Midnight Rail

by daOtterGuy

Ticket to Tartarus III

“It's hunting our future products,” the client said. “That’s our job.”

The client in question was a stoutly man with cold eyes and an aggressive disposition. Soarin doubted the man had a single margin of empathy within him. A useful feature, when your occupation was to harvest the body parts of the recently deceased and the recently poor.

“Anything you can tell me about it?” Soarin asked, keeping the irritation out of his voice. They had been talking for thirty minutes and the man had done nothing but whine and complain.

“Nope,” the client stated, arms crossed. “Just some gangly-looking weirdo with a basket full of parts. Parts that are rightfully ours.” He tilted his head to the side, scrunching up his face in thought. “And it clicks. Like some kinda insect.”

Vague, but enough of a description to get started.

“Alright. It hangs about in the Red Alleys?”

“Yep. If you listen for the clicks, you’ll find it soon enough.”

Soarin tipped his hat and walked past the man into the alleyway behind him. He unfurled his whip, ready to fight the creature at a moment’s notice.

The Red Alleys were the backstreet of a Rust restaurant district known as the Exotics. Every part of the Rust had something like it, restaurants willing to cook anything and serve it to paying customers. Because of that, they worked with a lot of different food, including ingredients taken willingly or unwillingly from those that don’t really have a say in the matter.

It was so named because it was the dumping ground for those restaurants. Dumpsters piled high with rotting meat that stained the cobblestones a rusted red. The smell was horrific and clung to everything. It followed anyone that entered, reminding them for days afterward of the detached rotting arms reaching out of the garbage.

For Soarin, it was just more fuel for whatever nightmares he would be plagued with the next time he slept.

As he traversed the main thoroughfare of the alleys, he spied a suspicious pile of blankets pressed up against one of the dumpsters. On a hunch, he approached and was rewarded for his curiosity by the haggard form of a young woman, attempting to covertly munch on what appeared to be someone’s leg.

“Where did you get that?” Soarin asked.

The woman held the leg tightly to her body, red-stained teeth barred. “None of your business,” she hissed.

“Was it from a Deviant?” She flinched. “I’ll take that as a yes. Do you know where it is?”

“... Maybe,” she replied.

“I’m hunting it. Can you point me in the right direction?”

“What do you got?”

He didn’t have anything to give, which meant he had to resort to a threat. “I’m working for one of the harvesters off the main row. Tell me where the Deviant is and I don’t tell him where you are.”

She shot him a furious glare. At one time, Soarin might have felt guilty, but neither he nor she were in a position to hold themselves to morality.

Not when morals got you killed and inevitably wracked with more debt.

“It went down the alley behind you and set up shop on one of the offshoots. Just listen for the clicks.”

“Thanks,” Soarin replied.

Not waiting for a response, Soarin continued his trek down the indicated alley. The red of the cobblestones died down as he moved further away from the main street, but the smell remained as pungent as ever.

Click. Click.

Soarin stopped. He turned toward the alley from where the sound had come from and carefully inched his way toward it. Hiding behind the corner, he peeked around.

Before him was, presumably, his quarry, tall and spindly with six long arms that ended in razor sharp nails. It was  covered in thick stained cloth with a large woven basket on its back filled with severed parts. Its face was fully covered but for three eyes that peered  through gaps in the fabric.

We Sell Wholesale was carefully tearing apart a whimpering man, each severed piece carefully placed within its overflowing basket.

A spark of fear and excitement shot through Soarin. The prior was his natural response to the Deviant, while the latter came from Rot, who was eager for the upcoming fight. Soarin quickly tried to contain said eagerness. He didn’t want to use him if he could avoid it. But if he had to… he would. We Know the Way had already taught him that he couldn’t forgo his last resort.

We Sell Wholesale finished scavenging what parts it could. The man, thankfully, had died between limb tearing. The remainder was dropped unceremoniously to the ground. The Deviant’s bandages rustled, and a massive jagged maw roughly positioned where a human stomach would be  opened and began to devour the leftovers. It was fully focused on this endeavor, and would be Soarin’s best chance to kill it.

Moving quickly, but quietly, Soarin maneuvered himself into the alley, hoping the creature’s messy eating would cover the sound of his footsteps. Once he was behind We Sell Wholesale, he tightened his hold on his cable whip and readied to lasso the abomination. Anxiety flared as he remembered his injured arm. He hoped it would hold.

A deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Then he threw it.

The throw was perfect. It looped around the Deviant’s torso and six arms. It paused in its eating, seemingly startled by this turn of events. Acting fast, Soarin pulled on the cable.

As planned, the Deviant’s six arms were pulled tightly to its body. It made several startled clicking noises as it hit the ground.

Hoping to stun it, Soarin flicked on the electricity in his cables. The Deviant screeched as volts pumped into it. It fought through the pain and lunged at Soarin, who fell back onto the cobblestones and brought up his legs as it reached him. One on its upper torso, the other just below where he knew its mouth was. It snapped open its jaw, but was kept safely away from him by the placement of his feet.

Red saliva dripped to the ground from gnashing teeth. Soarin ensured his grip was tight on the cables, then punched the Deviant in its face, aiming for the eyes. It screamed. He punched it again. And again. And again. The eyes became bloodshot as Soarin continued his assault.

Suddenly, We Sell Wholesale scrambled back, blood dripping from its face. Soarin double-checked his grip and readied for whatever the Deviant was preparing.

It convulsed, jerking in odd motions before releasing a loud scream. To Soarin’s growing horror, a second Deviant began to lift itself out of We Sell Wholsale’s basket.

His watch beeped to life. Text scrolled across. Goods For Sale. Level 1.

It had a Minion.

Why did it have to have a Minion?

Goods For Sale dropped to the ground. It was an amalgamation of parts that We Sell Wholesale had gathered, formed into a giant meatball. A horrendous comparison made worse when it began rapidly rolling toward him.

Soarin sidestepped the new arrival. We Sell Wholesale lunged at him again. He dodged around it and yanked on the cables. The primary Deviant stumbled and fell to the ground.

The Minion had slammed into a wall. After a few seconds of maneuvering itself to face Soarin, it began to rev up, readying to roll at him again.

He couldn’t keep up. There was no way. He could manage for a while, but either he was going to lose his grip on We Sell Wholesale, who was going to tear him limb from limb, or Goods For Sale was going to tire him out and manage to steamroll him. It was a lose-lose situation.

Which meant he was left with only his last resort. Giddiness welled up inside him as Rot came to the same realization. He didn’t want to. But he couldn’t afford more debt.

Soarin called on They Rot From Inside.

Power coursed through him. The stench of rot intensified as his body was overtaken by the rotten pig inside of him. He could feel the maggots forming and squirming under his skin.

Goods For Sale rolled toward him.

They grabbed it by its center with one hand.

Before the Deviant could even react, they used their other hand to begin tearing Goods For Sale apart. The amalgamation screamed as he did. Maggots roared from their arms, ripping into the pieces that remained.

They dropped the remains to the ground, and began to approach We Sell Wholesale, keeping a tight grip on the leash. It screeched.

Together, they looped the slack of the cable around the Deviant’s neck and pulled. And pulled. And pulled.

Its head popped off with a sickening pop.

When the Deviant began to dissolve into nothing, Soarin called Rot back, shoving it back into the box where it should hopefully never leave again (it will happen again). Engorged maggots dissolved into red puddles, mixing in with the stained cobblestones.

Soarin stared up at the sky. He couldn’t do it by himself.

With some lingering resentment for a time fargone, he had never wanted to.

He trudged back to his office, head hung, hands tucked into his pockets. Bittersweet joy filled him. He’d gotten paid, well. More than he’d ever gotten before hunting down measly Level 1s. But it was tainted by him needing Rot in order to accomplish it.

His combat style wasn’t suited for solo fighting, but it was all he knew how to use. He could try to wield a blade, but training to use it was likely to get him killed.

Any Deviant that was more than one was going to be impossible for him. Not without… he didn’t want to… that wasn’t worth dwelling on in the moment. Soarin decided it was better to ride that joyous high on getting paid. Maybe even enough that he could afford something to quickly heal his throbbing arm instead of waiting for it to recover.

“Soarin.”

He looked up, surprised. He was close to his office. Standing before the door was a rough-looking man. He had the look of someone who had been in a fair number of scraps and the confidence that he would get through many more. A confidence further backed by the thuggish people that surrounded him.

The man grinned at him. It was not a pleasant sort of grin. Too late, Soarin recognized him.

“Get’em,” the man said.

Before Soarin could even react, they were upon him. Blows rained down on him as he attempted to cover himself with his arms and wings. One punch landed on his arm, causing him to cry out in pain. Another went into his stomach causing him to hunch over. The next decked him out on the ground. He curled into himself as they kicked him. He could feel nothing but an immeasurable amount of pain.

After what felt like an eternity had passed, Soarin hesitantly opened up from his position to see the confident man looking at him at his level with that same horrible smile.

His debt owner. Brass Knuckles.

“You owe us money,” Brass stated.

“I’ve been paying it back,” Soarin said.

“We know,” Brass replied. “Real reliable. But—” the man held up a finger “—I had a bad day and youse was in the neighbourhood. So, I decided to send a reminder.”

“I’ve been paying it back,” Soarin repeated, desperately.

“And keep doin’ it, got it?”

Without knowing a better response, Soarin nodded his head. Brass smacked him lightly on the cheek.

“Atta boy.”

Brass stood up and walked away, his thugs trailing after him, laughter following in their wake. Soarin stayed on the ground. Pain radiated through him, his body thoroughly battered.

Soarin didn’t get it. What did he do wrong? What could he have possibly done to deserve this? At what point in his life did he wrack up enough karma to be owed such a miserable existence?

A deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Those questions were pointless. He already knew the answer. He was a loser. In both meanings.

Soarin began the laborious process of standing back up. He fought back the urge to scream and curse in fear of drawing the attention of Brass again. Once he was (barely) standing, he limped the rest of the way to his office, each step a herculean task.

He shoved open the door, stumbling forward and falling to the floor in the process. The additional pain was nothing compared to what he already felt.

Kicking the door shut behind him, he crawled toward his lounge chair. Pulling himself up through sheer force of will, he flopped back into it, letting some measure of relief flood through him from the comparative comfort of the chair.

Ragged breaths. He fought through the pain and willed back any tears. He didn’t have the luxury to break down. Not when he needed to rest to get back to the neverending grind. He didn’t care that his mind wanted to wallow in in misery, he needed to keep it together.

Hoping for a distraction, he looked across his desk and spied the blue envelope from earlier. He grabbed it, tore it open and quickly caught the two pieces of paper that dropped out of it.

One was a dark blue ticket with ‘Admit One’ imprinted into it on a backdrop of a crescent moon. The other was a piece of elaborate stationery with fancy words scrawled across the page.

He read the letter.

Soarin leaned back in his chair, letter still in hand. What kind of cruel joke was this? Clear his debts? Work for some unknown company he’d never heard of? Travel to some weird location no one goes to? Who was dumb enough to fall for this?

… Or desperate enough?

He couldn’t work with his injuries. That meant he needed rest for a few days. A night of any sleep would give him enough strength to drag himself to the old station.

If it was a lie, then no time was wasted. If it was real, he could weigh his options after inquiring further about the details. If he was walking into a trap and wound up getting himself killed permanently…

Well, that was that then.

Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. He let himself drift off to sleep. Tomorrow he would deal with whatever may come of this letter.

For now, he slept.