Slumrat Rising

Chapter 51: Just People Helping People

“Summon humanoid system interface. Hey, explain why I am somehow magic-resistant.” Truth was filled with piss and vinegar after his nap.

The System growled. “The point of body cultivation and everyone has been telling you this from the first time you heard about it, the whole damn point is making you more real than the things around you. BUT. The universe is real. It’s really damn real. It’s so real, it’s very literally the thoughts of God the Creator made manifest. And God really believes in their own work. Although this shithole is obviously quite a number of iterations down.”

“I am… locally overruling the will of God with body cultivation?” Truth looked askance.

“No, of course not, Stupid. You are just attuning yourself to a higher degree of reality. All still God’s creation, just a better quality part of it. However, your degree of attunement is small, and, again, God’s belief in their creation, even at this crummy level, is substantial.” The System’s voice dripped condescension.

“Your belief in your own creation, your concept of your body, by means of the transformation provided by the Daily Meditations of Valentinian, fueled by the Cosmic Energy provided by your astral magic cultivation, elevates the different parts of you that your body cultivation refines. You think your hand is so tough that a fire can’t burn you, because your magic makes it so. You really, genuinely believe that. Because you have reason to. Because you have seen just how damage resistant the Meditations have made your skin in the desert. So you pick up a burning branch and goddamn if you aren’t right. It only works up to a point. A magic fire, a much hotter fire, getting hit by a wagon crossing the street, yeah, you are going to get hurt. Because the local universe can still overrule your weak-ass conception of how that’s going to go.”

“Same deal with magic, I guess. Thanks to the Meditations, I know I can resist physical damage. It’s not too much of a stretch to imagine resisting magical damage.” Truth muttered.

“Except, and I cannot emphasize this enough, imagination is just the start of it. You need belief, rooted in knowledge taken from a personal revelation, powerful enough to forcibly reshape your reality with your magic. It’s why the Meditations are called Meditations.” The System emphasized the point repeatedly. “It’s your magic doing the reshaping, but the belief gives it form. And since magic fundamentally operates on a higher level of reality than your mudball rock, resisting it is also much harder. I swear, if you trap me for an eternity in your corpse because you “Believe in the power of imagination,” I will spend every second torturing you.”

“So that’s why body cultivation is a spell. It’s transformation magic. It’s also why the System Astrologica doesn't want people using it unnecessarily. I bet it’s a lot harder to puppet people that have a higher degree of reality.” Truth said.

“Up to a point, yeah, though thanks to the oath the System is kind of backdoored into you, bypassing most of those protections. Still, when stretched over hundreds of thousands of people, “a little bit” adds up to “a hell of a lot.”

*************************************************************

Shomburuti was, in Truth’s opinion, a tan-colored city. This was not, strictly speaking, correct. It was a mad riot of washed-out blues, yellows, and reds, with green palm trees and thick-leaved succulents decorating the nicer areas. Enormous white skyrises, towering apartment blocks rising like jungle trees over the thick underbrush of boxy slums. The slums were apartment buildings here too, but even then, there were grades and levels of slum.

The cracked cement and two-thirds gone orange creamsicle paint of the low-rise slum blocks were luxury housing compared to the cardboard, scrap metal, and plastic of the real slums. He saw a man squat down by the side of the road and take a dump in a plastic shopping bag. The man tied off the bag and flung it up and over some of the shacks. Where it landed wasn’t his problem. Nor was wiping, apparently.

And even then, Truth knew, there were those even lower. Sleeping rough, or not sleeping at all. He was pretty sure he saw a body, the legs sticking out of a construction site driveway.

He drove around until he found what he was looking for. A man armed with a machete sprinted from the curb, swinging at his neck. Truth caught the arm and yanked. The mugger jerked forward as his arm was almost dislocated, running into Truth’s bare foot sticking out at groin level. It was the work of a second to remove the machete and pull the whimpering man to his feet.

“Hey buddy! Where did you live? Show me, and I will let you keep your tiny, miserable life.” Truth said with a nasty smile. The mugger responded with a string of gibberish. Or rather, a string of language he didn’t even recognize. Which was what he expected, but still. Disappointing.

“Hey, System, why no translation service, huh?” Truth asked.

We never learned another language because nothing Starbrite wanted you to do involved talking to outsiders. A good little guard dog knows what he needs to do and nothing else. You can bark in any language.

Right. Damn it all.

He sighed and looked over the mugger. Not even close to his size in clothes, his shoes were probably worse than his bare feet, and if the prick had money, he wouldn’t be trying armed robbery for a living. There went Plan A to find a place to crash. Truth casually punched the mugger in the jaw. The mugger’s head snapped ninety degrees to the left, and he collapsed onto the street. Not dead, and not his problem.

Truth kept the machete and motored towards a particularly unpleasant-looking low rise. Someone here would be part of the local gang. Which meant that someone here would be better off dead. Truth slowly ran his bike along the building. Dangling like bait.

Truth was surprised that the trash smelled different in Shomburuti. It still reeked. It might actually smell worse than in Harban- or was that his new and improved nose? Sharper somehow, and with hints of sickly sweetness that alternately confused and disgusted.

He could see some of the local slumrats squatting beside the orange lowrise apartment block. Other rats had cheap folding chairs that they collapsed on, watching the world go past. He couldn’t read them well enough to figure out which were the gangsters and which were their prey.

Wait. Wait for one damn second. Even if he hooked another mugger, they still wouldn’t be able to tell him what apartment they lived in or anything, really. This was dumb. This was exactly why he had to read more books.

“Hey, System, you said that rewards improve the more information I feed you. How about a new mission- acquire a dictionary of the local language, samples of the written language, and then some samples of how it is colloquially spoken? Reward: I learn the language.

PERSONAL DEVELOPMENT MISSION: Learn The Local Language (1) Chain Mission. Acquire a dictionary and grammar guide for the local language. REWARD: Limited translation of heard language, enhanced language learning ability.

Truth thought that one through for a moment, then frowned. “Wait, that’s crap. You will translate what I hear but not what I speak? And you will just “enhance” my learning ability? What does “enhance” even mean?

PERSONAL DEVELOPMENT MISSION: Set your genitals on fire. REWARD: Reputation increase with the System.

“Oh fuck you too.”

(Mission is repeatable for a limited time. HINT: A rare and valuable opportunity to earn reputation!)

“No, really. Not sure how you expect me to “gather power” if I can’t talk to the locals.”

HINT: The System already told you that it cannot interact with the material world beyond tiny changes in your brain. HINT: If the System could affect things outside your body, it would have done it by now. HINT: Meatsacks flap their wet holes at each other, vibrating, or more accurately, molesting the air, deluding themselves that they understand each other. HINT: They are wrong. You were always going to die alone.

Truth tried to parse that out.

“You are saying you cannot translate what I say because you can’t make actual noise. I just hallucinate what you say. However, while you can’t directly enter the language from my book into my brain, you can… adjust things so that I learn the language more easily?”

There was silence. Perhaps the System thought the answer was obvious.

“Also, Captain Courtesy, you said my body tortures you, and that’s why you are such a pissy little bitch. I don’t know why, and it sounds like you don’t know why, but do you have any ideas on how we can figure it out? Seems important.”

HINT: Learn more spells. Learn more things generally. Load up on as much knowledge, particularly magical knowledge related to spirits, as possible.

“So… nothing we can really do right this minute?”

There was silence again, which Truth reckoned was agreement. He grinned and prodded the chained spirit in the iron horse forward. Time to go looking for a library.

He cruised the streets, moving from the crummy, slummy, low-rise buildings into the downtown area. And then stopped because the street was gated and the armed guards carried military-grade fetishes. He followed the traffic and went left. Then he found another likely-looking street, went down it, thought a particular neighborhood might be promising… and the same thing happened again. It seemed that the nice areas were all cordoned off by private security. Anyone not on the list was kept out at the point of a spell. Just like home. Truth sighed and kept at it.

Two hours later, Truth managed to find a bookstore. Truth strode into the bookstore, looking around for the dictionaries. Or phrase books or something. Anything. He was sick of not being understood. The shopkeeper immediately came out from behind the counter and yelled at him. Waving at the door. Shoved him towards the door. That last one didn’t work out for the shopkeeper.

“I don’t speak your language. I need a phrase book.”

More shouting, more waving. The shopkeeper retreated behind the desk and reached down for something. Truth jumped over the counter and knocked him out. He had been reaching for some kind of homemade fetish. Big ugly thing. Truth had no idea what it was supposed to do. He had a better look around the store. It was a nice-ish area, so people were looking at him, gawking… and some were pulling out charms. He didn’t want to find out what they were for.

Truth grabbed a shopping bag, found what looked like a collection of guidebooks, dumped some in the bag, and started heading for the door.

HINT: System Integration of your Credit Account and the local economy has not yet been implemented, and, regrettably, you have no lapel pin. HINT: The cash register is right there, halfwit.

“Spent my entire life trying to avoid armed robbery. And now we're here.” Truth thought. He smacked the register open, cleaned out the currency, realized that he had lost his pockets along with his lapel pin, and dumped the cash into the shopping bag.

“I guess this is technically unarmed robbery. I left the knife and spear on the bike.” Skinny little shopkeeper. No way his clothes would fit. Feet the size of boats. Wouldn’t fit in the other direction. He rushed out for his two-wheeler, hoping that nothing remembered his face.

He left the fetish. He wouldn’t trust that thing as far as he could throw it. No serious weapon should have animal parts hanging off of it.

Truth zipped through the streets, splitting traffic lanes and acting like a high-speed nuisance. At this point, he would normally call up the system for anti-surveillance spells, camouflage, disguise, or something. But now… all he could do was run. His reflexes were getting a real test as carriages and wagons wove in and out of lanes seemingly randomly. Traffic lights appeared to be nonexistent, as did traffic police.

Truth cut hard over to an empty stretch of sidewalk and slammed on the brakes. The tires left two black streaks four meters long down the cracked concrete pavement. He tried to remember. Had he seen even one cop at any point today?

No. He had seen private security. Everybody seemed to have some sort of weaponry or magic at hand. But no cops. He racked his brain further. He was in the Ressilaud Free State. Distinguishing features- largely desert or bare scrub. Long coastline, with a significant pirate presence. Mountains in the west, with high-end food cultivation. There was no standing military, but the ruling oligarchy did field significant PMCs that filled that same role. The citizenry was 97% bandit, 3% literal babies. No cops.

The Free State was so free it was expected that every citizen could handle their own personal and property protection. Someone stole your stuff? Steal it back. They are in a gang? Hire your own gang. Can’t afford your own gang? Talk to your neighbors, and see if you can’t band together somehow. Or not. Or just be shit out of luck and be grateful they didn’t take your life with your wallet. He didn’t see anything resembling a security logo in the tiny bookstore. Or gang colors.

He set off at a more sedate pace. That is probably why there were no libraries, either. Unless the librarians were armed to the teeth, they would have been robbed blind before they opened their doors.

Which made things both easier and harder. He looked around for a bench or something to read on. There wasn’t one, of course. There was, however, a stall selling some kind of hot rolled egg wrap thing. Patrons bought the wrap, then sat on flimsy-looking short plastic stools. The locals seemed to eat quite happily, sitting on something Truth wouldn’t have trusted to support a cat’s weight, so the stools must have been sturdier than they looked. He hesitated, the humiliating image of crushing the dinky stool vivid in his mind. Screw it. Hot food was a lifetime ago. The foodie dream beckoned. Time to live adventurously.

Truth strolled up to the stand, ignoring the absolutely filthy looks he was getting from everyone. It occurred to him that he had seen exactly zero other people wearing this sort of tribal wrap. Was this a cultural thing? He certainly didn’t look like the locals either. It might be a double layer of cultural things.

Truth kept a sharp eye on the people paying for the food. A wrap seemed to cost one of the brown bills, and you could get two for a green bill with two small lilac bills in change. A wrap and coffee was a green bill, so… coffee was expensive here? Or eggs were very cheap. Working to order, the man running the stall would break two eggs into a bowl. He would then take a small head of cabbage, cut a cross-hatch on the top, then shave the slivers off the top and into the bowl. He repeated the operation with an onion, then a tomato, then some manner of pepper. Not more than a few grams of each, the vegetables carefully set aside for the next customer. No cutting board required. The ingredients were beaten together in a bowl, then poured onto a well-oiled griddle.

The pour looked casual, but Truth noticed that the diameter was the same every time. After a scant minute of cooking, the eggs were just set. The cook flipped the whole omelet over, revealing a gloriously browned underside. A roughly round, thin flatbread was slapped on top of the eggs, the whole arrangement was flipped once again, the bread allowed to warm for a couple of seconds, then it was scooped up and rolled tightly. The wrap was then put in a plastic bag and handed to the customer to eat at their leisure. The smell was incredible, and the customers looked indecently happy eating it.

Truth reached the front of the line, getting an up-close glare from the vendor. He pointed at the egg wrap thing and waved a brown note. The vendor said something harshly to Truth, who just shrugged and honestly indicated that he did not, in fact, speak the language. A green bill was waved, and words were loudly repeated. The brown bill was waved back with assertive jabs at the eggs. A finger was pointed away, and loud instructions made. Truth smiled and slapped his hand down on the griddle. It did get pretty warm, but nothing too terrible. Not once he focused on the Meditations, making his hands near fireproof. Of course, there was no external sign of that. Just Truth, staring the cook directly in the eye as his hand failed to burn on a hot pan.

He got his eggs for one brown note. He sat on one of the little plastic stools, which creaked and shifted alarmingly but didn’t actually collapse. Truth took a bite and melted. It was… just perfection. So soft. So wonderfully soft. The bread was mild and warm, with a hint of salt. The browned eggs, the acidity and sweetness of the vegetables, then the warm heat from the peppers picked up, and he could cry. It was so good.

Truth tried to look through the guidebooks at the table, but none were in a language he could read. Or, honestly, recognize. He had committed unarmed robbery for basically some pretty pictures and lunch money. He would be mad about it, but the wrap was so. Damn. Good. He looked around, shaking his head in frustration. No idea where to go next.

He saw a young man with a red-eyed bird demon perched on his shoulder, trying to pick up girls. Handsome guy. If he was getting instantly rejected, just how doomed was Truth? Shame. Damn shame. Although, summoning an imp wouldn’t be a terrible idea. They were very handy for all kinds of things. If unreasonably dangerous.

He finished the sandwich and briefly considered getting another. The young man reached out and tore off a woman’s skirt, running with his trophy into an alley as the woman folded over herself and screamed. The young man was laughing heartily, his demon right along with him.

Truth couldn’t help but notice that the young man was about his size in clothes. And wearing what looked like gang colors. He picked up his shopping bag and quickly ran towards the alley.