u/JimTheTrashKing

As reality slowly filtered back to me, my broken mind pulling itself back together like a soldier holding his guts in, I tried to figure out where I was.

The air was clean, not in the sense of natural cleanliness, instead it was brought about by disinfectants and elbow grease. Sterile, I suppose the term would be, but I digress. It was as familiar as it could get, even in my half lucid state it conjured images of rapidly approaching deadlines and a few too many late nights. Besides, if that wasn’t enough to tip me off, the steady beeping of an EKG told me all I needed to know: I was in a hospital.

That about made sense, considering the last thing I remember that I didn’t think was a dream was being thrown out the window by some crackhead. This was honestly the best outcome. After all, I could be dead.

My eyes flickered open, trying their best to adjust to the blinding white lights. I lay in a hospital bed, and flanking me on either side were curtains to obscure me from the other patients. My body ached, but it honestly wasn’t that bad, which was surprising, because I had expected to have at least some broken bones. I was probably just high as a kite on painkillers. To be frank, the worst part was the hymns to Livs’va, Goddess of Healing. I had heard enough of them from my roommate back in colla-

“Arthur?” a familiar voice asked, interrupting my train of thought. Oh you had to be shitting me. Entering my little slice of the hospital was Elles Fletcher, or, I suppose Nurse Fletcher now. She was the aforementioned roommate in college and an absolute tool. Human, for the record, with shoulder-length blond hair and tanned skin. Her build was muscular, I think she boxed but in all honesty, I never bothered to look into it. At the moment she wore baby blue medical scrubs and her Symbol of Livs’va, a tree with birds in its branches, pinned over her heart.

“That’s the name on my medical records, yep.” I groaned.

“You’re the suicide risk?”

“It wasn’t suicide,” I corrected, “I was thrown.”

“Are you trying to tell me that someone broke into your apartment, picked all one hundred and twenty pounds of you up off the ground, and then threw you with enough force to break a window?” she asked, crossing her arms. She had always been judgmental.

“I live in Redwood.” I deadpanned.

“Ah. That explains a few things,” she muttered with understanding. Redwood Brownbrick was just like that, unfortunately. There was a reason rent was so low, after all.

“Still loving the backhanded insults, I see.”

“Still a godless heathen, I see.”

“... maybe?” I responded, falling back onto my pillow. She scoffed.

“How do you ‘maybe’ worship a god?” 

“It’s either that or I should go buy some scratch-offs. Do I even have any injuries?” I asked, eliciting a pause from her as she checked my medical records.

“A sprained left hand,” she muttered, her brows creasing just slightly. “Nothing else.”

“So, I imagine I can leave?”

“Technically, yeah… though I’d love to know how someone falls three stories and walks away with a sore wrist.”

“God loves me more?” 

“You’re not going to give me a straight answer, huh?”

“Nope,” I said with a slight grin.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“Ya well look who’s talking.”

“Go to Hell.”

“I’m already there.” I finished, an aggravated silence filtering over us before I had to speak up again.
“By the way, what day is it?” I asked.

“Saturday,” she said, eliciting a sigh from me. There goes one of my sick days.

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Turns out, that weird blessing was a lot more useful than it sounds, I considered, as I got on the bus, getting to keep a whole seven bucks since the driver was adamant that I had already paid. The thing was stale and smelled like the BO and exhaust, but it could have been worse, I’d been on rides before where it smelled like piss and feet. Whatever, it didn’t matter, as I fell into one of the seats, getting lost in my thoughts again.

It was a strange feeling. The last few days had been a lot, like, enough to give me whiplash. Usually, I was just going through the motions, stuck in a stream, then Thursday rolled around and threw me into the riptide. I almost died, struck a pact with an infant god, and then lost an entire day to head trauma. And now, I was just on the bus. Going back and forth between extremes could not be good for my mental health, but what do I know? I’m a doctor, not a psychiatrist. 

I sighed, my shoulders sagging as I pulled my phone free with the intent to doom scroll until I got home, however, on my lockscreen I could see a city-wide notification, like a weather warning or an Amber Alert, but this one was just plain text.

“Get off at the next stop, go to the warehouse on the coast.”

I just stared at the message for a while. The next stop was Ninth Street, one of the more seedy parts of town, and I should know, Ninth Street was where the Redwood Brownstone was. The reality of the situation forced a low groan out of me, like someone was squeezing on my midsection. I was a divine errand boy. Granted, it came with some ok perks, but considering how often I heard gunshots from that warehouse, I had a creeping feeling that I was going to be going back to the hospital soon enough.

But did I really have a choice? That thought hit me soon after. I mean, Cal was the reason I was alive, and for all I know he could choose to un-divine intervene me. Was there a word for that? Maybe curse. Whatever, I shook myself free of that thought process, it didn’t matter. I got to choose between death or death, but at least if I got gunned down by someone high on bath salts I wouldn’t have a god pissed off at me.

I was out of the bus first, before any of the poor souls who lived nearby could. It took a second for me to break free of the muscle memory trying to drag me to my apartment, setting down the hill toward my grave. 

A light drizzling of rain fell from dark clouds, like the gods were watering their garden, the runoff following me down the street towards the old docks. The sky was grey and dark, hiding the early morning sun, as it was only just bright enough for the street lights to turn off, but being an elf had its advantages. If I was human I would have been grasping in the dark, but I could see just fine. The streets were ill-maintained, married with potholes and cracks, flanked by crumbling buildings covered by graffiti and urban rot, a few of them even had bullet holes and small spots of dried blood. For as bad as it could get down here, at least the rent was low, it’s why only the desperate ended up around this place. Take a wild guess at how I know this.

Regardless, the warehouse was in view, and with it, my guts tied themselves into knots. I was flying blind and this was the kind of place you locked your car doors when you drove by it. Really shady. 

The concrete structure cast its shadow over the street below, like a sickly animal, it was riddled with the wear and tear of time’s hand, and all manner of breaks and repairs marked it as soon to be gone. It had two doors; one sort of garage door, slightly open with some dwarvish graffiti on it, I believe something to the effect of “Mason’s Terf”? The other door was perfectly standard if a bit beaten up and bent. The ocean spat up salt and dragged cigarette smoke kicking and screaming out through the cracks in the crackden. I could hear seabirds squawk and laugh at me as I drew closer to one of the building’s broken windows; no one was home.

This was stupid. This was so so so stupid. I did it, no one was home, and I could leave. But, that was a lie, wasn’t it? Because I was on the job, and I still needed to do whatever Cal sent me to do… I really wish he had been more specific. I shuffled over to the door, swallowing my heart back into my chest. With a loud creak of the hinges, I was in.

The inside was along the same vein as the outside: a beat-up red pickup truck near the garage door was serving double duty as seating. Resting precariously on some cinder blocks was a box TV and a game console, a Pandora Box I believe, however, I wasn’t really into video games so I couldn’t tell you, while the rest of the warehouse seemed to be decorated like the hangout of someone who had way to much time on their hands… How the hell did they spray-paint the ceiling?

Off of that thought, the air wreaked of cigarette smoke, the kind of deeply ingrained scent that you could only get from burning through a pack a day for at least a month. Don’t ask me how I know that. The lights were flickering above me, just barely lighting the place up, and it was in that dull light I could make out many rubbermaids, the red and blue boxes were built into mounts scattered haphazardly around the large room. There could have been a method to the madness, but I had no idea what said method was myself. Kinda just looked like they threw the boxes around with reckless abandon.

Curiosity got the better of me. I walked over to a pile on the left and popped the lid. Inside were, and I cannot stress this enough, thousands of bootleg watches. The logo claimed they were named brand Timemolds, but if that was the case then the richest man on the planet was keeping his hoard in some unmarked warehouse. Even I, someone with no mechanical knowledge past what the internet would tell me could see that these were fakes. The glass was clearly plastic, the metal just felt cheap, and the logos were misspelled on a few. 

This operation wasn’t exactly surprising. If you go to Mainstreet you can see people by the dozens pedaling these to tourists and suckers alike, but being here was like seeing how the sausage was made. In all honesty, I never thought about where they got the watches, but I supposed it made sense that they would have somewhere like here to store this shit. 

As I stood around, looking at watches, my ears pricked at the sounds of approaching footsteps. My heart tried to jump out of my chest as I ducked behind the pile of the crates. Bracing myself against it while desperately trying to slow my breathing. My veins were on fire and I felt like I could toss myself out another window at a moment’s notice, no crack-fiend needed this time.

The garage door ground open, the rusting mechanism protesting the act as speech made itself known.

“I don’t care what your uncle did,” the first voice said. It sounded like a guy, human maybe, his speech sounded like a hiss as he spoke, “We paid you quite a bit to get our ‘stuff’, so do you have it or not?”

“Well for one, Uncle Mixer was a greater man than you’ll ever be,” the second voice started, a deep baritone and a light dwarven accent. It’s the Rs, they always put a lot of emphasis on the Rs. Either way, despite the pitch I believed it was a girl, I worked with dwarves enough to pick out the different pitches of ‘incredibly deep’.
“Secondly, don’t get your robes in a twist, we got the thing. It was a pain in the ass to get through,” she growled.

Robes? Who the hell wore robes, besides priests I guess, but if this was a church then I was a troll.

I pulled myself up, peeking over the boxes just enough to see the assembled weirdos. 

There were around five dwarves, none of them exactly well dressed, lots of dirty hoodies and jeans. The head of them, and seemingly voice number two, was wearing a leather jacket over the hoodie, the word “Mason” proudly emblazoned on the back between the shoulder blades. I couldn’t make out her face beyond the gloom of the hood, but I could at the very least make out her beard, a long, black, and braided mess that ran down to her chest. On her waist, she had a pistol, a very well-crafted one, or at the very least blinged out. Nice leather emblazoned grip with some crimson highlights. Her frame was beefy, which was natural for dwarfs of any gender, the sexual dimorphism in their species being nearly non-existent… I was rambling about biology, wasn’t I?

On the other end were three humans… I think. Just as voice two said, they were wearing black robes, obscuring all but the fact that they were tall, the shortest among them being five eleven I think. But height was hard to judge at this distance.

“So? I’m waiting, and you should know my patience isn’t something to spend freely.” the man asked, resulting in a grunt from the dwarf.

“Oh sod off with that, your name doesn’t carry any more weight than mine. But ya. Dulvun!” she yelled, turning to one of the dwarves, apparently Dulvun. His hoodie really obscured most of his features, barring a cigarette clamped between yellowing teeth.
“Can you quit it with the smoking and get the fucking book?! Besides, you’re not supposed to smoke in here anyway!” she barked. Dulvun for his part just let out a low growl. He dropped the cigarette and threw back a fistful of pills that he grabbed on his way to the loft, muttering swears all the while. I just barely dodged the empty pill bottle he tossed in my general direction as I tucked myself behind the boxes again.

The conversation beyond the pile devolved into arguing, so I just focused on the bottle. It was something called Nulltraxen, if the label was to be believed. Not once in my medical studies did I ever hear of this shit. According to the bottle, it was supposed to be taken with pain, two tablets per dose. Not taken for pain, mind, with pain. Like how some pills need to be taken with food.  The wording was informal and cryptic. One line simply states ‘For when nothing can help you'. The plastic was red instead of the usual orange of these kinda bottles, and some of the letters hurt to look at like I was staring at a flashlight.

It was some kind of street drug, it had to be, but the label looked official, if weird, and it had all the proper markings and the like. I just tucked it into my pocket and prepared to focus back on the conversation when something else caught my ear.

“Yo, Dulvun! You ok up there?” one of the other dwarves yelled up the loft where Dulvun had gone up. I could hear someone hacking up a lung, dry coughing, with interspersed wheezing breaths. It sounded bad, the kind of cough that would include a bit of blood and a trip to the ER.

I leaned around the pile to see Dulvun heaving and rocking by the edge of the platform, one hand braced against the wall and another over his mouth in an attempt to stifle his death knell. He shuddered as another wave hit him, a strange blood-red smoke escaping from him as he tried desperately to catch his breath, flowing through the cracks in his fingers and crawling along the limb like coiling serpents. The cloud escaped from him like a broken fog machine, a great wall of red, before he stumbled forward, taking a tumble into the concrete below, his hoodie snagging on the metal lip of the loft, twisting him awkwardly as he hit the floor head first. A deafening thud rang out as he hit the ground.

“Ancestors!” the dwarf rushed over to his fallen comrade, quickly being swallowed by the ever-expanding cloud, “Dulvun! Dulvun are you ok-” was all anyone could hear of the stranger before a sickening snap ranged out, bone grinding against bone.

The group that was arguing snapped to attention, pistols and knives were drawn, I drew my switchblade, as the cloud crept across the ground, small tendrils reaching forward, feeling for anything not of itself. The air was thick with the smells of smoke and tension. No one dared to make a sound and I found myself holding my breath on instinct. 

Something moved in the mist, and eventually, the Dulvun emerged. His musclebound frame was suddenly gaunt, his skin greying, and his hair falling out in clumps. His eyes were yellowing and maddened, jumping between people with a feral precision, a predator watching its prey. His teeth were razor sharp and even more yellow, a black tar trickling from his mouth, the new tooth-lined hole in his throat, and the large crack in his skull. The once-dwarf took deep, heaving breaths, struggling to get any air in as he just stood there. He looked like the most exaggerated rendition of a lifetime smoker on his deathbed, granted, with a lot of artistic liberties thrown in. 

But what drew my eye above all of that was the cruel, runic script that covered his flesh, pulsing with a baleful red and driving hot nails into my brain. I couldn’t help but wander back to the madman that tossed me through the window, with the scars that covered his body.

“Cal is an asshole.” I murdered aloud, not even getting a chance to realize how bad of an idea that had been. Dulvun’s arm shot out in a single, jerky motion, and a bolt of crimson smoke followed the motion, slamming through the boxes and into me like a runaway train.

I hit the opposite wall hard, probably bruising a few ribs in the impact, but I got off easy. The three cultists made for the door, running like Hell itself was at their heels, unfortunately, it seemed that what was chasing them was far worse. Tentacles of mist burst from the smoke cloud, the pointed pseudo-limbs skewered two of the third getting a nasty slash across his waist for his efforts, ropy guts falling clean from the new opening. 

Everyone scattered, a few people firing into the monster for what little it did, the bullets were just swallowed into the dull dead flesh. While one of the dwarves even tried to stab their former ally, being reduced to a chunky paste for his troubles by a flailing tendril for his troubles, another of the dwarves quickly got swallowed by the cloud. We didn’t see him die but the screaming was a solid hint.

Not wanting to get caught in the growing cloud, I rushed over to the entrance, leaving me and the leader braced against the wall. She looked at me, her still-hidden face bunched up by the stress of the situation.

“Wh- how long have you been here?!” she yelled at me before Dulvun’s roar turned her attention back to the elephant in the room.

“Names Arthur, I’ll explain if we survive.” I panted, readying my switchblade for all the help it would be. The dwarf let out a frustrated groan escaped her as she slid a new magazine into the pistol.

“Garnet and it’s not going to be an if, it’s when!” she added, as if she could order reality itself to save us.

“We’ll see,” I muttered, turning my attention back to the task at hand. We were in the front half of the warehouse, the other half was a sea of red smoke, and now firmly planted on the threshold was a demon wearing the skin of a dwarf. 

“Doors locked?”

“Yep.” 

“Of course,” I concluded. If I survived this, I was going to kill Cal.

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First | [Next]

I could hear the hustle and bustle of Calathon City outside the Metro Market, the faint sound of cars honking and rolling along, arguments and conversations, and dogs barking wildly. Within the shop the fluorescent lights hummed with power, a hypnotic and lifeless sound, if I had been in a worse mood I’d almost have called it mocking. I was sitting behind the register, before me stretched the walls of junk food and novelty items, a veritable sea of crap, nothing I was particularly interested in, though maybe that’s because I had been staring at it for the better part of a few hours. I leaned on the counter and let out a sigh, my eyes drifting to the clock, five forty-one PM, almost time to pack it in.

I was lost in thought when I heard the door ring, forcing my best customer service face as I looked to see just who was here, luckily, it was actually someone I knew. Standing well over six feet tall, Brex was a brick wall of a man, with muscular arms and legs and a large gut, looking like he could push a semi uphill. Muddy green skin wrapped around his tremendous frame, covered by large patches of orange hair on much of his body, especially his arms and his head, which sported a goatee and mullet of the same color, tusks still visible through the hair. He wore a navy blue t-shirt and denim jeans alongside steel toed shoes, all of which was caked in sweat and grim, presumably, he just got off the job site.

He stepped into the shop, though upon seeing me his face shifted into one of surprise. I braced myself for social interaction of the most awkward variety. 

“Arthur?” He asked, his baritone voice shaking in my bones, a faint tone of disbelief painting it.

“Unfortunately. Hey Brex.” I offered weakly. The orc strode over to the counter, his steps shaking the shelving ever so slightly as he moved.

“How the hells have you been, man? I haven’t seen your sorry ass since high school.” He exclaimed jovially, grabbing my hand and shaking it vigorously. 

“Oh you know, I've been.” Was all I could really say. His face almost immediately changed to a look of understanding as he let go.

“Rough times?” He asked, my fake smile dropping.

“I have a medical degree and I’m working at a fucking corner store, what do you think?” I asked, my tone maybe a bit harder than I would have liked, he flinched slightly.

“Right, ya, fair enough. How did you end up coming to work here, anyway? I’d have thought someone like you’d be making big bucks at the Hospital of the Martyred Lady or something.”

“Ya right, they are very well known for religious discrimination, a bunch of quacks that lot, but to actually answer your question, none of the hospitals were hiring, at least, not hiring me.”

“That fucking blows, man, and it’s dumb. You’re way too good for this shit.” He said earnestly, causing a slight smile to cross my face.

“Thanks Brex. Right, let’s stop talking about my financial troubles because it’s starting to make me a bit suicidal, how have you been?” I joked, however Brex took a moment to review me, like he was trying to figure out how serious that comment was.

A long moment of uncomfortable silence grew before he managed to gather the confidence to speak again.

“Well I actually ended up getting a job with Stoneskin Construction.” He boasted.

“Really? Aren’t they the ones who work directly with Calathon?”

“The very same, it’s pretty good, thirty bucks an hour, health benefits, and plenty to do. We’re actually doing some road work up near twelfth street.” He explained, gesturing out the shop towards the street in question. To be honest it was a bit hard to not envy his station.

“Great to hear it.” I decided to say. I wasn’t angry at him, honestly, it’s just the little green monster hates seeing people living a life that I could only dream of. Not that I wanted to be a construction worker mind you, ever since I was a kid I was set on being a doctor, that’s why I moved to the city, and all I got for my troubles was disappointment. No, I envied him because he actually got his happy ending, while I’m in the shit.

I shook my head like I could kick that thought free. Brex deserved everything he has, it’s not his fault I’m in this state.

“So, you’re on break or something? Unless you still haven’t figured out how the shower works.” I jabbed, eliciting a low chuckle from him.

“Just got off work actually. Was just about to head home.” he said, absentmindedly whipping away some dirt from his forehead.
“Also, you don’t need to keep bringing up the shower room incident,” he laughed.

“Hey, I wasn’t the one that tore the handle off the damn thing. I didn’t even know a dwarf could get that red before Mr. Rustun chewed you out.” I laughed, recalling the movement. We were both on the basketball team in high school, and back then Brex was still getting a handle on his own strength.

“Do I need to remind you of the after prom party?” he snickered.

“We don’t talk about the after prom party.” I said with all the mocking seriousness I could muster. We both laughed for a bit, shifting into a comfortable silence.

“Say,” Brex eventually “are you free this weekend?” he asked, internally, my organs twisted into knots. 
“Me and a few friends are going to the bar, are you interested in tagging along? I wanna see if your iron liver has grown soft.” he offered finally, a smile on his face. I sighed.

“I’d love to, Brex, I really would, but I don’t really have any money in the bank for that.” I'm tired.

“I’ll spot you, you did the same for me Drextir knows how many times in High School.”

“Well even past that I don’t have a ride, and the metro is always hell on the weekends.”

“We’re carpooling, can’t imagine it’ll be that hard to add you to the list.” he pressed. Eventually, I sighed, like he was pushing on my body with his insistence.

“Fine, you got me. I’m down, what time?” I asked, no longer having the energy to fight him. Brex, for his part, lit up.

“Great! We’re getting together around seven, you still live in the Green Drake development?” he asked excitedly.

“Actually I got kicked out. Rent went up.” I laughed a bit, not knowing how else to say it.
“I’m currently in the Redwood Brownstone, room #329.” I explained.

“Redwood? Lord, you told me it was bad but I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“Eh, it’s a home.” I began, and before Brex could continue, I saw the night shift worker step in, a small goblin with big ears and a crooked nose.
“Oop, that’s my cue! Bye Brex, see you Sunday!” I said, stumbling over my own words as I grabbed my coat from below the counter and burst into the evening gloom, into the streetlights and the exhaust filled winds, and into the city.

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I moved on instinct, muscle memory carrying me one step at a time. With a shiver, I stuck my hands into the pockets of my old jacket, trying to keep the ice of the wind off my hands, though the metal switchblade that rested within didn’t help that plan. I was among the sea of people, dwarfs, elves, humans, orcs, and any other number of races, they shuffled along like a flowing river, carrying me forward across the sidewalk. The air was thick with car exhaust and cold with an autumn chill, the twin sensations bit at my sinuses, a sort of feeling one could feel on the backs of his eyes. The tips of my pointed ears were cold, numb from the chill, red in color now. 

I looked up as I kept marching, the sky was a dull grey, like the ground itself, as if cement wrapped around the world itself, the skyscrapers stretched upwards to support it, and the occasional plane would go crawling across its surface. Of course, it was purely metaphorical but when you let your mind wander, it takes things in a far more interesting direction.

I already found myself at the metro station, having carried myself there on autopilot alone. I have walked this path for a time that felt like forever, though in truth it is more likely that it had been a year at most, but his commute never changed. Wake up at six in the morning, get on the metro, work till six in the evening, then go home. Day in, day out, day in, day out. So on and so forth, ad nauseum. The kind of boredom that drives a rivet into your brain. Grey, like the sky, that’s the only way that I could describe, grey grey grey. 

I flicked on my phone, no new notifications, like always. With a nearly automatic movement, I tapped on one of the few apps I found myself pacing between; Spellbook, and began to scroll, replacing the grey with… a different shade of grey. Not quite as painful as boredom, it was more like a numbing feeling, mental pain killers, in a sense. The world around me drowned even more as I waited for the metal voice on the intercom to announce that I was home.

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I didn’t really start thinking again until I slipped my key into my doorknob, the faint clicking cracking me from the shell of lifelessness I found myself in. Like a hammer hitting stone. I looked up, getting a full breath of the hallway of Redwood Brownstone, the unchanging plain halls, peeling paint and thin carpet over cement, all wrapped in a thin blanket of piss yellow light. The air was stale and the thin walls allowed muffled sounds of personal life to creep through. I sighed, fully opening the door to my home and sealing myself away from the real world.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t much at all. But, it was mine, I had that much. My apartment was about five hundred square feet, the living room doubled as a bedroom, a futon standing loyally to the right most side of the small chamber, stained and ripped, yet a blessing for someone like me. My desk, one of the few pieces of furniture I kept between my many moves, a well kept little wooden thing, papers scattered on its surface. Bills, documents, scrap papers, books, and the many rewrites of my resume. Besides that, there wasn’t much to speak on. I had a fridge, oven, and counter. That was where my wealth ended.

I just stumbled over to my bed, currently a couch, and fell into it, the semi-firm surface catching me like the palm of a great hand. Usually, I could drag out even the smallest amount of energy to turn it from a couch to a bed, but today wasn’t it. My limbs were like lead and my head was fuzzy. I lost the rest of the day to unconsciousness, fading away into the mercy of sleep.

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My blissful nothingness was interrupted by a metal sound, mechanics clicking against itself in a tuneless fashion. My mind was half asleep, drunk on dreamland and begging to go back to sweet oblivion. It was just someone coming home late tonight, a neighbor buzzed off something fumbling with his keys no doubt. The walls were thin, after all, and my hearing was annoyingly good. I just needed to go back to sleep.

But before I drifted off, a creak of old hinges drove a thought through my mind, kickstarting my heart and dusting the sleep from my brain: did I lock the door? 

I practically rocketed out of bed, hitting the floor in a tumble as I tried to untangle myself from my blankets, as soon as they were off, I found myself alone no-longer. A man stood in the doorway, illuminated by the dull light behind him, he was naked save for a pair of oil stained jeans and a welding mask, covered with symbols formed from harsh strikes, the kind you could make with nothing but a knife and an undiagnosed mental illness. The weird runes traveled from metal to flesh, his chest and arms covered in the glyphs, his skin having been cut up to emblazon himself with the symbols. It hurt to look at, not in an empathic sense, but in the sense that the runes physically gave me a headache, but, I wasn’t even worried about that, it was the monkey wrench in his other hand that was the cause for alarm.

The two of us stared at each other for a long moment, like a deer in headlights, and I think you can guess who the deer was in this situation. My heart raced as I slowly reached into my pocket, trying my hardest to not set the freak off, but it didn’t work, as his head snapped to focus on me.

“Aeapnhriurst ke em!” he roared in a harsh tone before rushing me, bolting forward with a wrench in hand. On pure reflex I dove to the right, hitting the ground in something that could charitably be described as a roll, allowing me to get to my feet quickly. 

He lunged at me again, but this time I managed to get my switchblade out. He misjudged the distance between us, meaning he only nailed me in the ribs, which hurt like hell, but it was nothing that an ice pack couldn’t fix. I drove my knife forward, sticking him in his shoulder with a sickening thud, roughly where his subclavian artery was judging by the fountain of blood that began to flow out.

Any normal person would have slowed down or backed off, but he clearly wasn’t normal, so instead he just dropped the wrench, using both his free hands to grab at my throat. Now, here is the problem: I am not quite out of shape, but I’m nowhere near strong, while in turn, the guy currently trying to rip my head off is, in fact, very strong.

Darkness danced around the corners of my vision as I thrashed around in his grip, like a fish pulled onto land, desperately trying to free my knife from his shoulder. He did not relent, dragging me closer and closer to the window, the ally below waiting to swallow me whole like the maw of a great beast.

He dragged me closer, putting his head right next to my ear, whispering in his garbled speech.
“Nknl lrl aete,d fuefi ehoe,wttem.” he said, before my world was put into motion. Burning lungs breathed out in a scream as I flew through the window, broken glass following me down, like raindrops during a thunderstorm, as I plummeted three stories to the ground below.

Time slowed to a crawl. I was about to die. Arthur Tala’thel, elf of little renown, slain by some lunatic speaking in tongues. 

I would never get to pay off my college loans. 
I would never get to tell my boss to huff paint.
I’d never get to get an actual job at an actual hospital. 
I’d never get to apologize to my parents.
I’d never meet new people.
I’d never dig myself out of the hole I’m in.

I’d never get to fix my life, simply because it was already over.

I suppose that hit the hardest, even more so than the cement below that rushed to meet me. And just like that, the world went black.

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I was in agony when I woke up, but that was hardly surprising, what I was shocked by was the fact I woke up at all. See, I fell from three stories and landed head first into the concrete below. I know people my age who bite it by slipping in the shower, so the fact I was alive made me reconsider my medical skills.

With monumental effort, I forced my eyes open, taking in the scene of my would-be death. It was dark, and considering it was some time in the early AM, that much made sense. The ground and walls were covered by a thick layer of grim, dirt and winter salt, along with the various juices that flowed free from the dumpster not more than a few feet away from me. I was definitely going to get an infection. 

Otherwise, it was about as you could expect for a dark alley, all besides the mural, anyway. When I first moved here, it was the first thing I noticed. Around twelve feet tall, it was an outline of a man in reflective spray paint, filled in with tie-dye colors, like a person-shaped rainbow. Apparently it was a memorial of sorts, left to remember someone who got lit up in a drive by some years ago, but no one could actually give me a name. Frankly, it was almost ironic, I should have been like him, no one to remember me, but I wasn’t.

As I sat up, hearing each and every protest from my body at such an action, I was immediately hit by an overwhelming sense of wrongness. Like when someone moves your furniture around or if that app you use overhauled its UI for the seventh time this week. But out of that wave of unease my conscious brain picked out a few things in particular.

For starters, I couldn’t hear any cars. Calathon always had traffic, no matter the time, no matter the weather, no matter the day, there were people cued up to honk at each other, it was part of the reason I didn’t own a car, besides the price, anyway. But on that note, I actually couldn’t hear anything besides my own breathing. The city that never sleeps was dead silent, like the entire world died in my place.

That grim thought led me to the second issue: me. I ran my hand through my hair. Dry as a bone. I was alive, sure, people survive shit they aren’t supposed to all the time, but I should have had injuries. Yet, just from a preliminary check, I had no cuts, bruises, or scrapes, hell, I didn’t have so much as a sprained ankle. So either I was the luckiest man in the history of the world, or something weird was going on.

And finally, the mural itself. Now, I saw that thing every single day when I come home. Like I said, it was a man’s outline, however, it’s usually laying on the wall, like a police outline. So, with that said, why was it standing straight up? And as I stared at the mural, trying to piece together some explanation, the paint on the wall shifted, the head tilting to the side like a confused dog. 

I’m not too proud to admit that I threw myself backwards while screaming expletives. I hit the wall on the other end of the alley, bracing myself against it as my brain buzzed for anything to say or do. It was like being in the middle of a very messy argument, different nerve endings firing and screaming, pulling me in every direction, only resulting in me being frozen stiff.

The mural shifted, its head bobbing up and down in a mimicry of laughter before a voice poured through from everywhere and nowhere. It was like the city soundscape; cars rushing by, dogs barking, people talking, guns firing, and all other manner of audible clutter, but it twisted and bent to some unseen will, editing itself till it resembled a sound: a voice, specifically, one that was mocking me.

“Oh man!” it spoke, the sound of train brakes grinding away behind the layers of his speech, “You should see the look on your face! Oh by me you look like you pissed yourself!” 

“I-wh-who?” I managed to sputter out, stumbling over my own tongue in a desperate attempt to gain some control of the situation. 

“Who am I? You know who I am, or, you know of me. But, I suppose an introduction is in order.” it said, “I am the city, baby.” he said, his tone was sleazy like a car salesman, played with the sound of a busker’s guitar.

“What?”

“I’m the homeless in the streets, the cars on the road mate, I’m the devil on the shoulder of landlords and the shadows in the alley, I’m the rabid dogs and hungry pigeons, I’m the mom and pop shops and rags to riches stories! I’m the fucking city! But, you can just call me Cal.” he finished, and I swore that I could hear the sound of a drum during his little speech. It took me a long long moment for me to find my voice, not necessarily out of fear, but at this point because of sheer confusion.

“So, you’re the city itself… you’re Calathon.”

“Well,” he began, a smell of car exhaust filling the alley, “technically I’m the Patron God of the city, this city specifically.”

“How come I’ve never heard of you then?” I pushed.

“Two reasons. One, I was born two or three months ago. And two, who the hell is going to serve a God of some random ass city, besides you, anyhow.”

“Excuse me?” I managed to ask once the words clicked into place, before the mural moved, sliding across the wall like a shadow before slithering across the ground, Cal making himself known again in the reflection of a puddle I stood in, puppeting my face back at me as he spoke.

“You heard me, it’s a bit of quid-quo-pro. You should be dead as dirt mate, just brain meat decorating the pavement, a statistic used to drive the rent down. I, however, called in some favors with Miss Death. A little thing called divine intervention.” he spoke, a cash register rang out as he did, “You owe me big time, but luckily I have a solution: you’re going to be my very first Cleric!” he concluded with the cheer of a crowd backing him up.

I stumbled back from the puddle, ending up in the middle of the alley.

“Whow whow whow whow, slow down! Cleric? Why me!? Why not any other bum off the street?” I asked the landscape around me. My headache was growing in force; I had enough shit on my plate, why did it have to be me? I’ve read about Clerics, hell, the medical industry is full of them, and they’re half the reason I can’t find a job. They are servants of the Gods, given magical powers to do the bidding of their God. It was a lot of work, and not something I could deal with.

“Because you’re just the bum I chose, simple as.” he responded with a scent of street food finding my nose. As I looked around for where he actually was, my eyes landed on a pigeon perched on the lip of the dumpster. The pigeon sighed.
“Look, kid-”

“I’m older than you!”

“Whatever, it’s a lot, fine, I’ll give you that, but besides the second chance at life and the magic shit, I’ve got some benefits to offer.” he said as I crossed my arms, “I don’t have all the details yet, but one of them is you never need to pay for transit again.”

“... what kind of blessing is that?”

“Mine. The metro lines are my veins, the trams are my nerves, the bus is… something I don’t have a metaphor for. But what I’m saying is my chosen servant doesn’t need to ask permission to go point A to B. I offer this and a lot more if you’re willing to work with me.” 

I sighed.

“Do I really get a choice?”

“Do you want to die?” he asked, getting a pause from me.

“... no?”

“Well ignoring the flight risk here, if you don’t take my offer then gravity does you in, so, what do you say mate? We have a deal?” he asked, offering a wing like a hand. I didn’t have a choice. As much as my life may suck, it’s my life, and despite my misgivings with how it’s going, I still refuse to let it end. So, I reached out, grabbing the wind and giving it a shake.

“It’s a deal.” I reaffirmed, the pigeon’s beak bending into a facsimile of a smile.

“Wonderful! Oh, also this might sting a bit.” he added with the sound of police sirens.

“What?” was all I managed to get out before my world spontaneously ended in a flash of pain, like the ground from earlier finally met me.

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