I kept pushing. Limping like some half-dead mutt up through the slums.
Deeper into Vicarria.
The rich people side.
"Ehehe... who cares," I muttered under my breath. "If I go, I get fed. If not, then... oh well. I'll just steal from the rich-rich folks."
That was the plan.
A perfect, flawless plan from a half-starved idiot with a limp and dried blood on his neck.
I used walls as a crutch. Dragged myself forward. One hand gripping cracked bricks, the other pressed against my ribs. The sun was already dipping below the glass towers, shadows cutting sharp over polished roads.
The air even smelled different here. Less shit. Less metal.
More... sugar.
Grill smoke. Citrus. Something buttery and warm that made my mouth ache just smelling it.
My stomach growled again.
It wasn't a polite little grumble. It was a threat. A death sentence.
"Shut up," I whispered down at it. "You're the reason I'm out here."
I wandered deeper into the good part of town. Houses had gates and electric fences and trash cans that weren't overflowing. Trees with actual leaves. Cars that didn't leak oil.
One building caught my eye. Bright. Yellow light spilling from glass doors. A glowing sign above it.
'GAS STATION'
"A what...?"
I stared for a while. It didn't look like anything I knew.
No guards. No locked entrance. Just... open.
So I walked in.
Cold air slammed into me the second the door shut.
I flinched.
The air was fresh. Filtered. Artificial. It didn't belong here.
Neither did I.
Neon lights buzzed overhead. Shelves lined with colorful bags and bottles. Rows of strange names. Symbols. Shiny packaging.
It was like walking into a hallucination.
Or maybe I died outside. And this was hell.
"Whoa," I said.
Soft. Quiet. Almost scared.
I moved forward slowly. Limping. One hand brushing over a shelf stacked with blue triangle chips. The label said "XTRAZAP RAZOR NACHO."
What the hell's a razor nacho?
I didn't care. I was hungry enough to eat plastic.
My hand reached for the bag.
"Ey," a voice cut through the silence.
I froze.
Behind a thick plexiglass divider stood a guy. Maybe twenty-something. Bleached buzzcut. Jacket too clean. Eyes sunk in like he didn't sleep much.
He didn't look mad. Just... done.
He didn't even blink. Just looked at me like I was something he scraped off a boot.
"Don't touch unless you're buying," he said.
His voice was dry. Tired.
I let my hand fall.
"Just looking," I muttered.
"Right. That's what the last one said." He didn't move. Just kept watching. "You gonna piss yourself or pass out?"
"Maybe both."
"Cool."
He turned his attention back to whatever screen was in front of him.
I wandered down the aisle. Eyes dragging over candy bars, meat sticks, bottled water with floating glitter in it.
I stopped at a glass cooler. Pressed my forehead to the door.
Behind it, rows of drinks. Energy shots. Protein vials. Something called "KRAMM."
"Looks like poison," I said out loud.
"I'd drink it if I were you," the guy called from the front. "Tastes like battery acid, but it'll keep you awake for three days."
I turned.
"You try it?"
He gave a slow shrug. "You think I work here 'cause I have choices?"
I walked toward the counter. Stared through the divider at him.
He stared back.
"You from the slums?" he asked.
I nodded.
"You gonna try and steal something, or what?"
"Not yet."
"Cool. Just don't bleed on the chips."
I paused.
"You got any food that's like... Tasty and could heal me?"
He leaned to the side. Opened a drawer. Pulled out a mashed up paper with a semi-eatem burger and some fries, along with an little can that said XTREME DEATH PUNCH. He slid it through the slot under the divider.
I picked everything up.
"Got it yesterday. Still edible."
I stared at it.
"...Why give it to me?"
"Because I don't feel like dragging your corpse out of here when you collapse."
"Ah. Fair."
I turned to leave.
He called after me.
"Hey."
I glanced back.
"You see a black drone above you, run. Those're Vicarrion bots. They don't talk. Just shoot."
"Cool," I said. "Thanks."
He turned back to his screen.
I stepped outside. Sat on the curb. Tore open the the bag.
It tasted like mush and sadness.
But it was warm-ish.
And it was mine.
I didn't even finish the food. Just held it. Half the burger hung limp in my hand, grease sliding between my fingers. My stomach stopped yelling the second it had something. The rest just felt... pointless.
I sat there. On the curb. Watching shiny cars pass by like I didn't exist.
Which, to them, I didn't.
I wondered what they'd do if they saw me bleed out on their perfect white sidewalks. Probably complain about the mess.
The XTREME DEATH PUNCH tasted like metal and citrus rot. Burned my throat. I choked it down anyway. Some part of me wanted to puke. The rest of me whispered that'd be a waste.
My bones ached. My ribs were still screaming from earlier.
I just wanted to lie down.
But I didn't.
Because then I'd sleep.
And then I'd dream.
And dreams were a scam.
I looked up. The sky was dark now. Reapers moved above like sparks over a dying fire. Fast. Cold. Beautiful, if you were into that kind of thing.
I wasn't.
I stood up.
It hurt.
Everything hurt.
I left the rest of the food there, under the soft yellow light of the gas station's flickering sign.
Not because I didn't want it.
Because I knew I'd be back. Probably too soon.
I wandered off. Somewhere. Nowhere. Just moved.
Until I felt it.
A pulse.
Not from my chest. From my arm.
Bonecord.
It wrapped under the skin of my right arm like a parasite pretending to be part of me. Most of the time, I forgot it was there. It liked it that way.
Now, it buzzed.
Not loud.
Not painful.
Just… enough to say, "Hey."
I stopped walking.
The street was empty. Too clean.
I looked at my hand.
The lines of the Bonecord were glowing faint. A dull bone-white light.
"What now?" I whispered.
The cord didn't answer. It never did.
I looked down the road. And I wasn't alone anymore.
Someone stood at the far end of the street. Barefoot. Dressed in something shredded and black. No lights touched them. Their face was gone. Just a smear where eyes and mouths should be.
They weren't real. Or they were too real. I couldn't tell.
The Bonecord pulsed again.
I turned. Walked the other way.
Didn't run. Just walked.
You don't run from things that aren't chasing you.
Unless they are.
And even then, running means you think you can get away.
Which I didn't.
Eventually, the buildings thinned out. Streetlights flickered. Shadows got thicker.
I found an alley behind a bakery that was closed for the night.
It smelled like yeast and blood.
I crawled behind the dumpster. Curled up.
The Bonecord calmed.
I closed my eyes.
And the last thing I heard before sleep dragged me under—
was a whisper.
Not from someone near me.
Not from the street.
Not from the world.
It came from above.
From the sky.
From the passing Reapers.
They were laughing.
Like they knew something I didn't.