more,” Sam said. “There’s really no end to the ‘them,’ because they’re all out there, and we’re all in here, at their whims.”

“Okay, so we can’t talk about that. Don’t really want to talk about that.”

“Talk about what?”

“No, I was just talking out loud.”

“I do not think you need to talk out loud if you are going to say nothing,” Sterling said. “We are a group here, so let us actually talk. Better than sitting here in silence while we awkwardly eat and do not eat.”

“Yeah, I’d really rather not, if I’ve got to be talking. I don’t want to… well, let me rephrase it. If I’ve got to be sitting here with you twats, I’m going to be talking. Because you know what I’ve got to do the rest of the day? Listen to my own thoughts. And I don’t want to do that. So why don’t you pick a topic of conversation we can conversate about, and then we’ll have a moment where we’ll pretend we’re being friendly and then I’ll take your plates, and you’ll go off and do what it is you do and not bother me again until we do this again tomorrow. Or probably later today.”

“All right, it’s got to be a safe topic,” I said. “Why don’t we…” I paused, trying to think of something that would qualify as safe.

“Let’s talk about pharks,” Sterling said. “That seems to be safe—just general phark conversation.”

“Why do you want to talk about pharks?”

“Well, I have got, perhaps not a friend, but a comrade, compatriot, who is a phark. And I feel that there must be something he is missing about pharkness. Because he is very small, and for a long time he has been afraid to really eat more in order to grow.”

“Oh, is he a feral phark?”

“I am not sure what a feral phark is.”

“It’s one of them pharks that doesn’t have anybody to tell them how to be a phark. And then they tend to go a little bit mad because they don’t know how to process everything that’s inside them. So they go feral. Primal. Lose control and act out of pure instinct. Which is, usually, to eat everything that moves and doesn’t move. They usually wind up having to be put down. So, not, um, not traditionally the best way to succeed in life. Though I have heard that a few times, the rare phark has been able to come back from the edge, from being feral, but being I have yet to meet one, figure that might be just, what, legend? Rumor?”

“So what’s the, the process…” I started, “of, of becoming you⁠—”

Sam leaned back, about to say something.

“Sorry,” I said before he could talk. “I meant you in a general sense, like pharks. How do pharks become, or, how do they go from being small pharks to bigger pharks without, um, the primal chaos?”

“Oh,” Sam replied, “Well, I can’t speak for all pharks, which means the realest answer is I don’t know. But most pharks… they just, um, come from somewhere and they’re small. They tend to wander around until someone finds ’em. At least, that’s what happened with me. I remember nothing, then I remember walking around, all small-like, and some other pharks what worked on the ground floor over in the mill found me. They took me into the fold, for lack of a better word.”

“And they taught you the ways of being a phark?”

“Aye. As I have taught others I have found. They taught me the importance of dealing with the, um, power that comes in. Though I can’t really say I like using the word power, just… not sure there’s a better term.”

“Well, how does the power come into you?”

“Usually you have to eat things and that gives you this… well, I don’t know there’s a term for it. Maybe pharkness.

“You mean like mana?”

“No, no, not like that at all. Except, maybe it’s a bit like that, but what we pharks have is different. It’s separate. See, mana is magic. Pharkness is, um, pharkness, I guess. I don’t know much about mana, being that I don’t exactly truck with it. Not many pharks do, since we are, um, more on a different path? Mana, from what I understand, because I’m making some generalizations and educated guesses since I am primarily a cook and a miller and not a magician, wizard, or a magic user… Anyway, far as I know, mana is this ambient aether or ether or stuff what exists around us at all times and infuses most everything, to some extent. Using magic seems to make more magic possible. Like, it comes from other magic and things just sort of absorb it. That make sense so far?”

“I think so,” I said.

“Seems right to me,” Sterling replied. “Although, like you, my phark friend, I have little direct experience with magic or mana.”

“Good, um, or, right,” Sam said. He seemed to really be trying hard to put all the pieces in place, but that, maybe, was causing a headache. “Now what I’m calling pharkness is energy that comes from eating things. A phark ingests stuff, and his phark body processes it in such a way that it turns from, um, stuff into pharkness. Which pharks use to, um, live and also grow.”

“Does it matter what you eat?” I asked.

“Of course. Different things provide different amounts of, um⁠—”

“Pharkness?”

“Right. But, importantly—maybe most importantly—the more we eat, the more pharkness we have, and if we don’t process it… it still needs to do something. But if you do it right, it just provides enough, um, fuel to be oneself. Like at a certain point, there is this stability or a stasis point that emerges. And then you are imbibing just enough energy to maintain the size and powers that you’ve gotten.”

“Or?”

“Or you’re getting too much pharkness and you have to deal with it. Which is usually put toward growth, if you know what you’re doing. And if you don’t, that’s when you go, well, feral.”

“But what is the process of, like, what’s the, how—” I stammered, having trouble connecting the dots.

“I think I understand,” Sterling said. I looked over at him, confused.

“You do?”

“Yes,” Sterling said. “Maybe. So the pharks ingest material, and then that provides energy in a similar way that it provides energy to you or, well, in this case, it is really only applicable to me. As in, for me, and I believe most entities, what we consume provides a sort of biological energy that propels me forward. You know, keeps me alive. But after hearing the pharkness theory here, I would posit there is some extra element to the phark that allows pharks to process everything they eat and translate that energy into something which can be used in some manner by the phark itself to make itself more. In a similar manner to how you consume mana to survive.”

“He does what now?” Sam asked.

“Probably not a question we can answer, given the parameters you have placed upon our conversation.”

“I can respect that.”

“I gotta say, things here in the tower are incredibly odd,” I said. “Are things that odd in the outside world? Or is the tower amplifying the oddities?”

“Don’t know,” Sam the phark replied. “Never been outside Gorlami.”

“Ever?”

“Well, I’ve been in the city above. But never outside the walls of the city, though.”

“Are you allowed?”

“Out of the city? I never thought about leaving. It’s weird out there. No walls. So much open space. Even being outside makes me… uncomfortable.”

“It sounds awful,” Sterling said softly. “The sky, I mean, in particular. Not sure how you could really deal with that.”

“It’s not that bad,” I replied. “I miss it.”

Both of my tablemates looked over at me as if I were nuts. It was so strange being with a group of people who didn’t ever go outside. Agoraphobics united!

“But I do understand,” Sterling said, “to an extent, about the pharkness. I didn’t realize until now, but it really does seem to blend with what I did know or what I had experienced with pharks. That there is something else going on with them in regard to what they eat. How they eat, what they eat, and, also, what happens when they eat. I always believed there was an upper limit to what happened with them⁠—”

“Feral,” Sam said. “Moderately sized bits of primal violence, eh?”

“I mean, not exactly moderately sized for us,” I replied.

“Yeah, well, tough for me to think of what life is like for the tiny folk.”

“Is there a limit to pharks?”

“In what way? As in growth?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t. There are those who’ve gotten larger than myself, those who have found the means to ingest more and more, but they are not often long for Gorlami.”

“And why is that?”

He shrugged.

“A mystery of sorts,” he said.

There was a simplicity to what he said, something betrayed by the look on his face. He looked over my head at the back wall, so I knew there was more there.

“But you have a theory,” I replied.

“Course I do. You probably have a theory ’bout how you will grow as well, eh? Doesn’t mean it’s right. Doesn’t mean you need to share it with me. Or anyone else.”

“Actually,” Sterling said, “he doesn’t have those.”

“Whether he told you ’bout it or not,” the phark said, “he thinks ’bout that.”

“What do you mean you need to figure out how to handle the energies of the pharkness?” I asked, more than happy to steer the conversation away from me and my zardling nature.

“Gotta control it. Take it, shape it inside until it’s a part of you as a phark, and not just… energy. You trying to help this phark friend of yours?”

I nodded.

“I believe he has found some company within the guard here,” Sterling said, “and has been receiving the sort of tutelage which could bring him forward in his life.”

“Ah, is he the tiny one? Black fur?”

“That’s him,” I said. “Oscar.”

“I can look in on him if’n you like. What with you having to, well, best not say that last bit,” he said, leaning forward and grabbing our plates. “Talk time is up.”

He gave a wan smile, as if he hadn’t really wanted to leave, but then he stood up and left all the same.

Sterling, slightly oversized fork still holding a bite of food, watched his breakfast disappear forlornly.

“I wasn’t done,” Sterling said softly.

“Eat faster next time.”

“If there is a next time,” the rat replied, using a nod of his head to gesture to the oncoming Games Master.

Chapter

Forty-Nine

As if the day couldn’t get worse, Malera the Games Master sat down right across from us. A smile spread across her cute face, as if she were about to give us good news.

She looked from Sterling to me and then back to Sterling.

“Always a pleasure to see you here,” she said. “There’s something so nice about having some varied creatures here, especially creatures who are so civil. At least, relatively speaking.”

She paused, as if drinking in the atmosphere.

“I wish there were some means of having more regular conversations, because I am fascinated by you.”

My eyebrows raised on instinct. I glanced over at Sterling, who was pointing at me.

“True, I am more interested in the red one, Mister Rat, but I am quite sure you have an intriguing backstory as well.”

Sterling shrugged, giving her a bit of a smile.

“I know,” Malera replied. “We shouldn’t actually speak. This is all rather improper of me, but it would be nice to have more of a chat sometime. That said, I am here on a bit of business.”

She paused, I think maybe to hype her news up. Like I really had the sense that she wanted to say “drumroll, please,” but she just stared at us, smiling, excited.

“You have a fight!”

I looked over at Sterling, who looked over at me. I could see any joy he had leaking out of him.

“I have cooked up a little something special for you, and I daresay you will find it exciting. Perhaps even… scintillating.”

I kept the snarky comment about a word of the day calendar to myself, knowing that it could only bring trouble. Instead, I raised my hand.

She frowned.

“Are you waving at me?”

“No, um, I was wondering if I could just ask a question,” I asked.

“I would prefer if you left all questions until the end of our conversation,” Malera said, sighing.

“I, um, sure,” I said. Not exactly a conversation if only one side was allowed to talk.

“Thank you. I am sure I will likely answer any and all questions you might have before long. The fight, which you cannot refuse, will be rather soon. I do apologize for the timing, but it would appear that the warden has been a little slaphappy when it comes to your day-night cycle down here. Which means that this should actually be dinner for you, and that the arena fight is barely later today.”

“I knew there was something going on with the time here,” Sterling said softly, enough that either Malera didn’t hear or didn’t care.

“The first match will start quite soon, and you are slated as the fourth undercard event. There will be quite the crowd tonight because of the main attraction, so I would normally give you a speech about entertainment, showmanship, and the importance of winning over the crowd, if not the, uh, match. But, um…”

She trailed off and just smiled at us.

“Do you still have questions?” she asked.

“I mean,” I replied, “I can’t really speak for my friend and partner here, Sterling, but I know I have a few.”

“I do not have time for multiple questions. What is the most pressing one?”

“Who are we fighting?”

She gave me a half smile and squinted a bit, as if I should have known better than to ask that.

“That sort of information is privileged. Besides, it would ruin all the surprise, wouldn’t it?”

“Does there need to be a surprise?”

“Of course there does.”

“What? Why?”

“What kind of games would it be if there were no surprise opponents?”

“Uh—”

“Boring,” she said before I could finish. “It would be most boring, if you ask me. And I would argue that of anyone in Gorlami, I would know best what makes an entertaining show, wouldn’t I?”

“Yes, but we might be able to prepare, and⁠—”

“One, you do not get to prepare. That isn’t the type of match you have tonight.”

“Why? Is this another execution by beast?”

“No,” she said with a smile. “That didn’t seem to go well last time, did it?”

“I mean, it went pretty well for us.”

Malera paused for a second. “I suppose, from your perspective, that is true. But it made things difficult for a number of people, not least of which was me. So sadly, I cannot have a similar outcome this time.”

“So it’s not so much you coming here to tell us that we’re going to have a fight tonight so much as it is you telling us we’re going to die tonight.”

“It is up to you to view it in whatever light you choose. If you want to look at it purely from the negative, then I cannot stop you.”

“What other way is there? That we can offer up a great minute of entertainment before we are slaughtered for your enjoyment?”

“Something like that, yes. You could realize what you have to offer the people of Gorlami and not be so focused on yourselves. Perhaps I misjudged your abilities to entertain and be good conversationalists.”

“We’ll try and die with style, I guess,” I snapped.

“Yes, well…”

She tapped the table twice and gave us a big ol’ fake smile.

“Have a good fight,” she said, and stood up.

I wanted to punch Malera in the face because she was such a rancid bitch. I hated her more than I hated the warden because at least the warden acted like an asshole in addition to actually being an asshole.

I watched her walk away to talk to Fighter X.

He greeted her like a friend, not quite embracing her in a hug but certainly giving her a smile and engaging in a way that was very pleasant. And while I couldn’t hear the conversation over the general din of the room, especially one that was in the middle of transitioning from cafeteria to fight prep space, I could read their lips.

“…with quite a bit riding on a victory,” the Games Master said.

“You want me to throw it?” Fighter X asked.

“Of course not. I would never tell you to do that. Just, be prepared for a big show.”

“You want a big show.”

“Yes.”

“And for me to win.”

“I think that would be best.”

“Even though that means I would get out, and you’d lose your star attraction?”

“Even though. I don’t want you to overstay your welcome.”

“I can’t. And maybe I can return⁠—”

“Don’t you dare. If you come back, they’ll just kill you. They’re not going to take the chance you’ll make it through the arena twice.”

“I didn’t mean as a criminal, just enter to fight.”

She frowned.

“It’s not against the rules,” Fighter X started, but Malera shook her head sharply.

“It is. And if you bothered to read the rules, or even the laws of Gorlami, you’d know that. You’d know that this is the one chance you have to get out of this darkness. So, because I like you⁠—”

“And what I did for you⁠—”

“Yes, and that. I don’t want to see you back here.”

“Fine. I will win, and I will go away. Far, far away⁠—”

“You don’t have to go that far. I imagine there’s a place for you upstairs somewhere⁠—”

“I’ve got the gladiator class now. What use is that without an arena?”

“You’d get something better in a few levels. Might even get enough XP from winning this to level into a new class…”

Fighter X leaned back against the table, looking at Malera, and I couldn’t help but see them as flirting. Or, rather, the Games Master was flirting while Fighter X played a bit hard to get.

“I can be persuaded to stay,” Fighter X said, “if, well, there is a reason.”

“I think I can find one. Just win tonight.”

“How much time do I have to prepare?”

“Not enough to go and make a deal with Garphun.”

“I thought you couldn’t tell me who I was fighting.”

“I didn’t. Garphun isn’t a fighter.”

“So what am I fighting?”

“Something special.”

He leaned in closer to her. “What equipment should I have?”

“Metal armor and long spears. You won’t want to get close. Now, you’re on after the novelties⁠—”

“The little shits?”

She straight up giggled. I really wanted to punch both of them in their stupid smiling faces.

“Yes, after they’re killed, you’re up.”

“Good. Even if I lose, at least I don’t have to see those worthless pips around any longer.”

What a fucker.

Chapter

Fifty

Istared at the gate to the arena, waiting for it to open, for the fight to start. My nerves were pumped full, my whole self practically overflowing with anxiety. I hated to repeat to myself that the worst was the unknown, that it would be easier to handle anything as soon as I knew what we were up against. But that wasn’t necessarily the case, because it was still something that was going to try to kill me, so maybe there was a measure of peace in not knowing what was there.

Sterling was wholly focused on the ground. The ogres behind us, ensuring we couldn’t retreat, grumbled some noises to each other, though it wasn’t at all clear if they were talking or just making noise.

“Wish we had weapons,” I said.

“Makes it harder to kill us,” Sterling replied.

“Well, I get why⁠—”

“Shut up!” an ogre barked.

“Why should we? We’re already about to die,” I snapped back at them. “Let us talk for a damn second!”

There wasn’t a response from the ogres, which I took to mean they were realizing there wasn’t any reason to enforce the quiet down there.

“I might have something if we need it,” Sterling said. “But it will only work once. Once I reveal what I have, they will take everything. Do you think we hold off?”

“I think we wait and see.”

“If it looks like we are about to die, I will do what I can.”

“Oh, yeah, maybe it’s going to be an easy victory.”

“You think?”

“No, I think it’s guaranteed to be harder than last time.”

“Great. We squeaked through by the skin of our teeth last time. Or shall I say the skin of your teeth? I daresay I did a whole lot of nothing to help last time.”

“Oh, don’t knock yourself. You did a lot.”

“Yes, well, you are well known for being kind and not necessarily seeing me for the cowardly fool I have somehow become.”

“Well, I mean, I don’t think it’s… I think you’ll be okay. We will be okay.”

“Might I ask why you think that?”

“Well, we don’t have a choice, do we?”

“I do not really like those reasons.”

“I know you don’t, but the reality is either we’re going to be okay or dead. And so you can pick which one of these you want.”

“Between dead or okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I would pick okay.”

“Great—let’s try to make it that way.”

“Yes, but it is not exactly a choice, is it?”

“It’s as much of a choice as we got, man. We are either dead or we’re okay. So which way do you want to take it?”

“I do not like your fatalism.”

“It’s not fatalism. I’m just trying to point out that we have to do this. Either we come through, or we die. So focus on getting through. The rest will work itself out.”

He was silent, still focused on the ground. The rumble of the crowd was distant. I thought it was strange since I knew exactly how much space was between us and the roaring crowd, and yet something stifled the transmission of noise. It had to be some form of magic. A quick magical pulse gave me all the information I really needed. There was fucking magic all around, especially in between us and the arena.

Slowly, the doors began to open. The brilliant light blinded us as we walked forward, and the crowd roared their appreciation that we were there doing whatever it was we were about to do. Before I took a step forward, I reminded myself that this was a show. That the only real protection that I had, we had, from the whims of the ubiquitous They was, oddly enough, the other They. The mob. All these people. If they liked us and they wanted us around, we couldn’t be summarily executed. We had to give them the show.

So while Sterling stood there shaking, I took a deep breath. I strode forward, ready to be an entertainer.

Chapter

Fifty-One

The sand was hot underfoot. The lights shone bright above us, the sound of the crowd harsh. All of it combined to overwhelm me, and I had to take a second to calm myself down, make sure I wasn’t caught by surprise when the killers arrived.

Sterling stumbled next to me, grabbing my arm to keep from falling over. I glanced over my shoulder and saw one of the ogres glaring from where he’d obviously just kicked Sterling out of the tunnel and onto the sand.

The announcer roared out something, his voice so amplified and resonant that I couldn’t understand a damn thing the man said.

The door opposite us began to open, revealing opponents that were nowhere near as hesitant as us. As soon as there was space, the creatures forced their way through.

They were taller than us, wearing armor and carrying weapons. Already a very different fight from when we’d gone up against the desert jahdan. Honestly, functionally, it was much more similar to what I’d done in my old life. I’d be fighting intelligent humanoids who would fight back. But also, they’d likely feel things like fear and pain and not just be monsters trying to eat me.

More came out until I counted seven of them. They were like some nightmare combination of falcon and monitor lizard, hawk and snake, eagle and Komodo dragon. Dark feathers covered any exposed area, a blend of black and a blue so dark that I would’ve thought them wholly black if not for the brilliant overhead lighting exposing blue glints. A hooked, bone-white beak dominated an avian skull, and large eyes surrounded by marginally brighter blue feathers seemed to glow a little. Loose skin hung around their necks, the thick feathers exacerbating their double-chin-like look, despite not even having a first chin. They were shorter, with stocky arms ending in forelimbs that looked like they came off a bird of prey, with strangely elongated fingers ending in hooked talons. Long reptilian tails snaked out of the rear of their bodies, whipping around as if they had a mind of their own, and they were hunting.

The seven creatures spread out, kindly making it easier for me to get a better picture of what we were up against. They wore thick padded armor, rather plain stuff, although two of them had bands of metal sewn in. Each had what looked like a variant of a farm tool, all rather crudely adapted to be more martial than agricultural, as if they were the poster children for a ploughshares-to-swords program.

The biggest of the group, one of the two who was up-armored, had a large scythe with a wicked blade that had a slight wave to the edge, making it practically useless for cutting wheat or grass. The next had an impressively large flail, with serious spikes added to the beater. Its wielder looked eager to get to threshing.

There was also a pitchfork with three long spines but with the added fun of a butt-spike. The shortest member of the group, somehow the other one with extra armor, had two sickles. He spun one at me, then the other. Next up was a midsize dude with something that looked as if it had been a billhook, but then someone added a spear point to it to make it more stabby. The most muscular of the group had a heavy-looking wooden mallet with a hammerhead roughly the size of Sterling and I hugging together in fear. And the last one of the group, the one in the center, had a mattock on his shoulder, though the axe head side was oversized, and the pick had barbs running down the inside edge to ensure that pulling it free would cause extra damage.

“You seem to have us at disadvantage,” I said, “what with there being seven of you and only two of us. And you with all those weapons and whatnot.”

The center one squinted at me, tilting his head one way and then the other.

He said something in a different language—at least I figured it as such. The sounds were harsh and clipped, but at a discordant, sibilant slant. Which, if these were some blend of bird and reptile, made sense.

Another one, Pitchfork, laughed, then responded in the same tongue.

Flail and Billhook laughed as well.

“You think they’re agreeing to make it a fair fight?” I asked Sterling.

“No,” Sterling said, “reasonably confident they are making fun of us.”

“Awesome,” I said. “Love it. Should be easier for us to beat them.”

“I admire your positivity, though I cannot say I share it.”

“Just fake it, then,” I said, smiling broadly at our opponents. “Gotta make sure we’re putting on a good show.”

Our beaked opponents were making soft noises to each other, which felt like they were communicating without looking at each other. They were moving together, like a unit preparing to attack as one.

Everything in this second life would have been so much easier had I just had my old SigSauer. Or even better, a submachine gun. Or a rifle. Or both. All three. Just⁠—

My cordite dreams were shattered as the creatures spread out wider, doing their best to surround us.

“Backs to each other, or—” I started, but Sterling grabbed me and yanked me toward the wall behind us.

He stammered something, and then stepped fully behind me. Hiding.

The center thing shifted his mattock off his shoulder, holding it across his body with two hands, twirling the head around. Axe-pick-axe-pick, the brilliant light from above flashing off in a hypnotic rhythm.

I let my eyes go wide and relaxed my mouth so I looked like a slack-jawed fool.

The fellow in front, Mattock, smized. He had no lips, so I had to guess his facial expression, but he seemed a little too pleased with himself. Then he nodded his head just a little, and the tall one with the scythe lunged forward, swinging his big ol’ blade for the fences, angling to take my head off.

Time seemed to slow down until I realized I had all the time I wanted to think about… anything. It would be so easy for me to just close my eyes. To let the blade swing through my neck. End this bizarre run through… whatever this was. A nightmare. A bad trip. Everything. Nothing. But what would that mean? Who would win? What would win? And, more importantly, what would happen to Sterling?

My friend. A rat. My rat.

If I died, he died.

And it would be as if I had killed him because I didn’t try.

I had to try. I’d probably die, but I couldn’t just give up.

The scythe came for me, time coming back to normal speed.

Mostly.

I ducked, just a little, and I felt the wind from the long metal blade ruffle the fur on the top of my head.

Reaching up, I caught the wooden haft, and I leaned back, putting my weight along the handle, pulling the tall beaked killer off kilter.

He stumbled toward me, and I stepped into him, shifting my weight so my entire body went into jamming my shoulder into his midsection, adding in the little bit of magical oomph I got for the successful dodge.

Air exploded out of his beak, and I could feel his legs going out, so I pushed farther into him, knocking him onto his back.

I hardened the fur on my knee and dropped onto the creature’s neck. Something inside broke with a sharp crack.

Using my momentum, I rolled off him and came to standing.

There was the barest of pauses as the creatures transitioned from thinking this would be easy to preparing for an actual fight. I could see they weren’t amateurs as they all settled into fighting stances.

The former scythe-wielder gurgled on the ground.

Pitchfork lunged forward, and I had to leap back out of the way.

Which put me right in line to get whacked in the head by a huge hammer.

But there really wasn’t too much of an issue with blunt weapons—my body was oddly perfect for them. I took the hit.

It hurt, sort of. It felt like my body was walloped and that I should hurt, but that the pain was all in my head.

It felt a little weird to get hit like that. It kind of felt like I was a marshmallow getting walloped by a big hammer and not having any ill effects, just kind of squishing and returning back. The look of shock on the face of Hammer made it worth it. I snapped out a quick jab, a right angle to the spot where I figured his genitalia would have been. Punching the jackass right in the cloaca. His shock doubled as he doubled over, looking confused and in pain. Which probably intensified when my knee met his beak.

Somewhere in the middle of on instinct and on purpose, I hardened my knee extra to smash his beak as much as possible. There was a sharp crack as the poor fucker’s beak snapped, and a chunk of it flew off to the side. Which was probably better, from an evolutionary standpoint, than just going straight back as a whole piece into his head. Though I would have preferred that. But I knew the general concept of group fighting meant that I was about out of time with one. So I dove to the right just as the pitchfork went overhead.

I felt the twinge of magical power blossom, the bonus I got for making the avoidance. I channeled that through my arm as I reached up and grabbed the pitchfork. I let that magical energy out into the pitchfork, sending it straight through the haft. The creature holding it let out a shriek as the magic walloped him. He let go, but I kept hold of the pitchfork.

As I twisted around to stand, I realized I had done something smart and something stupid. Smart: I had a weapon now. Stupid: there was nothing between them and Sterling. The poor rat cowered up against the wall, scared shitless. Which, given the smell coming from him, wasn’t true. But these things didn’t think him any danger, whereas I clearly was. Which meant that while they didn’t move forward on Sterling, they kept their attention on me.

I knew eventually they’d realize that Sterling was the weak link here, which meant they would go after him, and then I would have to defend them. I filed the knowledge away. When fighting a group, you have to do your best to control the action. Because if you lose control, if you are fighting reactively, you’ll lose. There will be too many things to react to.

So before they could make a move, I did. I took a step toward the de facto leader of the group, the one with the mattock, and then lunged forward. I moved my body first and then threw the pitchfork out, knowing that with that weapon, he really only had one move. As expected, he brought the mattock down on top of the pitchfork, driving it into the ground. I released it immediately but kept my momentum moving forward because now his mattock was down too. I slammed into him, bringing him to the ground as I rolled on top of him and came back up on the other side of him.

There was a momentary shock where he tried to reorient himself, unprepared to be on the ground.

But I was standing. I was ready.

I knew I was spending mana fast and loose, but it definitely seemed like the time to do it. So I formed spikes on the bottom of my right foot, like rugby cleats, hardened them, and played stompy-stompy-facey-facey until I had to shake the goo from my foot.

The extreme violence was on purpose—it would shake the assholes up. That didn’t mean I liked doing it, though. That sort of violence hurt me. Not as much as it hurt them, obviously, but I didn’t enjoy it.

“Two down,” I said. “The rest of you can give up if you like.”

I watched them, trying to figure out who was going to step up as the leader now, being that Mattock was out.

Scythe glanced at Sickles. Sickles at Billhook. Former Pitchfork, current Empty-Hands, also looked to Billhook. Billhook met my eyes, and I saw hesitation there.

“So it’s you,” I replied with a smile.

I slid my foot under the mattock and kicked it up, grabbing it from the air and giving it a practice swing. It was heavy and unbalanced, with the handle a little too large for my hands. I pushed mana down and around, forcing my fingers to grow enough to get a better grip.

Billhook barked out something, and the group shifted. The five remaining members fanned out, very clearly trying to flank me.

There had to be something more than that. They hadn’t been that obvious as of yet, and I didn’t imagine they’d start now.

I held the mattock, spinning it a little like its original wielder had, letting the light glint off the chrome top into the eyes of Billhook.

He paused for a heartbeat, and while I pretended to watch his face, I actually focused my attention on his hips. Like Shakira’s, they wouldn’t lie. He shifted his weight away from me, and I saw his foot begin to pivot.

I bolted toward him just as he took a lunge at Sterling.

Billhook lashed out, trying to spear my rat friend.

I spent a huge chunk of mana and let loose a mana beam from my eyes, aimed right at the spot where Billhook was about to plant his left foot.

His foot hit the sand as the blast hit his foot.

The boot sizzled, and a hole appeared straight through the creature’s foot.

His ankle buckled, and he fell to the left.

I leapt up, bringing the mattock high above my head, and swung it down with all my might, aiming for his chest.

But I missed. A little. I drove the pick into his hip.

The metal pick beat the leather armor, as well as the creature’s bone. A sharp crack told me this guy was going to have a hell of a time sitting down in the near future—I had to have shattered his pelvis.

He screamed, a caw of terror and pain.

I landed and tried to wrench the mattock out of the creature, but it was stuck well in the bone. Any movement that happened was actually the poor bastard’s body moving, not the pick.

Dropping the handle, I stepped over the creature to pick up the billhook just as I got hit with something in my right side. Something heavy, walloping me off my feet and into the sand.

Pain flashed for a second but disappeared nearly as quickly. Blunt trauma for the win? I rolled over and pushed myself up to my feet just in time to jump back and avoid twin strikes from twin sickles.

I backpedaled to get a better view of the fight.

Sterling had the billhook in his hands and kinda-sorta actually looked like he knew how to use it, holding it across his body. Enough so that Pitchfork, who had regained his weapon, wasn’t approaching.

Sickles, Flail, and Scythe were on me, with Sickles in the middle and Hammer and Flail to either side.

And me without a weapon, yet again.

A notification popped up, and while I normally wouldn’t have given it a second glance during a fight, there was a momentary lull, and I wondered if there was something important.

Huzzah and congratulations, for you have succeeded in making a kill! Hear ye, hear ye, for Delano “Del” Roosevelt has killed a Gloamhaunt Ironhand⁠—

I ignored the rest, being that it didn’t really matter how much XP I got or how much pride the system thought I should feel. The important thing was the name.

“Gloamhaunts,” I called out to Sterling. “You heard of them?”

“No?” Sterling called back. “Should I?”

“That’s what these things are called.”

The Gloamhaunts followed our conversation a bit like a tennis match, looking from speaker to speaker.

“Never seen them before.”

“I thought maybe the name⁠—”

“Means nothing.”

“Ah, well. One of ’em is dead.”

“I would imagine it is the one no longer gurgling a death rattle from its lungs over there in the sand,” he said, using his head to nod toward Mattock.

“Lovely,” I said and focused on Sickles. “You want to keep going?”

He didn’t reply, but he didn’t move either.

No one did. We were in some vague détente. I think they were debating either how to fight or if to fight. And, frankly, if we could win without all the death, I’d choose that method. From what I’d seen, the fights didn’t need to end in death.

Unless, maybe this one did. Because we were supposed to be killed here. Were these poor Gloamhaunts in the same boat?

Maybe.

They didn’t seem to be backing down. They’d started moving again, spreading out a little more, talking softly to each other.

Pitchfork still watched over Sterling, holding his weapon out, ready to stab. Sterling matched his stance with the billhook.

Then all four opponents came at me at once. Pitchfork turned and charged at me with the rest of them.

I’d been forced into a reactive position, and it was biting me in the ass. I only had one real play to make: finger guns.

Hands up, fingers extended, I backed up and unleashed hell. I burned through an unpleasant amount of mana to fire off an arcane pulse at Scythe and at Flail.

Bright flashes came out of my fingers, and holes appeared in the two Gloamhaunts. One just crumpled, but Flail managed another two steps before he fell on his beak.

The quick deaths upset Pitchfork, at least enough that he stumbled and tripped on the body of his former buddy. He didn’t quite fall over, but slowed enough that Sterling managed to get the billhook all the way through the jerk.

Sickles, however, didn’t even react to what I’d done. His attack continued unabated, and his twin sickles went into my sides, ripping me open.

White fog poured out of me, and Sickles let out what could only be described as a caw of delight as he held the sickles in me and got very close until his beak bumped up against my nose.

He said something to me, soft, guttural, angry. Then he began to twist his sickles inside me. The pain was intense and overwhelming, and my hold on consciousness was tenuous at best. Darkness crept up around my vision as my MP bar dropped steadily.

Then he somehow stabbed me in the face.

And let me go.

I fell to the ground, staring up at the brilliant faux sun above. The edges of my vision were now fully black, reality falling away. I felt a sense of calm. I’d tried. That was⁠—

A furry face appeared above me, with big ears and beady eyes.

Sterling stared at me, saying something that didn’t reach me.

I felt him push something into my hands, blocking whatever view the audience might have had with his body, and then he said something else to me.

The thing in my hand was soft, squishy. I could feel it moving. On instinct, I pulled the mana out of it, and I could feel the poor slimeball dry up into a sort of dust. Then I felt myself slinking back, somewhat, from the brink of death.

But not from consciousness, because as I felt the measure of relief, I also dropped off into the darkness.

Chapter

Fifty-Two

Iwoke up staring at another face. But this one was not furry, not friendly, not smiling. The nurse.

She stared at me, her eyes glazed over like she was bored and tired of waiting.

She poked at me.

“Ow,” I snapped.

“See?” I heard Sterling say. “Totally better.”

“No, seems like he’s twitchy. I’m not even sure he’s still alive.”

“I’m alive.”

“Ah-ha!” Sterling exclaimed.

“Indeed,” the nurse replied, deadpan.

“Nothing more required on your part, my dear nurse. I am sure we are both quite thankful for your ministrations.”

“I am,” I eked out.

“I don’t like it,” the nurse snapped. “I don’t like not knowing what he is or how he works.”

“My apologies,” I said. “I have a weird body, I guess.”

“It’s not that it’s weird—it’s that it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t abide by any of the rules I thought governed, like, the world, and that disturbs me.”

“It didn’t seem to disturb you much the last time I was in this position.”

“Ah, chap,” Sterling said, “different individual.”

“Naw, you’re shitting me.”

“I have never seen you before,” the nurse said.

“The last nurse had no compunctions,” I started, but then the nurse glared at me hard enough I fell silent.

“I am not a nurse.”

“Doctor? Healer? Medico?”

“Chirurgeon.”

“Definitely my next guess,” I lied, since I had no idea what the hell a chirurgeon could be.

“Well, perhaps he is not better, is he?” Sterling asked, smiling. “I daresay he got knocked around a little out there.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I did get my head pulped a few times.”

“Indeed,” Sterling said. “I was very much impressed with how well you took that hammer to the dome.”

I moved my face a little, trying to get a sense of what had happened to me, what injuries remained. Because I remembered quite a few rather horrible moments in the fight.

“I feel like something stabbed me in the face,” I said.

“Ah, yes, apologies for that. I didn’t realize the spear bit would go through from, um, when I thrust from behind the, um, thing.”

“I wasn’t sure if I remembered that correctly or⁠—”

“No, I stabbed you. Quite the accident, I assure you, in an attempt to save you from imminent demise. Just, I was a little overzealous.”

“You don’t say,” I said, wincing a little as I felt the edges of the slice going right between my eyes. I guessed the slight mana leak from it was the reason I had trouble seeing clearly.

“You know,” the chirugeon, who was definitely not the nurse I’d already met, said, “if you two are finished with your healing, you can get the fuck off my table.”

“Yes, quite right. This way, I believe, dear friend. We will go sit in our appointed chair over there.”

Sterling hopped down off the medic’s table as I slowly sat up. The room started spinning.

I had to grab onto something so I didn’t fall off the table.

The chirurgeon gave me more than a little of the side eye.

I gave her a smile in return as I eased off the table and wobbled away from her section of the room.

She kept her eyes on me, like an overzealous hall monitor.

I clumsily made my way over to the large chair that Sterling was sitting in and hopped up next to him, trying to hide that I required his assistance to get in and situated so that I could pretend to watch the next bout.

It appeared that Fighter X was making his attempt at becoming a champion, something that the crowd was going nuts for, screaming so loud at his entrance that they managed to drown out the announcer.

I leaned over to Sterling.

“Did we win?” I whispered.

“Oh, did we,” Sterling replied. “My good lad, we apparently pulled off a rather stunning upset, if what I heard could be believed. Then again, it is not like anyone has been forthcoming with the truth of even one matter in regard to you and me.”

“I don’t know. I’m having a bit of trouble thinking, um, straight. Or at all, really.”

A brief glance at my structural integrity told me it was on the lower side of things. My mana was higher than it had been at the end of the fight, but with it still dropping steadily in an unpleasant manner, I was clearly not at all close to well.

“I can see that,” Sterling said, glancing at me. There was legitimate concern in his eyes, but that quickly disappeared, replaced by a toothy grin. “The announcers spoke as if we had pulled off the impossible, that we were heroes in the making, and other such trite drivel, which the audience seemed to eat up. I would like to believe we will come out of this particular fight better than before. Minus, of course, your injuries. Though I imagine you will heal in time.”

“What happened there?”

“Where?”

“In the fight?”

“Do you remember none of it?”

“I remember some of it, just⁠—”

“Well, if I start at the beginning, we had just come on to the sand⁠—”

“Got that part.”

“Where does it get hazy?”

“Mostly after the one with the sickles sliced into me.”

“Ah, well, after I had said my goodbyes to the world, preparing to watch you fight and die in front of me, you proceeded to fight with incredible aplomb. Better than I had seen of you, and I imagine we should have a talk about what your real skills are if we are to remain partners in this, as the next thing I know, you had taken all but one down. Left me with very little to do, which I do appreciate, as these are not the sorts of events I enjoy.”

“I saw you take down at least one before the one where you stabbed him through his head into my face.”

“Yes, he foolishly turned his back to me, and I stabbed him with the spear thing.”

“Billhook.”

“Come again?”

“The spear thing is called a billhook.”

“Oh. I do not think it is called that here, but what do I know of weapons? Anyway, I did stab one and saw that you had eliminated two with, what, magic? And one was, um⁠—”

“Cutting into me?”

“Yes, something along those lines. I tried to come up with a better idea, even though I stress that I do not think you would have died, but I also was not sure what else to do. Not a warrior here. I was surprised I could wield the spear thing even in the most basic way. But then I stabbed the one who was cutting you, and the spear point went through him, and I thought I needed to get it through his whole head. I imagined that his beak was of such reasonable length that the spear would not actually reach you. And yet, I was incorrect.”

“It’s fine, I think. You did what you had to do to⁠—”

“I think you could have come through there. At least, that’s what I believe.”

“No, if it hadn’t been for your timely assistance, both in stabbing me in the face and stabbing the other guy, I was on my way out. And also that other thing.”

“Yes, well. After stabbing you in the face, it was the least I could do to provide a means for you to heal your face-stabbing. At least mostly.”

“I was surprised you had one of them on you.”

“I keep a variety of things upon my person just in case. I thought it best you were given the chance to refill your tanks lest you, um, leak a little too much.”

“I’m still leaking a little.”

“Yes, well, the chirurgeon had some ideas about things and wouldn’t let me do the sewing. Which led to your stitches being those more akin to allowing flesh to heal as opposed to whatever it is you have.”

“Fabric.”

“Is it, though? Fabric is⁠—”

“It seems right to me. Fabric and mana—that’s all I am.”

“I daresay that if it were anything other than pure mana leaking onto me. I might have trouble sitting right next to you right now. But as it is, it feels nice. Refreshing even.”

“I didn’t realize it affected you.”

“Yes, lets me absorb a little bit of it because, I think, it’s so pure.”

“Great. I’m glad I could help you.”

“And I do so appreciate you for it.”

“Sure.”

I paused to watch the fighters circle each other.

“It didn’t matter that I was close to death when we won?” I asked.

“Not that it seemed to me, no. I think it mattered that I was alive and you were not dead, whereas our opponents were at the very least incapacitated. Although, now that I think about it, one was starting to rise, and I did have to stab him a few times until he died quite painfully prior to the match being called. So, to answer your question, it did not matter that you were no longer upright or awake, because it would appear we were victors against the Gloamhaunts. I imagine you have a notification or two from our fight, being that I was informed that we shared XP from one of the kills.”

“I’m sure I do.”

“Anyway, another bit of news: I tried to bet all our winnings on this next match, being that I think it quite a lock that Fighter X will become the champion. But we weren’t allowed for some reason.”

“Weird,” I said.

“I presume it has to do with us being, well, not really in the system and just here for death. Or something along those lines.”

The announcer began announcing again, and Sterling focused on the fight happening in front of us. I chose to look at my notifications instead.

There didn’t seem to be much point in watching the fight, partially because I just didn’t give a shit about it. It had no bearing on my life one way or the other, and I didn’t have enough mental bandwidth to handle pretending to watch the fight as well as reading notifications. So I closed my eyes to focus.

I have quite a few notifications. There were the obvious death notices, and I had managed to kill a few gloamhaunts. Iron Hands, which was the first one I killed, a few Hunters, and a Reaper. And I shared XP for the killing of a gaunt. A Gloamhaunt Gaunt.

I assumed Sterling killed the other two on his own, which brought the total up to seven.

I didn’t like that we had to kill them all, but I guess that was just the world I was in.

And then there was this.

Look at that! You have completed part of a hidden quest line, enough that you may know the quest you are attempting:

Quest: Win the Fight, pt 2 of 3

Description: You have survived the second fight in the arena. Survive the third, and you will receive your reward!

Reward: Unknown

Penalty for Failure/Refusal: Death

A set of three?

Hidden quest two of three.

Apparently the grand system wanted me to do at least three of these fights, or there were three I had to do.

I didn’t like it.

What was it actually trying to tell me, and why was it telling me that? Was there some benefit I gained by doing three of these fights?

Instead, I clicked to the next notification, and there it was.

Whizz-bang!

Congratulations are in order! You’ve leveled up! Level 6! Just like 5, but one more! Amazing power, grace, maybe even beauty. Who knows what powers you’ll unlock now?! Perhaps it’s one of these:

Urtication Furmination. Urticate your fuzz at opponents. You may shoot some of your fuzz at an opponent, or at anything, really. Fuzz shot gains barbs and may impale weaker individuals. Upgraded, you may find this a lethal ranged weapon.

Furage. At the cost of mana, you may alter your coloring to match what is behind you.

Flash of Fur. You may remove a handful of your fur and animate it for a number of seconds equal to your level, multiplied by the level of this spell. In addition, you can infuse the fur with some of your own mana to allow the fur to operate longer. Whilst animated, the fur will obey your mental commands within a range of your level’s worth of body lengths for your body.

Or, perhaps, you’ll choose to upgrade an ability you already possess!

The choice is yours!

Make your choice. Now.

Some interesting options there, including one from the last level up, which I found interesting. It was nice to think that there might be the chance to pick abilities I hadn’t been able to grab earlier. That said, I decided I didn’t want to do it right now. I couldn’t really get my head straight to figure out what option would help me most in⁠—

“But I said make your choice.”

Oh great, you.

“Is there an issue?”

Yeah, I’m not exactly in a good headspace to do this right now.

“Do it or I will take it away.”

I gritted my teeth⁠—

“You don’t have teeth.”

Stop reading my mind!

“Believe me, I wish I could.”

Oh shut up. If you want me to pick something, give me a hint as to which is the most useful.

“I can’t do that.”

Can’t or won’t?

“Functionally the same.”

Not exactly.

I waited a second, but there wasn’t a response.

“I grow tired of pointless banter. Make a choice before I take it away from you.”

Urtication Furmination was one of the worst names but did provide something I lacked, which was more ranged abilities. If I had to do a lot of fighting, it’d probably be great. Furage would be great if I wanted to do more sneaking around. I still didn’t really see the use case for Flash of Fur, but its second appearance as an option gave me pause. Then again, I could upgrade an ability… and there were two I saw as very useful to upgrade.

I could⁠—

“Incredible!” Sterling said, grabbing me in excitement.

“What?” I asked, trying to maintain my train of thought.

“That sequence of thrusts and parries, it was sublime! I mean, if you were to view this fighting as art, I mean.”

“Great, right, yeah. Sublime.”

As he went back to watching, I went back to thinking.

Upgrading mana beam would be an excellent idea. That might be an even better option for a ranged attack, because it would be a Level 2 ability, and it already did a fair amount of damage… but it was a bit like trading my life force for another’s because I was wholly dependent on mana to live. So to use it as ammunition was questionable.

Or, maybe the better option, I could upgrade Moderate Malleable Form.

“Wait, no⁠—"

There weren’t any stipulations on it. It says any ability.

“I meant Level 1 abilities, not Level 2 to 3.”

Didn’t say that.

“I thought it was implied.”

It was not.

Maybe I should do the upgrade just to spite the system… It probably wasn’t particularly wise, though, taking advantage of a semantic error. Even if it might benefit me greatly.

“You are correct in my error, and being that you are not forcing the issue, if you would like, this one time, I will grant you either two of these new abilities or one of the new abilities at Level 2 ability instead of allowing the boost to three. Because that makes problems for me.”

* * *It makes problems for you if I have a Level 3 ability?

“Yes. And as I know you like to push the issues, that is all I will say on the subject, so make a choice.”

Got it. I need more to do at range, especially if I was going to continue facing such a large opponent. So even though the name was horrible, I had to take it. Unless⁠—

I’ll take Urtication Furmination. Any chance you can change the name?

“No.”

You have chosen the ability: Urtication Furmination

You have chosen to upgrade the ability: Urtication Furmination

Your skill is now: Greater Urtication Furmination

Urticate your fuzz at opponents. You may shoot some of your fuzz at an opponent, or at anything really. Fuzz shot gains barbs and may impale weaker individuals. At the Greater level, you may aim your fuzz better and tighter. You may bundle fuzz together to make larger projectiles. And your fuzz grows back quicker, with less mana cost.

Thank you.

There was no response from the disembodied voice I knew as the system. But the crowd roared, and I saw Fighter X standing with his opponent’s head held up high in the air, blood dripping down onto the sand below.

“BEHOLD YOUR CHAMPION!” the announcer bellowed, his voice so loud it seemed to make the walls reverberate.

It seemed odd that Fighter X had killed his opponent in such a brutal way, but maybe the fight got out of hand. I didn’t know—I wasn’t watching.

“Go time,” an ogre barked behind us. He picked up the chair and dumped us on the ground.

Chapter

Fifty-Three

When we got back to the cell, I was surprised to see that Little Joe had been returned. Sort of. Instead of being inside the cell, he was attached to the wall with a set of iron manacles, tiny shackles that looked almost comical, except that they actually seemed to hold Little Joe. He sagged against them, as if he were having trouble standing upright.

I went over to the bars and stood in front of Little Joe, hoping the little mouse-fellow would open his eyes, maybe give me a chance to say something. To apologize or⁠—

A hand clapped down on my shoulder. The Hogan stood next to me.

“The warden is looking for any excuse to continue his ‘investigation,’” he whispered, “and if we give him reason to think there are others involved in whatever might have happened, he will not stop until he thinks all have been caught. Which means we all die at his corpulent hands.”

“But why did Little Joe—” I started, but I stopped talking when I felt the claws of the squirrel in my shoulder.

“He chose to give himself up for others, a choice he made with his eyes open. Doing this for us will ensure his family outside no longer suffers.”

“He did it for you?”

“He was offered an opportunity, one that would see a benefit exist beyond himself. So he took it.”

Inside, I burned. I wanted to do something. I felt like I had to do something because, one, it was so fundamentally against my values to watch someone be tortured in this way, and two, it was because of me that someone had to be punished.

But a little voice inside reminded me that Little Joe had been put inside this dungeon, and there might be a reason for that. Maybe he was a vile poisoner or… something. I mean, there was always the chance that Little Joe had actually done something bad and he was going to be punished judiciously at some point. Maybe this was just a little sooner.

It didn’t seem like it, though.

It seemed like this was just cruelty. And misdirected cruelty at that.

“I hear your victory was one to behold,” the Hogan said. “Unleashed some magic?”

“Something like that.”

“Gloamhaunts are rather notorious killers. I’m glad you overcame them.”

“You know about them?”

“Of course. Allies of the Emberclaw. They are often the ones who do the dirtiest of work for them. And the ones who most enjoy tearing the flesh off the still living—a particular delicacy for the Gloamhaunt. At least as far as I’ve been told. Could be total rumor, but I’ve found there is often a kernel of truth around which the stories grow, eh?”

“Sure,” I replied, but I wasn’t even really paying attention. I was staring at Joe, looking at the manacles and wondering if there was a way to break Little Joe from his bondage. But then what? Doom everyone else to death? Because if we broke Joe out, we’d need to escape, and even if we managed that, everyone left in our cell would be killed. And how would we even get Sterling out? How would we get to the other side of the damn dungeon? What⁠—

The tromp of boots broke me from my reverie. Dorian was walking along and extinguishing the lights.

“Obviously,” the Hogan said, “I have no true control over you, but I remind you that there is nothing you can do. Joe made his choice, and you should respect that. He did so to save you. To save us. And⁠—”

“I get it,” I snapped.

“Of course you do.”

He gave my shoulder another squeeze and then disappeared.

As lights went out, there was the usual mass migration away from the bars, accompanied by something of a quiet outcry as damn near everyone scurried to get away from the bars as quickly as possible. I stayed where I was.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and glanced over to see Sterling.

“It would be wise to retreat to a safer spot,” he said.

“I don’t want to,” I replied, refusing to see how childish I was being.

“And yet…” He left the sentence purposefully unfinished. He knew me well enough to know I’d see reason sooner if left to my own thoughts.

“And yet I’m coming with you, because there’s the chance one of the cleaners could grab me, and then I’d be putting everyone else in danger. So we’re just going to let poor Little Joe die in front of everyone, in one of the more horrific ways possible. Did I get that right?”

“Probably? I would like to think that, perhaps, death by these ‘cleaners’ is not as awful as we imagine it. I doubt anything can be quite as bad as what we can dream up in absence of evidence.”

“Really?”

“Do you think that the warden is so far gone that he would have creatures so base and vile as these cleaners act as the janitorial staff and the punishment staff within a place he must visit and walk around in each and every day?”

“Yes.”

“I think we tend to overstate our willingness to be around such violence when we might fall prey to it. It would be like keeping a magically sharpened sword on your desk to open correspondence when it is far more likely you will open yourself.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said. He put his arm around me to guide me over to a spot along the wall. He seemed to know I wouldn’t go into the Hogan’s back room. I needed to see this through.

“How often have I been wrong?” he asked, smiling.

Chapter

Fifty-Four

He was wrong.

It’s hard to say how wrong, only because it’s difficult to quantify the horror Little Joe faced as he was destroyed by the cleaners, who seemed to delight in the little snack left out for them. But I feel it’s safe to say that it was exceptionally high on the suck factor scale. Perhaps the highest of all.

As happened during every darkness, there was screaming and madness to let us know the cleaners were there, spreading their wave of fear throughout the prison.

For once, I saw open eyes when I looked around the cell. All of us were awake and aware. Most stared at the walls, but a few brave souls were willing to turn away from the stone to focus on Little Joe.

He had his eyes closed. Appearing to be asleep, even though his body betrayed him, as with every scream that echoed through the halls, the little mouse jumped. Involuntary spasms of fear at the oncoming death-bringing monsters.

Very noticeably absent? All the squirrels. Even the huge ones who normally acted as door guards were safely ensconced within the wall.

Sterling kept a hand on my shoulder. It seemed even money was there for both comfort and restraint. Nōnnah and Spider Murphy had angled themselves so that I’d have to pass by or over them before I could get to the bars and, by extension, Little Joe.

I wasn’t going to go—I wouldn’t do that. I’d made up my mind, and anyway, I knew there was no way for me to help the little guy.

I just didn’t want it to be awful, even though I knew it would be…

As the screams got louder. The cleaners got closer.

The first tinglings of fear reached me, and I wanted to run away.

I had to stomp those feelings down. I closed my eyes without really thinking about things, forced to turn my thoughts inward to overcome the psychic pressure from the cleaners until I could get myself under my own control again. Around me, though, I heard the noises as the others suffered through the mental effects of the cleaners. The screaming, the wailing, the sobs.

But being that I seemed to be both more sensitive to the cleaners while also quite possibly the only one able to actively overcome them, I’m pretty sure I was the only one who managed to witness Little Joe’s ignominious end.

The cleaners, as soon as they came around the corner of our little hallway area, sensed Little Joe. I have no idea which sense they used, but it seemed to be sight. Because as soon as they could have seen him, they were off, racing toward the poor mousemanthing, the group in such a rush that they tripped over each other. It quickly escalated into pulling and fighting amongst each other with their tentacles and gnashing teeth.

Finally, they got to Little Joe, and they tore him apart.

Little Joe screamed, but only for a short time.

He was so small, and the cleaners were so large.

The fight between the cleaner creatures lasted a little longer, especially as more of the creatures arrived from both sides of the prison, apparently aware there was fresh food but arriving too late and then being angry there weren’t any snacks left.

It was interesting to see that these creatures had basically no loyalty to each other. One had its tentacle arm torn off, and blood came out remarkably fast. Which seemed to be something of a notification that this was now a meal up for grabs because a second feeding frenzy happened over that poor creature. It was odd that I felt pity for the cleaner that got eaten when even a second before I’d considered all of them foul monsters.

After the frenzies, the creatures moved a little slower, as if they were either cleaning carefully, or maybe hoping that another thing would die and add to their meal. But then they drifted toward the bars, reaching inside, grabbing at anything they could, feasting and cleaning and being horrible, disgusting, fear-spreading terror mops.

It was almost anticlimactic when they left, going on about their nightly routine. The screaming stopped in our little section of the prison and started up somewhere else. And we were left in stillness, with no sign of Little Joe left.

Chapter

Fifty-Five

Astrange vibe hung over the cell afterward, a bizarre mix of catharsis and desperation. That is, until everyone fell into a deep sleep, which seemed to happen unnaturally fast.

Everyone, except for me.

I was the lone conscious mind, and I wanted to use the opportunity to get a closer look. I needed to see what the hell had happened. So I got to my feet, carefully crept away from my sleeping friends, and walked over to the bars.

The manacles hung loose, swaying slowly, as if the wind blew them.

But there was no other evidence a creature had once been there. Not a single hair, not a speck of blood, or the slightest hint of anything organic. All that had made up Little Joe had been cleansed from the world, as if he had never been there in the first place.

With a bit of alteration, I slipped through the bars. I was surprised how little mana it took to achieve the change and how quickly I could do it. Nearly instantly.

I knelt at the manacles, looking closer.

Nothing.

Almost like it had been sanitized. Which, I supposed, might actually have been the case. That would make sense for something called a cleaner.

I took a step to go back before realizing that since I was already out, and no one was awake, I might as well take a walk around the prison. The cleaners were probably either done with their work or nearly so, which meant this was an opportune time for exploration.

Loud snores came from the halflings in their cell, and softer snores and sleeping sounds came from the miniature prisoners in the cell I’d most recently been constrained within.

I didn’t quite scurry along, but I moved quickly and quietly, keeping to the walls where I could, pausing at each corner for a peek around.

No one was awake.

No guards were on duty. No prisoners did anything but sleep. Which was almost as unusual as having no guards on duty. Though, to be fair, where could the prisoners escape to?

I kept thinking I might hit an empty cell, but every cell had at least one occupant, and more than a few had multiple.

And everyone was zonked out.

Maybe that was some magical byproduct of the cleaners—surviving abject terror induced a euphoric sleep state. I felt a little jealous. Who wouldn’t like a euphoric sleep state? I did need to sleep at some point in the near future, so maybe it’d work on me eventually.

Following the mental map of the place I had in my head, I tried to go to the arena. Once there, I headed down to the offices, not really happy to be going through the wide-open area near the arena but seeing it as something of a necessary evil.

It was weird that they had built an arena underground—two levels underground, actually. There was a lot of evidence pointing to the arena being a more recent renovation to the place than the dungeon. Which meant it had all been a creature archive at one point, then transformed partially into a dungeon, and then some of the dungeon was taken out to make room for the arena. Which, I supposed, lent a little credence as to why there was overcrowding in the cells; they’d formerly had more. But how long had the arena been going?

If they were still having overcrowding issues, could it be that long? And yet, at the same time, I got the sense that the arena had a long and glorious past, a tradition.

But how?

Not an important question for the moment, I told myself, hurrying along until I got to a set of double doors that, if memory served, led to a large room, on the other side of which would be the warden’s office.

I kinda flattened myself and then crawled under, getting into the processing area. The warden’s office was right there, and the door was open.

Most of the furniture had been moved out of the room, and the office itself sat empty. I wondered if this was something to do with the mimics. Or maybe the ink stain on the carpet. Hard to say.

Again, no guards. No one. I could hear snores coming from a set of doors to one side, and a quick slip under that door told me that it was the phark barracks. Pharraks? It was a very long room with bunk beds jammed in, three beds high. From what I could tell, each phark got a bed and a locker. There were a lot of pharks in there—a full kaleidoscope of colors.

I knew that there was nothing good for me in that room, so I left immediately.

Then it was a quick scoot across the main dungeon reception room to my goal: the stairs leading to the next floor. They were behind a set of doors in another room, the room that led to the office holding the ogres and the keeper, the archives, and the dungeon. The main branch point of this floor.

The doors to the stairs were open.

I could just walk up and get to the next level. In fact, I did. I walked up to the steps and stood there, looking up into the vague darkness above, where a heavy iron-bound door sat closed.

Just a few more steps, and I could have been done with the dungeon. Sure, it was entirely possible that I’d get caught and thrown right back down into the dungeon, at which point the warden would probably just cut me into ribbons instead of letting the Keeper do whatever he had planned for me.

But that wasn’t what was holding me back. It was that I’d be leaving Sterling behind, and I couldn’t do that.

Right?

It was a strange moment for me, because I’d never been much of a team player before, at least not when it came to my own survival. I’d always focused on myself, quick to put my well-being above damn near anyone else’s. That’s probably why I’d never wanted to serve on the presidential protection detail—I was happier as a forensic accountant, even though I knew it struck people as an odd thing for a Secret Service agent to want to be.

But now, Sterling had helped me as much as I’d helped him, and it didn’t feel right to leave him behind.

I lingered a moment longer before turning back into the dungeon, looking up at the exit. It was there if I needed it.

I did a quick lap through the rest of the dungeon, just checking things out, and came to an unpleasant reality: there was no easy way for Sterling and me to get to the secret Ratopolis door. It was back in the archives. And to get there, we’d have to go through the dungeon, through the ogres, and through the bulk of the archives. Not exactly easy peasy.

When I got back to my area, I slinked into the cell and sat down next to Sterling as if I’d never left. I stared out at nothingness long enough that I fell into a fugue state close enough to sleep that I finally drifted off.

Chapter

Fifty-Six

As light came, I woke to the sublime staccato of coughs and snot-rockets as the dungeon population worked hard to expel what had to be literal liters of phlegm out of themselves.

I wasn’t happy.

I don’t think anyone in the cell was. Nor, frankly, were the halflings across the way. I think anyone in the general vicinity of last night’s cleaning felt a strong measure of shit now. No one ran to the chamberpots, and no one tried to start conversations. Instead, silence drowned us all.

It was difficult to know what to say in the face of our friend’s death. It might have been easier if the death had been something more in line with normal, or at least something not quite so grotesque and awful. Just the cleaners going by and cleaning things was bad enough, but the addition of a live creature being torn apart alive was just… beyond.

I started to feel like I was the source of the failure. That I should have been able to protect a friend of mine. But at the same time, he had protected me. Which felt wrong.

Sterling ate a piece of something vaguely meat-like and dried—most certainly not anything he would have received from the dungeon staff—and gave me a wan smile.

“There was nothing you could have done,” he told me.

He came closer and looked me over.

“It would seem, however, that your wounds from the fight last night have healed.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess.”

“Have they not?”

“No, they have, just…”

“You don’t care. You wish you could have done something for Little Joe.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And might I ask why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you seek to do something for him?”

“Because he didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? That was a horror show.”

“Was it better that he waste away in here? He was sick and in pain.”

“No, but⁠—”

“His death served something.”

“Saving me?”

“Perhaps. Whatever he has done, he chose to do it. And therein lies all I need to know to salute him. To absolve myself from feeling guilt over the matter.”

“Because you had nothing to do with⁠—”

“Did I not reap rewards from it?”

“I guess, but⁠—”

“Then I would argue I am nearly as much to blame. I cannot enjoy the fruits of such actions and then decry my freedom from any involvement, can I?”

“I mean, I’ve known quite a few people to do that.”

“Well, I would posit that those are shit individuals, and you are better off no longer knowing them.”

I sighed. “I guess.”

“Excellent,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Now, what shall we get to doing today?”

“Take over the world? Same thing we do every day?”

“I don’t quite remember doing that yesterday, but it does seem quite like something I would enjoy. Do we have the means of doing it?”

“I doubt it.”

“Then, perhaps something simpler. Like, leaving the prison?”

“Is it my turn to ask if we have the means of doing that?”

“Sure.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I’m not sure we can leave yet,” I said. “Even if we could leave, like, if we had the means, I’m not so sure⁠—”

“I am rather confused as to why you might say that.”

“Because of the quest.”

“What quest is that?”

“The hidden one?”

“A hidden quest.”

“Yes… Do you not have the hidden quest?”

“I mean, I might, being that it is… hidden.”

“It was hidden, but now it’s not.”

“A formerly hidden quest. And to what does it pertain?”

“The arena.”

“I have no quests pertaining to the arena.”

“Oh. Is it weird that I have a quest that you don’t have?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Even though we’re kind of a team here?”

“I have no idea who gets quests when, or why. And I have no desire to get deeper into the mystical reasons in the here and now, when there are clearly more pressing issues. So, that out of the way, what is it about this hidden and yet also revealed quest of yours that gives rise to the idea that we should not be leaving this dungeon with all haste?”

“It was a multi-part quest. Or, I mean, it is. We just completed the second piece⁠—”

“You did.”

“I mean, we did, but I guess I got the credit for it, or I’m the only one on the quest, and so… whatever. But after we won the second fight, it said that two of three parts had been completed.”

“So you think we need to get another fight and win it.”

“That makes the most sense to me.”

“But you don’t know why? Does it say that there’s something that will help us get out of here?”

“No, but it does intimate that there’s a bonus for completing the chain.”

“And you want the bonus.”

“I wouldn’t mind—seems like there could be a benefit to us there.”

“But you have no actual clarity on the matter.”

“No.”

“Then… oh.”

“Oh what?”

He used his nose to gesture behind me, and I snuck a quick glance.

The group of rats were surreptitiously strolling in our general direction.

“I believe they might have a plan,” Sterling said.

“I thought they actually had a plan.”

“They were working on something, and they assumed we were working on something as well. However, I do not think we have had much luck coming up with anything, have we?”

“Well, we’ve been forced to defend ourselves from death on multiple occasions. You know, fight for our lives? More than a little bit of a time sink.”

“Yes, perhaps. Whether or not they feel that justifies our inaction is another thing.”

The rats arrived en masse.

They looked at me, they looked at Sterling, and then they looked back at me, pointedly.

“Oh, right,” I said, trying to make it clear that I thought they were being somewhat stupid by forcing me to leave them alone to have a little chat by their ratsome. “I’ll just find something to do over there.”

I walked away, and they watched me go to a random part of the cell that seemed suitably distant so that the damn rats think that I couldn’t overhear them. Which, to be fair, I couldn’t. I had misjudged, so when they actually began to talk with Sterling, I was out of the loop.

So I stood around and kicked metaphorical rocks. Because there are no actual rocks to kick, because we were indoors.

While I was standing there, forced to mind my own business since I couldn’t eavesdrop effectively, the weasel, Zikzak, came up to me.

He stood there for a second, as if he’d come to engage in metaphorical rock kicking as well.

“Heard you went up against the gloamhaunts,” he said.

I looked over at him. It was a strange opening line.

“Yeah, we did.”

“And you won.”

“Seems like it.”

“Interesting.”

“Why? Were they friends of yours?”

“No.”

“Then I have no bad news for you. But yeah, we did fight some gloamhaunts. First time I’ve ever, um, seen them. Do you know about them?”

“I do.”

“Care to share what you know?”

“Gloamhaunts are vile beings. I am most pleased there are fewer of them now.”

“I’m glad I could help?”

He gave me what I took was a smile, and so I gave him a nod, and then we both simmered in that awkwardness for long enough that it reached an all-new level of discomfort.

“Did he tell you they are of the Emberclaw?” Zikzak asked rather quietly, looking at the ground.

I knew that he meant the Hogan. “He may have mentioned that, yeah.”

“He lies.”

“Who lies? The Hogan?”

“Yes. They are not of the Emberclaw—the gloamhaunts.”

“Okay. But they were trying to kill me, so it doesn’t really mean much to me either way.”

“Do you know of the Emberclaw?”

“Only a little. They seem to like to eat squirrels.”

A very slight chuckle escaped him.

“Not untrue.”

“Wait,” I said. “Are you Emberclaw?”

“No,” Zikzak said with a wry smile. “The Emberclaw are quite… selective.”

“I thought it was a class of creature.”

“It is. A group from within my kind, those like me. But I am not one of them.”

“Did you want to be one of them?”

“I thought about it. There is a usefulness to being part of such a group, but it is not for me.”

“Why?”

“I was a… creature who thought more of exploration than… conquering. I wanted to see everything in this world, while the Emberclaw wanted to control everything they saw.”

“So you’re a lover, not a fighter.”

“Not quite—I am not really into, um, relationships. But that is not really something we need to speak about at the moment, because it doesn’t matter, does it? Because my desire for, um, intimacy has nothing really do with… I am not Emberclaw.”

“Got it. And the gloamhaunts⁠—”

“Do the Nutlord’s dirty work—the things that are too foul to task his own with.”

“So the gloamhaunts work for the Nutlord?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re trying to tell me that the Nutlord is behind our little fight.”

“That is not quite what I said.”

“Okay, but⁠—”

“Merely that the gloamhaunts are not of the Emberclaw, nor do they hold any affection for my kind. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“They’re squirrel lovers.”

“I would hesitate to position them thusly, but⁠—”

“But it’s also accurate?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, that sucks.”

“I imagine it is less than pleasant to discover a perceived friend is, in fact, against you.”

“Motherless Brooklyn. I mean, I knew the Hogan was lying to me and manipulating things, but… I didn’t think like this. Like, why?”

“I would presume you do something, or represent something, that he doesn’t like.”

“Are we talking about the Hogan or the Nutlord here?”

“I would imagine the Nutlord has no knowledge of you. It is all the Hogan.”

“And here I thought I was helping him.”

He shrugged.

“No ideas?” I asked.

He shook his head, but then added, “I know little of him. I have done what I can to remain… absent from his thoughts.”

“Ah. Because he might think you’re Emberclaw.”

“He knows I am not, but he has no affection for my kind regardless of my affiliations. If I were to hazard a guess, I would imagine that something you have done or might do runs contrary to his wishes.”

“The Hogan’s?”

“Yes. Or the Hogan’s perceptions of what it is the Nutlord desires in the dungeon.”

“Which is what?”

“How would I know something of that?”

“I don’t know, I’m in the damn dark here! I thought maybe you could shine a light, since you seemed to want to do that for me. Why do you care about gloamhaunts? Or the Emberclaw?”

“You did me a kindness,” he said. “Your willingness to speak with me, to allow me to sit with you, despite my prior alignment with Jerry, allowed me to continue my life here, such as it may be. And I felt it important you knew what truth I could offer. I would tell you to look at what you are attempting to do and what it is you have done and think if there is something about it that could mess up the status quo…”

“The status quo? I just thought that his desires ran contrary to the dungeon’s.”

“Oh no, they align. Everything the Nutlord does here, he does because the dungeon operates smoothly. And you, my strange—I will not call you friend, for I don’t think either of us believes we are that to each other—your actions here have been unusual. You’ve changed things here in a manner that none of those in power are prepared for. And they do not take kindly to change. The dungeon runs on stasis.”

“Well, shit,” I said. “I mean, thanks for the heads up, I guess.”

“It is virtually nothing. I feel as if I still owe you.”

“You don’t, Zikzak. I absolve you of that.”

“I appreciate that, Delano, but it is not something you can do for me. Your friend approaches, I will see myself away.”

Before I could say anything, he hurried back to the wall, tucking himself down between Spider Murphy and Nōnnah, just as Sterling stepped up to me.

“Did I interrupt something?” Sterling asked.

“No,” I said. “Not really. He was just telling me a little more about our friends.”

“Which friends are those?”

“It’s more that we don’t have any friends.”

Chapter

Fifty-Seven

Like any other day, the ogres came to escort us to our special arena breakfast. It was a rough vibe shift because the fighters were absolutely ebullient, being that a champion had been crowned and Fighter X had won his freedom. And he wasn’t there. It had actually happened, so hope was in the air. 

And then there were the two of us, sitting quietly at our table, awaiting our plates.

Sam the white phark strolled up and served us, and then sat down at our table.

“Look at you two,” Sam said. “You seem awfully mopey after pulling off another victory.”

“Oh right,” I said. “It was great and I feel awesome that we won.”

“Better than the alternative.”

Sterling took his fork and poked at his food. It smelled good—bacon and eggs and pancakes. Jam spread on toast. All sorts of stuff I’d have loved to start out my day.

“We had a rough night,” Sterling said, “but you seem particularly ebullient this morning.”

“You made me a heap of coin in your last fight,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I gotta say I’m feeling damn good about basically everything now. Thinking it might be worth moving up to get a place with a window.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“How much did you win?” I asked.

“How much did you bet?” Sterling asked at the same time.

The phark just smiled broadly.

“Bah, who wants to talk about numbers?” he said. “But I do feel like, perhaps, I might owe you a little something.”

I glanced around. “Is that something we should talk about here?” I asked.

Sam shrugged.

“Maybe. The whole champion thing means a lot of talk, which means a lot to pay attention to. So we might have a moment and a half to get to brass tacks. So, now that I might not have to spend my entire life in the gloom down here, why don’t you let me see about doing you a favor? Within reason, obviously.”

“You can help our friend out,” I said.

Sterling glanced over at me.

“He’s the little phark, Oscar.”

“I remember,” the white phark said. “What do you want me to do for him?”

“Help him.”

“How?”

“I mean”—I paused, looking at Sterling to see if he would jump in—“teach him how to be a phark. He clearly has no idea.”

The fluffy white phark leaned back and crossed his heavily muscled, heavily furred arms over his chest. 

“Nothing for you?” he asked. “Just for your friend?”

“Not sure there is anything you could do for us,” Sterling said. “We are a bit, um⁠—”

“Fucked?” I offered.

“Something along those lines, yes.”

Sam leaned forward and snatched a bit of bacon from my plate, and while he did it, he whispered, “More than you realize.”

“Oh lovely,” I replied. “Any chance you want to clarify a bit? About the bacon you just took, I mean.”

“Wish I could,” he said, biting off some bacon. “But there was a lot of chatter about you two last night. Not quite as much this morning, though. You two have made trouble for Them. They were not planning on you surviving that fight. So I would imagine your next fight will be exquisitely awful.”

“Or they’ll just outright kill us.”

“They could do that as well! Though I would imagine you’ve got a little time before another tussle, being that they’ll need to figure out an entertaining means of death for the two of you. Made a few fans last night, I believe.”

“Enough to save us?”

He looked at me like I was nuts.

“How might having fans do that? Unless, of course, you got someone from the council on your side. That type of fan could reach down and pluck you off the mouth of death. If, that is, one of them actually came down here on their own and watched you fight. But that’s rather unlikely. They love to stay in their plush little heaven upstairs, no matter what befouls the land they claim to rule.”

“I sense a bit of hostility there.”

Sam smiled, showing off some big teeth. “Enough said on that matter,” he said. “Now, tell me about your friend, and I will think on what I can do for him.”

I gestured at Sterling, meaning for him to speak. He knew Oscar better, and while Sterling spoke on the nature of Oscar the phark, I found my mind wandering.

We’d done the impossible twice—how could we do it a third time?

“Hey,” I said, interrupting the conversation, “do you think you can tell our buddy about our predicament?”

The white phark raised his eyebrows at me.

“You think he doesn’t know?” he asked.

“Perhaps not sure of the full extent.”

“I suppose I could. Or at least I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you,” I said.

He gave me a nod, then glanced at Sterling. 

“Any other salient points about the young’n I need to know?” the white phark asked. “Or should I continue with my day?”

“I daresay I have said nearly all I can about Oscar,” Sterling said. “So do not let us interrupt your work-a-day life.”

Sam stood up, took our plates, and strode away.

“That seemed a bit brusque,” Sterling said.

“Brusque?”

“It means abrupt.”

“I know, just…”

Chapter

Fifty-Eight

Our moods hadn’t lifted when we stepped onto the sand for practice, our time in the sun. Or, rather, our time under the fake sun where we could try our being killed in new and delightful ways. But I had a better sense of what Sam had been talking about. No way anyone was paying attention to us because all the other fighters were putting on a show, trying to be noticed by Malera. Who was, it should be noted, carefully watching from her office balcony.

Sterling and I went over to a wall. I leaned against the stone, looking up at the stands above.

“You think it’s safe to talk?” I asked.

“Not overtly,” Sterling replied. “At least not about the topics I assume you want to speaking on.”

“Something that a certain similar set of organisms is thinking on?”

“That is, in fact, what I am referring to.”

“How do you rate the feasibility of their, um, future plans?”

“They seem confident.”

“I’m sure they do. But I don’t really care about how they feel. I’m more⁠—”

“You want my opinion, I know. I would put forth that I find them somewhat overly optimistic, although I am fully fascinated to see if what they have planned actually succeeds. They have one rather imposing obstacle to overcome, and I think it might wind up being what keeps them close to us for the long term. At least until such time as we’re executed.”

“What’s that?”

“They have yet to figure out the means to… Apologies, the manner in which I can explain this without giving too much away is a challenge, but I suppose they are having trouble with timing.”

“Like with a certain group that maybe helps with the tidying up?”

“Very much like that. I feel you are not quite as affected as some of the other of us by their visits, true?”

“Yes and no. I still feel the initial effects, but the more, um, narcoleptic element doesn’t seem to hit me as hard as the others.”

“As in, it doesn’t hit you at all?”

“Not really, no.”

“So it might be that you are able to facilitate acting as a minor panacea to that problem?”

“Panacea? You’re pulling out a lot of big words today.”

“I recognize it’s not wholly correct, but there is a methodology to my verbiage, in that there are those who might be trying to follow our conversation and might face slightly more of a challenge with vocabulary.”

“I don’t think that’s going to work the way you think it does, but if that makes you happy… I think I could act as a stopgap with your compatriots, yes. At least, in theory.”

“Then I will float that solution to them the next time I have a chance to chat.”

“Great.”

“Now, what do you say we galavant about the sand and try to convince her royal gamesmakerness up above that we have what it takes to become the next champions of the arena!”

“Why are you so happy all of a sudden?”

“Hope, my dear red thing, hope.”

Chapter

Fifty-Nine

Sterling had had a very quick conversation with the rats as soon as we arrived back at the cell. I guess they’d been quite excited by the prospect of, well, I guess me waking them up after the cleaners came through. So the rats all gathered at the side of the cell and got in their huddle and did their secret rat things.

And that was really the height of excitement.

The day passed as they often did, where the bulk of what we did was stave off boredom. The mood in the cell wasn’t coming out of the doldrums, though, as if everyone was missing Little Joe, even though I recognized that he was usually asleep and barely interacted with anyone. Maybe he’d been more of a social butterfly when he’d first arrived. Before he got sick, or before the dungeon sickened him.

I watched the rats a bit, trying to figure out what they were doing, but then I realized it might draw more attention to them. I didn’t want that.

From what I could see, however, it didn’t look like anything that might lead to an escape attempt.

And yet, around the time the dinner cart’s squeaky wheels started making themselves heard, Sterling received the thumbs up. Tonight was the night.

It all seemed to be happening quickly. Maybe too quickly. And yet, that was often how things worked. A ton of waiting, and then whipsaw action until the smoke clears. And then you’re back to waiting.

Chapter

Sixty

Ididn’t go back into the squirrel’s zone. Frankly, they didn’t seem to care. I wasn’t asked, and they didn’t open the door for me to invite me in. I was ignored, and I was thankful.

I watched the cleaners rush along until they got to Little Joe’s manacles, which they took time to clean all over again. They paid a surprising amount of attention, really, as if they somehow thought there might be an extra prize there, something left behind. Or maybe that there might be something hidden that they’d missed the night before.

Sitting there, watching them, feeling what was coming off them, I hated them. But I had to stop and think about their sapience. How much did they think? How much could they feel? Did it matter? Could I still hate them without feeling bad in the slightest?

I mean, they were terrible. Killers without remorse, destroying damn near everything they touched.

But that was just their nature. Except, if they could think, shouldn’t they be held accountable for their actions?

I sighed. Not at all pertinent.

This was just the nature of the dungeon. The screams started, the cleaners came, and the prisoners fell asleep.

Except for me.

When the cleaners had moved on from our cell, I promise I didn’t kick Sterling awake. He just sort of… came to consciousness. Then we went over to where the rats were gathered, and Sterling told me to wait while he woke them.

I thought it was a little weird, but whatever. I was over the rats.

Sterling woke them all up.

They were groggy but managed to glare at me in no time. Then they all moved over to the far left side of the cell and put their paws on a rock that was part of the wall next to the bars.

I felt something from them—a pulsing energy or magical power. It seemed to be coming from them and directed into the stone. Something was also happening to the stone. As it absorbed the magical energy, there was a transformation occurring—something that felt… wrong?

Sterling stood next to me. I looked over at him.

“You know what’s going on here?” I asked.

“A mystery to me,” he replied. “They have been, um, mysterious.”

“I mean, that is what mystery means. More or less.”

“Yes, well, I am operating on somewhat less sleep than I would like, so I apologize for not being as eloquent as normal. Suffice to say, whatever they are doing, they have kept to themselves. But I would imagine we are watching them affect our exit from this cell.”

“Sure, but how are they going to do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Great, so we can just be surprised at what happens next.”

“That is my plan, yes.”

I didn’t like being left in the dark, and while I’d thought Sterling was the same, he seemed to have a complacency when it came to the rats.

And then it all changed.

The brick seemed to flicker a little. Or maybe it’d be better to say that the surface of the brick rippled, as if someone had managed to poke reality and start to play around with it. 

The rats jumped back from the brick, scurrying over to the bars of the cell, almost hiding themselves as they tucked in against the iron.

I frowned at Sterling.

He just shrugged.

Then the brick moved.

It slid out of the wall, moving on things that seemed very much like legs. The stone. Or brick. Whatever terminology you’d like to use didn’t really matter, because stones and bricks don’t have legs, or anything organic, really. But this thing did. It was gray in color, looking a lot like finely carved stone dunked in very clear mucus.

It didn’t use its legs well, as it stumbled out of the wall and into the cell, like it was just getting used to having to be mobile. But it was very quickly improving. Like a baby gazelle or something.

“What—” I started to ask Sterling if he could identify what the hell we were seeing, but he grabbed my shoulder hard enough that I felt his claws puncture my fur.

He hissed for me to shut up.

I shut up.

“Still,” he eked out, his voice not quite rising to a whisper. “Don’t… move…”

I did not.

We did not.

We remained in place, very quiet, very still, doing our utmost to remain unnoticed by this new creature.

Which was also now being still. And quiet. And doing its utmost to notice everything around it in this new world.

Someone snored.

It wasn’t an unusual noise and usually started to happen right around this time, as our cellmates transitioned from the deep magical sleep induced by the cleaners to the normal sleep of biological beings.

The block-monster seemed to snap onto the snore, but it was a little hard to tell because there wasn’t really anything that I could identify as the front of the beast. It was just focusing in that direction.

Then there were a few wobbly steps as the creature moved toward the snore. An eye on the brick appeared on the side with the shortest edges. It started moving as if that was the front.

It moved around in fits and starts until the snore happened again, at which point it had a direction to peer. And peer it did. It found its target and closed the distance, still moving on what seemed to be a variable number of legs until it was right next to the poor bastard having a deviated septum moment.

Snooore, came the rumble from the nose of the tiny humanoid.

The brick started to come apart, roughly in the middle, opening like a jaw. Ropes of glossy, viscous saliva hung all around crude, curved teeth, all very clearly designed to grip and never let go.

There was a snap and a hiss, and both Sterling and I looked over in the direction of the noise at once. The rats on the other side of the bars were urging us to hurry out through the spot previously occupied by the brick that was now in the midst of eating the recumbent snorer. 

A nasty, liquidish chomp rang out behind us, basically right where the snorer was. He wasn’t there any longer, at least not all of him. And he’d made not a single noise because the block-monster had eaten the top half.

Sterling yanked at me, but I paused. It felt wrong to leave this new monstrous creature behind. And yet, I did. At least, I did at first.

My buddy ran to the new exit and then slid along the leftover grout, which looked a little painful, and out of the cell.

But as soon as I tried to do the same thing, the rats blocked me.

“Not him,” the main rat said.

“Wait, what?” I asked.

The rats glared at me, an immense amount of vitriol contained in those beady-eyed pieces of bigoted shit.

I thought Sterling would take my side. But he only looked back at me for a second before hurrying after the rats, making it very clear he was leaving me behind.

“Motherless Brooklyn,” I hiss-whispered to myself. He’d betrayed me. Well, maybe I should have known. How was I supposed to know? Should I have believed the stupid squirrel when he said that my only friend would ultimately betray me?

I was legitimately, seriously, fully upset, distraught even. For about thirty seconds. 

Except then I saw him turn around and make a quick little motion. He expected me to covertly sneak out between the bars and follow. 

Which was kind of what I had planned to do anyway, because I didn’t want to let Sterling get away with the other rats in case they were going to betray him as well.

The xenophobic ass-butts had set a magical monstrosity loose on an unsuspecting population that had no real way to get away, even if they did wake up. 

And this magical monstrosity was somehow able to hunt so quietly that even though he’d just eaten someone, none of his other potential meals even stirred.

I was the only one awake in the cell who could stop the thing.

Maybe. I still didn’t know what it was or how I could get rid of it.

The first step was getting the thing’s attention.

How convenient that I’d gotten an ability dedicated to doing just that. I wondered if the system had given it to me on purpose. I mean, it didn’t know that I would choose it, but the system had definitely made it the best choice available…

Regardless, I had a new ability to use and a perfect time to use it. Well, almost perfect. Perfect would have been a situation where I could test without the possibility of death.

Fist out, I fired off Greater Urtication Furmination.

Fuzz (or whatever one calls my, um, hair) fired out of my hand and forearm and shot across the cell, a blur through the air. It made a direct hit against the back of the carnivorous one-eyed monster-block.

Some fuzz hit and ricocheted off, but a central core punched through the skin of what had been stone and was now maybe stone and maybe not.

The creature leapt forward, mouth agape, completely stunned by what had just happened to it. It moved its whole body around, thereby moving its eye around, to get a look at the situation.

I stood still. Luckily, it didn’t seem intelligent enough to understand that I, standing there with an arm extended and my eyes open, was a threat. I realized I was fighting a child. An infant, even. Which didn’t make me feel bad, because this was a very homicidal baby that needed to be stopped before the murderizing continued. Or was it just hunting? Was there a difference?

“Doesn’t matter,” I told myself, which was about as stupid as the baby brick not knowing I was awake. The creature turned its attention back to me, its one eye glaring, realizing that I was, in fact, different than the other sleepers.

I smiled.

And fired off another round of fuzz.

It wasn’t quite as thick as the first, and I realized that my own coating of fuzz on that hand was now sparse enough to require something of a combover.

But the urticating fuzz shot across the open space and went right into the eye of the creature.

Which had to hurt—little dude hadn’t known to close its eye.

The eye, filled with barbed fur bits, didn’t quite explode. But it did get very punctured and so leaked a profuse amount of ocular fluid. The creature thrashed around in a panic, blind and confused.

I assumed it could probably just grow another eye, and it wouldn’t be long before the creature realized that too, so I rushed it, closing the distance between us and leaping at the last second. I jumped atop the being and held on tight, with one hand on either side.

Feeling me, it bucked and twisted, trying to dislodge me.

I made one of my hands extra sticky, forcing my fingers and thumb to elongate to make sure I had a serious grip. Then I did the same with my feet, feeling lucky, for once, that I didn’t have footwear. With my feet on either side, plus my left hand grabbing on, I felt reasonably stable.

I got my other hand against the brick’s surface and powered up an arcane blast.

I fired it, and it penetrated down, taking off the stone exterior to reveal weird flesh below. It seemed a bit like muscle since it was red and fibrous, but I didn’t see veins or anything like that so much as just loose fluid. Maybe that served the same function as blood? Could be there was some weird exoskeleton-esque physiology, similar to an insect or arthropod. Or, it was something magical and didn’t need to worry about useless things like biology.

Either way, it didn’t like what I’d done because it redoubled its efforts to free itself from me. But in doing so, its hyperactivity caused the blood or ichor or hemolymph to pulse out, hitting me in the face each time in a foul shower.

The easiest choice to finish the thing off would be another arcane bolt, but they were exceptionally expensive in terms of mana. I wasn’t sure what else the night would bring, and I didn’t want to start chasing down the rats with less than half my lifeforce. So instead, since I was already gross, I just plunged my arm inside the thing and started to whip the organics into a frothy blend of gross and disgusting. That caused the creature to hitch up into a frenzy once again, until finally it slowed down further and further and then came to a stop. It just sort of collapsed and returned to looking a lot like a weird brick. 

I collapsed onto it and waited for the notification to be sure I’d killed it.

Huzzah and congratulations, for you have succeeded in making a kill! Hear ye, hear ye, for Delano “Del” Roosevelt has killed an infant mimic (greater)! For this bit of infanticide done to save your cellmates, you receive 300 XP.

Rolling off the mimic (or the mimbrick. Or the mibrick. Mimrick?), I was happy this world came with death notices, because otherwise it would have been hard to make sure something like a mimic was well and truly dead. Additionally, was this how mimics were made?

I shook my head as I pulled myself to my feet and tried to scrape some of the gore from my fur.

Still, no one else had woken up.

The magical slumber was a surprisingly effective means of prison control. Keeping the inmates forcibly out during the night really did make escape a challenge.

But I had places to be and rats to follow, so I took a deep breath and wished I’d remembered to keep a slimeball on me for recharges, being that there was no way I could wake up the squirrel guards to get into the wall area to visit the pen and grab one if I wanted to actually catch up with the damn rats.

Instead, I sighed and started a slow run toward the bars.

Chapter

Sixty-One

Once through the bars, though, I felt the pressure for speed and sprinted down the hall on my soft feet, silent as I did my best to track and catch up to the rats.

At the first junction, I realized that someone had left me a slight clue: a small scrap of food trash on the floor, pointing the appropriate hallway.

I smiled and hurried along.

The rats weren’t going the way I’d expected, being that I had thought they’d make the dungeon-offices-archive run. But they were going deeper into the dungeon portion of the floor, which made me wonder what they knew that I didn’t.

Through their various twists and turns—which I started to think were designed to dissuade anyone who might be following them, since they would occasionally come back to the same junctions and then take different turns—they still generally went in the same direction. 

Until we got there—or rather, until I got there, because the rats were already there. It was a very large, slightly curved wall with a heavy metal door mounted three feet up from the floor. The door, which matched the curve of the wall perfectly, had to be at least three or four feet square, with massive hinges and a large handle dominating the otherwise plain surface. The door to the trash chute.

They huddled in a small group at the base of the wall, under the door, where a lead rat told the others what to do. I could tell because he was pointing a lot. At rats, at things, and then gesticulating.

I found a little bit of shadow and got myself tucked into it, doing my best to make sure I was invisible.

The rats then turned to Sterling. He pulled out ropes and string from some magical pocket, followed by a number of pulleys. A small hammer, nails, hooks, and eyelets—a staggering amount of gear, which was then being assembled under his supervision as a means to open what had to be a damn heavy door. The rats had to stand on each other’s shoulders to reach the handle and get a rope around it. Then they ran that rope through enough pulleys that it became a very complicated block and tackle. It was an extreme mechanical invention. I had the feeling that of those around the door, only Sterling could have come up with the rig.

It took them a hot minute to get it all set up, including putting some pins into the walls, but then they managed to get on the end of the line, and they started to pull. Lots of pulling—there was a ton of string. And rope. And before long, the door actually opened.

Not a ton, but they didn’t need it to open a ton. There was just enough room for a rat to get through.

They broke down all their equipment as they climbed inside the trash chute. Except, at the last minute, someone shoved Sterling out, and the door closed behind him.

He lay there on the ground, staring at the closed door.

I walked up and looked at him.

“Ah,” Sterling said. “I wondered how far behind you’d be.”

“Right there,” I said, pointing over to my hiding point. “I followed your trail as best I could.”

“Not bad.”

“Is this what you planned to have happen?” 

“To have you find me on the ground? No. I imagined it would be more of a ‘you come through the door after us’ situation, but sadly, I was not… er… I was betrayed in the same way you were.”

I reached down and helped him to his feet.

He brushed himself off.

“The, um, brick?” he asked.

“Dead. It was a mimic.”

“A mimic?” he asked. We started walking back toward our cell.

“Yes,” I said, moving alongside him. “Did you know that was part of their plan?”

“No,” he said. “I knew very little…”

I just looked at him. I think he realized his lie was obvious.

“I knew this was their goal,” the rat blurted out. “Hence how I could provide the solution to open the door.”

“Right.”

“But the rest was up to them. Oddly, they knew of this chute, and they knew that it spelled the best case for getting from one side to the other. But they were stymied by the heavy door.”

“How did they find out about it?”

“That I could not figure out from them. But I surmise they bribed the guards or some other workers in some capacity. For what it is worth, I would have told them to find a different means out of the cell rather than what they did. How many did the thing kill?”

“Just one.”

“Anyone we knew?”

“Not well. Not Spider Murphy or⁠—”

“That is just as well, I guess. Though I really would have preferred no deaths.”

“And to have gotten across.”

“Obviously, yes. That would have been a much better overall result. Now, we need to rethink our own plans.”

“We had none besides this.”

“I mean, we must prepare for the idea that we will be punished once this escape is revealed.”

“Yeah. That’s going to suck.”

“Do you think we could place the stone back? Make it appear⁠—”

“It’s a bit, um, bloody. Might make it just as obvious.”

“Lovely. I suppose, then, we just, well, hope for mercy?”

“Hope they fix that hole before the cleaners come.”

“Oh. I didn’t even think of that.”

“Just came to me right now.”

“Back to our cell, then?”

“Unless you want to try making it the long way around.”

“How much darkness do we have left?”

“No way to tell. I don’t think the dark is a set length of time. Or the light. I think the Warden switches it around to mess with us.”

“I worried that was the case. Obviously, I lack the data about the darkness, but⁠—”

“You’re nervous right now, aren’t you?”

“Am I rambling? I am rambling. Maybe we should hurry?”

Just then a shout echoed down the hallway.

“We should definitely hurry,” I said.

Chapter

Sixty-Two

We beat the ogres back to the cell, but not by much. By the time we threw ourselves against the wall to look like we’d been sleeping there the entire night, the ogres were lighting the torches, and guard pharks lined the bars.

“Get up,” barked an ogre, walking into the cell and kicking people away.

Which probably would have gone better if there hadn’t been quite the size disparity. The first creature he kicked flew across the cell, slammed against the bars, and then slid down to lay limp against the stone block floor. Definitely no longer sleeping, but also not really capable of ever getting up again.

Finally, though, we’d all been gathered up and arranged in something like a line outside of the cell. And with a line of phark guards along our side, we marched from the cell to the fake outside. 

The Warden waited there, remarkably put together given how quickly after the escape he would have been woken up. There were more phark guards in the yard, as well as two more ogres. And between the ogres were the bloody forms of some familiar rats. All of whom were still alive, but barely. 

“Good morning to some of my least favorite dungeon residents,” the Warden said. “I am so displeased to see you all here for what I assure you will be an unpleasant experience for everyone involved. These worthless creatures here have been caught trying to escape.”

He leaned over and stomped down on the nearest rat, causing the poor thing to smush, its innards exploding outward. 

The Warden flashed a grim smile, enjoying the execution while also disliking the mess, which he kicked off his boot, spraying some of the nearby prisoners.

“Now,” the Warden continued, “there’s nothing I hate so much as… I had a speech here, but I’ve forgotten it because I’m just so irritated that I had to wake up for this nonsense. And now I need to think on this disturbance. Who did this? Who is involved, and to what extent do I allow the punishment to occur, because clearly, these idiots would not have been able to do what they have done without the assistance of some who are not quite as stupid. Which brings me back to the question: who among you is behind this?”

He paused and stared at each of us in turn, as if his penetrating gaze would unleash our mouths and we’d be unable to help ourselves, absolutely singing the truth to him.

No one did.

Probably because no one knew.

Besides me and Sterling, that is.

But the Warden didn’t seem to see us. He merely glanced over us, not even bothering to comment about how there was only one rat present who wasn’t about to die.

“I have no idea what transpired in my dungeon during the darkness,” he said, “but it will not remain a mystery for long. If one of you would like to be left alone during the coming punishment, if you would like to, perhaps, see the outside world sometime in your natural lifetime, it would be best if you volunteered information about what happened.”

I took a quick and furtive glance down the line of prisoners, and I realized that none of the squirrels were there. Somehow, they’d all been left behind. It could possibly be because the turning on of the lights was a surprise, and so none of the squirrels had left the more comfortable in-wall sleeping quarters. But it was unlike the Warden to not notice their absence. 

So that had to mean that the Nutlord, the Hogan, and the Warden were deeper in bed together than I’d thought. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, was a rather weird and disgusting metaphor. I regret making it.

“Now would be the time to mention your knowledge,” the Warden said, “because my patience, already pitifully tried as of late, is at its breaking point.”

He stomped on another rat.

The violence was sudden and shocking—another vividly clear indication of how screwed I was because of my size.

There were several gasps in our group, and not just from the prisoners. It seemed like some of the pharks were not into the stomping. I hated it, and it made me hate the Warden more. The rats didn’t deserve a death sentence, and even if they did, they didn’t deserve this cruel of a death. The second rat didn’t even die right away—he mewled pathetically for a half-moment before the Warden heard the mewling and stomped down again, this time twisting his foot.

One of the other rats tried to run, something I’d wondered about, but he was tethered to an iron ring. So were the rest of them. This guy’s run was extremely short and likely something instinctual, being that it could only fail.

An ogre slammed a hammer down on the attempted runner, which led to an even more explosive end.

Immediately, the Warden glared at the ogre.

“Sorry,” the ogre said.

“What did I say?” the Warden hissed, walking over to the ogre and pulling the big guy over to the wall to have something closer to a private conversation.

“I know,” the ogre replied.

“Then why?” the Warden hissed, forcing the ogre to bend over so they could talk to each other.

“I thought he was escaping.”

“They’re tied up, are they not?”

“Yes.”

“And so how would he escape?”

“I don’t know.”

“So maybe don’t do that.”

“It was a mistake.”

“We shouldn’t be making mistakes here. I thought you were a professional.”

“Am professional.”

“Then?”

“Um…”

“Do you need a different job? Something simpler? Manure hauling?”

“No.”

“Manure mixing?”

“No, please…”

“Then get it together.”

“I will.”

“Good. Now let’s go back and finish this as professionals, yes?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The Warden turned the ogre around and gave the big beast a shove over to his previous position. Then he returned to the line of rats, ready to crush another.

I noticed that Dorian wasn’t around, which I thought was odd, but then again, he didn’t seem like he’d be really happy with that whole sudden execution thing.

“You know,” the Warden said, back to his more performative tone, “I really thought that there’d be something revealed by now. But no. Imagine my surprise that you have not grasped, in a general sense, how bad it will be for all of you if you don’t cooperate. But you aren’t cooperating, so⁠—”

“We don’t know anything,” Spider Murphy said suddenly. “We can’t tell you⁠—”

“Nothing? I find that hard to believe. You are together all hours of the day and the night. You cannot possibly hide things from each other. Yet you claim you have not witnessed anything these dying idiots have done to prepare for their aborted escape effort. I find that an impossibility. So one of you must know something, and I have you all here to tell me before you all can talk together and come up with some sort of plausible lie. Now, if you would like to avoid a group punishment that could very well be all of you winding up dead, start talking.”

“I saw them talking,” a young insect thing said quickly.

And with that seemingly innocuous statement, it was as if the floodgates were opened, and everyone began talking at once. 

The Warden smiled and promptly stomped on another rat.

It was a remarkably effective means of shutting the group up.

“Let’s keep this orderly, shall we?” the warden asked. “I’m not interested in idle gossip or rumor. I want facts about who did what, where, and why. Who was involved in this escape?”

And no one said a damn thing in response, because, and he probably knew this, everything said before had largely been performative. 

“Once again, nothing,” the Warden said, glaring at us. “Perhaps, then, the condemned would like a chance to talk.”

He looked at the rats.

They didn’t look back. They looked defeated, like they were already dead, just not yet officially.

“Would any of you like to live?” the warden asked the rats.

They ignored him.

The Warden clenched his teeth. His eyes were going a little crazy, like he couldn’t quite believe someone had the gall to ignore him. Or not willingly betray their friends. 

We all stood there in this weird and unpleasant silence, the Warden growing increasingly deranged and no one else daring to move.

The Warden stomped on another rat.

We all winced, nearly as one.

A rat started to laugh.

“What?” the Warden bellowed. “Why are you laughing?”

“That was the one who knew the whole plan,” the rat said between what were becoming maniacal cackles. “No one else⁠—”

The Warden stomped on the rest in quick succession and then scraped the remains off his boots while tromping around the yard under the fake sun.

“Get them back to their cell,” he bellowed to the guards. “They can wait for their punishment there.”

We were herded up, marched back, and deposited as a group into our cell. And still, no one spoke. Which could have just been the reaction to the Warden’s executions, or it could have been the ogre standing guard at the open hole where there had once been a brick, making sure none of us could get out.

Chapter

Sixty-Three

It wasn’t long before I was summoned to speak with the Hogan—who was safely in the walls.

He was sitting at a desk, looking over a stack of papers. He didn’t look up at me as I was marched in front of the desk, as if I were some sort of truant ready to get chewed out by the assistant principal. He continued to fiddle with his papers while I stood there. Finally, he folded the papers up and passed them over to a gray squirrel I hadn’t even noticed was there.

“Burn those,” the Hogan said.

The squirrel hurried away. Even though we were somewhat in the open of the inner wall area, there was a sense of privacy there. The Hogan turned his full attention to me.

“You know,” he said, tapping the desk between us with a claw, “I tend not to enjoy being right about bad things. The rat betrayed you, and somehow, you decided the right response to that was to go after him. Help him when you probably should have just stayed here.”

“He’s my friend,” I replied.

“That friendship costs you.”

“Sure, but that’s just the way it goes sometimes.”

“It has cost you everything you had with us.”

“Mind clarifying that?”

“I presume it is clear that I have protected Sterling from the consequences of his actions, yes?”

“Um, sure.”

“Which means we are, in essence, back at the beginning between us. Your little, what, farm? Gone. Your sleeping area? Gone. Any further protection? Gone. We have no relationship at present, and I’d be hard pressed to use you for anything again, knowing that you will be dragging that weight behind you.”

“The escape made things difficult?” I asked.

He frowned at me.

“Right,” I said. “It did. Might I ask how much of your operation actually works for the Warden on things in here?”

“No. You may not.”

“Because I have a feeling it’s a lot. I also thought that we were friends⁠—”

He gave me a look to make it clear he did not agree in any sense.

“No?” I asked. “Not ever? Comrades in arms, then? Just things on the same side?”

He rolled his eyes. “You can pretend what you like about our relationship, but I would have presumed you understood things⁠—”

“I understood that we were both prisoners,” I snapped. “That you shouldn’t be sitting in here working for the damn dungeon⁠—”

“You know nothing about what I do here.”

“I know you arranged for the gloamhaunts to kill me and Sterling.”

He paused. Somehow that surprised him.

“I know that means we were already on the outs with you before the rats did what they did last night. And I know you had to know what the rats were doing to make sure that you and yours were safely hidden so the damn brick monster didn’t eat any of your precious squirrel buddies. So all this talk about us being at the beginning of things is bullshit, the Hogan. I already knew we were done. The only real question is whether or not we’re enemies. Because when someone tries to kill me, I tend to take that rather personally. In the negative.”

“I keep a business running here. You are making that impossible.”

“I’ve been helping you.”

“You’ve been helping yourself.”

“And you haven’t? Nothing I have done has been done with the idea that we are at odds. And I find it really damn weird to even have to apologize for trying to stay alive.”

The Hogan clenched his teeth. I could tell he wanted to say something else to me, but he was aware enough to understand the difficulty in that. That there wasn’t really a way to admonish someone for trying not to die.

“Get out,” he said. “And while you’re out there, amongst those losers, think about what you want to have happen here. Because we can be enemies if you like, or we can be professionals. The choice is yours.”

I looked at him like he was an idiot, because it really didn’t seem like that was a possibility.

“Are you kidding?” I asked. “In what way can I possibly trust you? You want me dead, and I want to live. Kind of at odds there.”

“You can choose how you die, asshole. And your death doesn’t have to be pointless. You can⁠—”

I wanted to flip the desk over and strangle him, and I think he realized I was struggling to control myself because he stopped talking.

I walked out.

Sterling was waiting for me.

“Good talk?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” I replied before giving him a quick rundown of what’d transpired.

“Well that is lovely—another enemy.”

“I think he always was. Now it’s just out in the open.”

“Capital. I do so enjoy collecting those who wish us dead.”

“There are more of them than I expected on the second floor.”

“Just wait. If we make it to the third, there are so many more souls to offend that this will look positively pastoral.”

“Neat.”

“Shall we sit and ponder our next move?”

“Yeah, let’s,” I said, and we found an unoccupied part of the wall to sit and chat.

No one joined us. We were pariahs, and I wasn’t sure if it was because the Hogan had marked us as such or if Sterling’s ratness did the deed.

This sucked.

Chapter

Sixty-Four

The Games Master came and stood in front of the bars of our cell, staring at all of us. Well, mostly. She glanced our way, but quickly looked to someone else.

A moment or two later, the Keeper came stalking forth, stopping in front of the bars about two feet from the Games Master, and also stared into the cell.

However, unlike Malera, the Keeper was most certainly looking for us. As soon as his eyes hit me, said eyes went wide, and his mouth clenched into a tight line.

I felt a pulse of magic and saw the man turn on the woman. He opened his mouth wide, as if to yell at her, but no sound came out.

She looked over at him, surprised, and said something back.

There was a spell keeping us from hearing the two.

Good thing I could read lips.

“…and he’s supposed to be dead!” the Keeper bellowed. “They both are.”

“You said to make it a novelty show.”

“Where they died!”

“I did that. Twice.”

“And how are they still there?”

“They survived.”

“Twice? How?”

“I don’t know. They won.”

“Once, I could maybe understand. But how did you underestimate them twice?”

“Because I am juggling a lot, you lout. I have to make a lot happen and⁠—”

“You put on entertainment⁠—”

“Which funds all the things you do that I am not supposed to know about.”

“Careful. You work at my pleasure, and there is most certainly space in the dungeon for someone who cannot complete their duties.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I am reminding you.”

“I am doing my best.”

“Then maybe this is not the job for you.”

“Maybe it isn’t.”

“I wanted them dead. And I wanted them dead for a reason.”

“You also wanted a novelty act. If you really wanted them dead, you would have had the butcher do it.”

“I saw an opportunity for the coin we need to be generated⁠—”

“And we generated it. A lot. They were popular. Still are popular.”

“How popular?”

“Enough.”

“Enough to keep them alive?”

“Depends. How badly do you want them dead?”

He stopped and stared at me.

I held up my middle finger.

“What do you think that means?” the Keeper asked. “Do you think they know we talk of them?”

“They are intelligent—at least the red one is. The rat keeps quiet, but I think there’s more to either of them than they let on.”

“Clearly, they have outthought you.”

Malera frowned at him.

“I have done all you have asked and more,” she said. 

“Except kill them, which I thought you would understand to be the more important aspect of your task here.”

“I’m not allowed to just execute them, am I?”

“You have a nearly bottomless well of monsters and opponents to choose from. How could you not find something that would destroy them?”

“Because I needed to make it a show, didn’t I?”

“Them dying is a show!”

“You want me to unleash a manticore?”

“If you think that is what it will take for them to be fully dead, yes.”

“It won’t be very entertaining.”

“I don’t care.”

“Then just have James kill them.”

“I don’t want James to kill them,” the Keeper said, moving closer to the Games Master. That made it challenging to keep track of what he was saying because I didn’t have as clear a view of his mouth. “James has to keep records because everything he does is official. These things should not exist, and we need to make sure that there is no record of these things existing. Because if someone upstairs were to find out what this actually is, then they would want to come and see what’s happening here. And if they come and see what’s happening here, they would see what we are doing, and if that happens, what do you suppose will be the outcome for you?”

“A new job?”

“Yes, perhaps as a jester. I can see you are practicing with shit jokes. Because you will be put in the dungeon for doing what it is you are doing.”

“Wait, why⁠—”

“Because they did not think of this, nor did they authorize this. And most importantly, because they are not getting the coin from this. They will kill you to punish me, and then they will run the arena. They will take the coin, and I will be left doing what it is I am doing that you are to remain silent about without the benefit of the resources required. So it behooves me, and especially you, to get those things dead without involving James, correct?”

“Why would they kill me and not you?”

“Because they can’t kill me. And they won’t kill James. Which leaves you. You will be the one who must send the message, which means giving James leeway to make it interesting.”

Malera’s face went nearly as pale as the Keeper’s.

“I’ll make sure they die,” she said.

“I would prefer it happen immediately.”

“There is a problem, though.”

“Isn’t that what I pay you to handle?”

“James wants to cancel tonight.”

“Why is that?”

“Because of the escape.”

“There was no escape. All were caught, and all have been accounted for.”

“But—”

“No buts. Tonight, the red thing dies. The rat as well. Or tomorrow, there will be consequences.”

The Keeper stared at the Games Master for a long moment, as if daring her to speak anything other than a very clear affirmation.

“Yes, of course,” she finally said.

There was a mild pop as the silence spell dissolved.

“I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me,” the Keeper said. “Have a good day.”

The Keeper gave her a quick nod and walked away.

The Games Master gave us a look and then half a smile. She hurried off in the opposite direction, clearly going to the arena to plan a more entertaining death for us.

“Oof,” I said.

“I would ask if you have gas,” Sterling said, “but I doubt that is possible. You have something bothering you, though?”

“Just listening to, um, well, reading that conversation.”

“You have some means of seeing words?”

“Something along those lines, yeah. And they want to kill at the next fight.”

“We made it through two, though, we might be able⁠—”

“It’s pretty clear that they’re done making it even remotely possible. She mentioned something about a manticore. Is that what I think it is?”

“I have no idea what that is, so I cannot tell you one way or the other. I presume something awful?”

“Yes. And big. If I’m right about them, they like to eat humans. Full-size humans.”

“Ah, so we’ll be little snacks.”

“Not even.”

“So we have a shorter timetable for making our escape?”

“Yes.”

“Got it. Shall we put our heads together and think, then?”

“I mean… what’s there to think about? We can’t⁠—”

“Either we think of a way to escape, or we lament our pointless lives that led to this. Which would you prefer?”

“Heads together.”

“Lovely. Now, what if…”

Chapter

Sixty-Five

We ran through a load of ideas, none of which were remotely feasible.

We also didn’t get to go to the buffet today, nor was food delivered.

It would appear that starving us might have been the start of the Warden’s punishment.

But then came a surprise. A phark guard came strolling along, stopping at the open spot where there had once been a brick. A short phark with dark fur and a big ol’ smile.

He waved to me. And probably Sterling.

“Come on,” I said, getting to my feet and helping Sterling up as well. “Let’s at least go have one more minute with our friend.”

“Look at you two,” Oscar said. “Really leaning into this whole being a prisoner thing, eh?”

“Not much choice,” Sterling replied. “Are you enjoying your time as a guard?”

“Nope. I hate it. And yet, it would seem that I don’t need to do this job much longer, do I?”

“Um, do you?” I asked.

“No!”

“No?”

“No, and I’ve got you to thank for that.”

I looked over at Sterling, frowning.

“How is that exactly?” Sterling asked.

“The ins and outs are a little, you know, odd to me because I don’t know that I fully get what it is you did. But whatever you did with this old white phark, you convinced him to bring me with him to the surface. We’re going to do something up there that isn’t sitting here in the darkness and dampness, making misery happen.”

“Sam actually went through with it,” I said.

“So you do know him?”

“I guess we do. Or, I mean, yes. We do.”

“And you did something for him?”

“Yeah. Sort of. He made a bet on us to win, and we won, and he got a bunch of coin. He asked us if we wanted anything, and we said to help you.”

“Now ain’t that just the sweetest thing this side of the trash mountain?”

“Not really a trash mountain here,” Sterling said.

“Well, it’ll always be here in my heart. I gotta admit, I’m more than a little jazzed to be seeing this sun thing for real. And grass. And I’m hoping for a bunch of different things I’ve been missing my whole life without even knowing I’ve been missing them.”

“Also learning how to be a bigger, better phark, right?”

“Right. I am not exactly excited about the proposed process to pharkness, though. Seems like a lot of hogwash and busywork, but what can you do, right?”

“Sure.”

“Anyway, I wanted to come and thank you. And maybe tell you that it was probably a good time for you to think about leaving. Scuttlebutt around the barracks is that there’s a lot of death about to happen.”

“Of that, we are all too aware,” Sterling said.

“You gonna leave then?”

“I mean, it’s a little more difficult for us to go than you,” I said.

“That’s what I thought. But then I realized there are a few things that could be done to help you out.”

“Such as?”

“Such as you should just be ready to go.”

“When?”

“Roughly now.”

“Now?”

“Roughly.”

“Why?”

“Some things are better a mystery,” Oscar said, giving us a little wave as he meandered down the hall.

“Will there be a sign, or⁠—”

“Should be pretty obvious.”

Then he jogged away.

I couldn’t help but notice a large key sticking out of the sack on his back.

Chapter

Sixty-Six

The sign was, in fact, very obvious.

It was screaming.

Not like the screaming that happened every night when the darkness happened and the cleaners came out. This was happier. Manic even. Something in the line of joy, excitement, and the desire for violence or vengeance.

Whoops came echoing down the hallway.

The ogre guarding the hole looked one way. 

Another scream, followed by clanging, and then the unmistakable sound of death. 

The ogre hurried away.

“And now we go,” I said.

Sterling went first, and then I reached the hole.

“You go through there, and we are formally enemies,” barked out the Hogan.

I glanced back at him and then crawled backward through the hole, never taking my eyes off the stupid red squirrel.

He shook his head at me.

“It will be death if you go,” he said.

“Also death if I stay,” I replied. “Might as well take my chances.”

“You will regret it.”

“Already do,” I said and took off running.

“Get them!” the Hogan bellowed.

I turned to see who was trying to follow us, but got distracted by the large group of gnarly, mostly naked prisoners charging toward us, going pell mell down the hallway. One particularly gangly, toothless old human at the front had a familiar key and was unlocking each and every cell he passed.

Which then sent more people into the halls, all of whom were headed directly at us, which really dictated the direction we could go. And also made it very difficult for the squirrels who’d been ordered to follow us to follow us, as they would have exited the hole right into the maelstrom of larger bodies who could easily have done a little errant stomping.

Sterling and I sprinted our little legs off, my rat friend getting out of breath very quickly and looking like he was in danger of falling over. Being that I didn’t have the pesky problem of stamina, I did a quick cut and scooped him over my shoulder into something along the lines of a firefighter’s carry. 

“Appreciate… this…” Sterling got out.

I didn’t respond.

The crowds thinned out quickly because we were going against the stream. Everyone else was, naturally, headed toward the main entrance to the dungeon, the office near the arena.

We, however, were not. I think we both believed the better exit for us was where the rats had gone initially—through the trash chute. I thought I’d remembered the way, but more than once, Sterling shouted that we’d taken the wrong turn. Still, we got there in pretty good time.

And we weren’t the first there.

Chapter

Sixty-Seven

The Warden stood there, leaning against the curved wall. Dorian, his main ogre, stood at attention on the other side of the trash door.

“Well, well, well. Here they are,” the warden said. “The troublemakers return to where it all began.”

I frowned, letting Sterling down off my shoulder.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“You dare speak back to me⁠—”

“Oh seriously, can we just not?”

“And now you interrupt me? Have you lost your⁠—”

“You’ve got much bigger problems than me and this guy,” I said, using my thumb to point at Sterling. “You realize your entire prison is loose?”

“It’s a dungeon,” Sterling said.

“Really?”

“Just eager to maintain a sense of accuracy.”

“I don’t care about them,” James the Warden said. “There are more than enough guards and ogres to stop anyone from leaving. And if a few accidents happen, that makes it easier for the guards and ogres in the long run. I’m sure they’ll all appreciate that. But you two, you two have done nothing but cause problems since you got here. And you two are the ones I have most looked forward to dealing with.”

“I can understand him,” Sterling said, “but what have I done?”

“You really want to go there,” I shot at him, “dividing us like that?”

“Will you shut up?” James bellowed.

“It’s really our way of dealing with tension, the banter. I think we’re all a little nervous, and I’m sure you can under⁠—”

The Warden lunged forward, leading with his big foot, very clearly looking to do some smushing.

I shoved Sterling one way and leapt the other.

The foot came down right where I’d been.

I don’t think James really thought things through, because he was woefully overextended, looking very much like a caricature of a fencer, nearly caught in the splits.

He wobbled and tried to pull himself up.

I leapt forward, right at his ankle, and got my hand on his Achilles tendon. Immediately, I let loose an arcane blast.

There was a bright flash, followed by tendrils of smoke and the stench of burnt flesh. His white stocking smoldered, on the cusp of being on fire. His tendon, meanwhile, was mostly gone, and as he tried to push off his foot to stand, there was a really loud pop. Control over his lower leg vanished, and he fell over.

He screamed, looking at me with open eyes, tears welling up.

Then his head snapped to look back at his other foot, where Sterling stood with a sharp blade held in one hand, blood dripping down.

“Oh,” Sterling called out. “Did you do the tendon thing as well? Seems as if he’s a bit fucked, eh?”

“Dorian!” James bellowed.

Dorian, who’d been still so far, turned to examine the scene.

“Now, Dorian,” I said, backing away from the largest ogre in the dungeon, “we’ve had nothing but lovely interactions so far. It would really be a shame to ruin that now. You seem like an enchanting guy, someone who doesn’t actually want to be doing the nasty things this asshole forces⁠—”

“Dorian, kill them this instant!” James the Warden called out.

Dorian took a step forward. 

“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “You can⁠—”

He paused.

“Yes, you do,” James snapped. “Either do it, or I will put you in the small room. And you won’t be able to stand up and I say you can and you won’t⁠—”

Dorian took another step.

“Or,” I shouted, “you just chuck him in the trash chute and then do whatever you want.”

He looked at James.

James snarled at Dorian.

“Don’t even think about it, you idiot. It will be⁠—”

Dorian palmed James’s face, picking the man up.

The warden continued trying to speak, but his words were completely muffled by the big, meaty palm of the ogre. Then Dorian opened the trash chute door and just chucked James inside. James screamed all the way down. I couldn’t help but smile.

“Thank you, Dorian,” I said. 

He turned to look at me.

“Didn’t do it for you,” he said.

“Still, I appreciate it.”

He grunted and started to close the door.

“Do you think you might hold off on that for a second?” I asked. “We were hoping to, um, traverse the chute to the other side.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s kind of a shortcut to an exit we’d like to take.”

“What exit?”

“A very small one,” Sterling said. “Leads to a little city for rats.”

“Rats?”

“Those like me.”

“A city of you?”

“More or less, yes.”

“Would like to come.”

“You might not fit,” Sterling said. “It’s all, um, our size.”

“Oh,” he said, sounding legitimately disappointed.

“You could just go up to the surface,” I said. “Nothing’s really stopping you right now.”

He squinted his eyes a bit, as if he were trying to see the truth in my words.

“Of course, you probably want to be quick about it,” Sterling said. “I cannot imagine this chaos will last much longer.”

“I help you, but quick.”

He grabbed me, then Sterling, and set us into the trash chute, on a very small shelf that ran around on the same level as the top and bottom of the trash chute door. There was a similar door, about four feet along, which, while not very far, was on the other side of a heavy brick wall that clearly demarcated the archives area from the dungeon. Dorian even reached inside and pushed that door open.

“See you upstairs,” he said with something that might have been an ogre smile.

Then he ran away.

I looked at Sterling. He just shook his head.

“Don’t question it. Just run,” he said, scurrying along the edge, an edge barely big enough for creatures our size to squeeze along.

We dropped out of the trash chute onto the other side of the level, where it was calm, quiet, serene, and magical.

For a heartbeat, we stood there, under the door to the chute.

“You know which way to go?” I asked.

“In general,” Sterling replied, looking one way and then the next. “Up and to the left.”

Chapter

Sixty-Eight

And so we were off. We scurried along the archive hallways, keeping to the walls as much as possible, pausing at every junction to make sure there were no ogres coming along. We took our time, and we listened to any clues that might come through the hallways. 

The chaos Oscar had caused on the dungeon side seemed to be doing a great job of keeping everyone else busy. It took a lot longer than I expected, but we finally made our way back to where this whole mess had started—the point where Rand the special ogre had found us. It was only about a hundred yards away from the door to Ratopolis.

We didn’t pause there to reflect upon the journey. We just hauled our asses to the door with everything we had.

Sterling had the door open in a flash and stepped through.

I paused and looked over my shoulder.

“What?” Sterling asked.

“I just feel like there was, um, that we left things undone here,” I said.

“Like what?”

“The Hogan? The Keeper? All⁠—”

“We are escaping, Delano. You and I. Without lasting injuries.”

“But I feel like we didn’t win.”

“This,” he said, pointing at the stairs leading to the next floor. “This is the victory. Anything else is… someone else’s problem. Now, are you coming?”

“To Ratopolis?”

“Yes.”

“Sure,” I said. “Gotta be better than this, right?”

“It is,” Sterling said. “I swear it.”

I hate that he was wrong.

Master of Puppets will continue in Book Three!

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An action-packed apocalyptic LitRPG perfect for fans of Solo Leveling, Super Supportive, and Iron Prince! The stronger his opponent, the harder he hits. Saving an innocent from a drug-crazed superhuman should've left Nil broken. Instead, it wins him the Nexus' attention. Nil is done feeling small and watching his family scrape by. He now has the opportunity to make a difference. Apocalypse Arena holds the key; where the multiverse's champions battle and keep the Scourge at bay. Pain, death, and heartbreak await all who run the gauntlets, but Nil has what it takes to grapple his way to the top. The multiverse is watching, and he'll be damned sure to give them a show. Perhaps even knock out a God. Don't miss the start of an action-packed new Apocalypse LitRPG Adventure from bestselling author J Pal. Featuring a unique System that fuses LitRPG, Cultivation and super powers along with gladiator fights, battle royales and other combat games where death is always a possibility. It's perfect for fans of Solo Leveling, Super Supportive, and Iron Prince!

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A Xianxia cultivation story perfect for fans of Unintended Cultivator, Beware of Chicken, and Heretical Fishing! Unfortunately for Liu Feng, he died. Now, he's stuck in a world of Cultivators. He must learn the nuances of his new home all while being surrounded by arrogant young masters who seek to advance their power by any means necessary. But Liu Feng is smart. He would rather absorb texts and master techniques that clearly don't obey the laws of physics. He knows if he can stay out of his trouble and keep his head down, his mortal perspective on life can help him advance his knowledge faster than others and research magic at a fundamental level. At the same time, he can bring a level of compassion and empathy only a human would understand. But being different makes him a target. He can only avoid the problems and attention of other cultivators for so long... Join Liu Feng the Cultivation Nerd on his quest to surpassed all limits and defy the heavens, shattering the arrogance of all young masters on his way. It's perfect for fans of Unintended Cultivator, Beware of Chicken, and Heretical Fishing!

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