Proactive Reasoning

Getting the prisoners squared away was a surprisingly simple affair. A sleepy guard slumped over a shoddy desk just outside the iron door to the section of the basement someone had decided to make into a prison barely asked any questions at all. I could only guess that a gang this large in a land this lawless didn’t really care why you were taking someone prisoner, only how many cells they needed and how much food. Although, I did consider that it could be a precaution in case someone with enough strength ever decides to enforce “law and order” in whatever form they believe in; having books filled with people labeled clearly as hostages, ritual sacrifices, prisoners, or whatnot would look awful suspect when a judgemental, self righteous maniac comes a knocking.

Then again, the sign in sheet for the prisoners, despite being labeled a “guest book,” was laid out like a business’ inventory sheet; each “guest” was given a number, a cell, and no other identification. Not all that different to a professional prison back home, I suppose. Not that that made it any more humane, though I had no doubt as to if anyone gave the slightest thought about such things.

Baldy had decided to blindfold the prisoners rather than risk them causing a fuss over getting their eyes gouged out. I didn't disagree, I figured it was better to be able to threaten to blind them later when they inevitably wound up tortured for information; though, I kept my internal questioning over whether they would even have any information to give to myself. I certainly wouldn’t give disposable, drug fueled, throwaway conscripts any useful information, but assuming your enemies are clear headed and wise would be a stupid way to miss out on useful information, I suppose.

Dismissing the prisoners' potential lack of information as someone else's problem, I spun on my heel the moment the last one was safely squared away and headed for Markus' office as quickly as I could without outright running; I didn't want to look too hasty lest I counteract the goodwill of overseeing the prisoners, but I also didn't want to seem like I wasn't taking this whole situation seriously.

A not inconsiderable part of me wondered why I was even bothering to put so much care into my persona here, an exasperated, antisocial, and most of all tired voice just wanting to go the fuck to bed and sleep off the jitters from almost dying several times in a span of minutes whispered in my thoughts. The much larger part of me that acknowledged my "home base" as just as dangerous as the outside and only half as hostile, ruthlessly crushed this miserable version of me. Strength, power, is everything; even if that "power" is simply the positive opinions of your colleagues making them hesitate a moment before they stab you in the back, that moment’s pause could be the difference between life and death. The right image can swindle me up some useful advice, assistance, or resources that could potentially save my life just as well as the wrong one can have me left for dead or shot in the back.

Goodwill is never as reliable as strength of arms and armaments, but right now my dismal Charisma could very easily be the difference between a pat on the back and a shank between the ribs. I hated that, hated the feeling of something so flimsy and ephemeral being my best defense; it was akin to standing over a vast gulf, knowing all that kept you from a deadly plunge was a thin sheet of transparent ice. Terrifying, and infuriating; even more so given I had previously dismissed the stat as irrelevant.

Irritable thoughts of backburned stats bubbling through my mind, I decided that preparation was the better part of valor and ducked into a dusty restroom. A single pace through told me no one else was using the place (and the thin layer of dust told me no one had in more than a little while), so I stepped into a stall, closed and locked the door behind me, tossed the archer's head into the corner, and sat down on top of the toilet cover so my small body wouldn't fall through the gap.

I frowned into the open air, hesitating to open my stats; I knew that grimy little doorman might be able to observe everything in the building, but I wasn’t sure if leveling was anything unusual in this world. In my time here I had never seen anyone leveling, nor had I ever really heard anyone discussing their leveling outside vague references to evolution. On the other hand, I hadn’t exactly engaged anyone in casual conversation in my time here either; Rokharth’s training course did not leave time for leisurely activities like talking, nor did the wicked old vampire seem to believe in such fanciful things as “breaks” or “relaxation” being in any way necessary. Given no one had seen fit to tell me either way, to my knowledge having a system and leveling how I do could be entirely normal or completely bizarre on this world; unfortunately, the only real way to find out such information was to either ask outright -and thus risk drawing suspicion for asking such an either basic or outlandish question regardless of the answer- or be caught using it.

I also wasn’t certain how or even if the snaggle-toothed bastard could spy on the building; while the singular skill of his I had seen certainly hinted that he was aware of the goings on inside the hospital, it was more than vague enough to leave it entirely up in the air as to how exactly he did that. He could be perceiving things in any number of passive or active ways using any number of mundane or mystical senses; without the knowledge to block or even detect such things, I had no real way to do anything about it regardless.

In the end, I added finding ways to detect and counter ranged observation methods to my depressingly long list of necessities I had no present means of attaining, and decided to increase my stats anyway. Besides, it wouldn’t be much safer constantly needing to duck out during missions or find an excuse to leave the building every time I needed to spend points, nor did I have any delusions about my ability to keep the physiological differences leveling and evolving caused hidden long term. Ducking out of sight and returning changed would make me seem extremely suspicious while leveling could be entirely normal or could be phrased as an asset to the gang.

Despite my lingering misgivings, I opened up my stats and quickly put a hundred points in Charisma and Will (I was tempted to spend all of my points at once, but I both thought I probably didn’t have the time and wanted to experiment a bit more with them); then, guided by impulse, I dumped forty eight points into Fortune to make it an even hundred. My desire for the sweet fire of increasing power whispered 'why not' into that tiny voice that liked flat numbers just enough to overcome my wariness for the ethereal stat. A part of me immediately regretted the rather rash decision, but my concerns over the esoteric stat only managed to rise over my base desire for a scant moment before the change began and alabaster flames burned hesitance and fear away with every other thought in my head.

I nearly bit through my upper jaw as I quickly stifled a sound that was half moan and half scream, whether either one was of pleasure or agony I wasn't quite sure. Every cell of my body lit up with an unspeakable white fire even as my very mind and soul erupted with incomprehensible sensation. I could feel the unearthly blaze seeping into my mind, solidifying my Will as if it were something tangible, something that could burn right alongside my cells. My body writhed as my mind shattered and used the very fires that broke it to weld itself back together stronger, all the while I could faintly feel the elastic veil of Fortune bend ominously under my ethereal weight.

For attaining one hundred Charisma, you have gained the Trait: Worm Tongue

For attaining one hundred Will, you have gained the Trait: Will Of The Flesh

For attaining one hundred Fortune, you have gained the Trait: Survivor

Minutes (or perhaps hours or days for all I could tell) later the seething, electric pleasure faded and I slumped on my porcelain throne, gasping for breath as I tried to get my bearings. I felt… better, in a way that was hard to quantify. Will seemed to make my mind feel more focused, my thoughts more organized and stable than ever before while Fortune and Charisma were less tangible or obvious changes, at least based on what I could tell while slumped over a toilet anyway.

Once I got my breathing under control and my limbs stopped shaking with phantom echoes of the unearthly pleasure of the system, I levered myself to my feet and half-walked half-stumbled my way over to the rack of sinks. I wasn’t tall enough to actually reach the sinks themselves, but I could reach and lean against the dusty cabinet hiding what my nose told me were definitely rusted pipes beneath them as my quakes settled. A few moments later and with limbs no longer made of blissful jelly, I hopped up and pulled myself onto the countertop to see myself in the smeared mirror, searching for any sign of what my increased Charisma might have done to me.

It wasn’t hard to tell, though if I hadn’t been looking I’m certain I would have dismissed it. It was nothing obvious, no dramatic change to my facial structure or supernatural glow to me; no, it was a large amount of smaller things. My teeth were aligned better and shone a little brighter in the dim light, my fur had a luster and fullness to it even for as oily as it was, my tail had smoother skin with no visible hair follicles, but what stood out with a chorus of wailing alarms was how I stood. Even just casually inspecting myself, my Agility and Charisma combined formed a picture of confidence and casual grace that didn't quite fit how I remembered standing.

The unsettling, crawling feeling of wrongness only got worse when I moved.

Looking at myself in the mirror and seeing nothing of my old self had become bleakly familiar at this point, but to find even my casual movements utterly alien to my former humanity drew a buzzing sigh from my chest. My body moved with grace and efficiency now, though my humanoid appearance seemed to only emphasize the stark differences in just how I moved compared to my former life. For a few seconds I simply watched my muscle tense and joints flex in ways graceful but just subtly off from humanity before shaking my head and tearing my gaze away.

I groped at the sink’s handle without looking, trying to look at myself from an objective perspective to see how noticeable the increase in power was as I splashed water on my face; I wasn’t exactly expecting to truly hide my growth in power, in a world like this I didn’t even truly think anyone would be surprised by sudden power spikes and random abilities popping up out of nowhere, but I couldn’t yet be sure. However, even if it wasn’t unexpected, that didn’t mean I wanted to go about advertising what I had spent points on; knowing what stats I increased could give people a hint as to my strengths and weaknesses, something I would very much rather they didn’t have.

After a few moments I decided Rokharth was almost certainly going to notice, but the less observant might just figure I gave myself a bit of grooming. Besides, hiding any sort of change from a man like Rokharth, who’s race had the word Ancient in it and whose profession necessitated a keen Perception, was probably a lost cause. Rather than dwell on hopeless battles, I distracted myself by checking my new Traits.

Survivor: Your will to live has suffused your Fortune, swaying the ethereal tides towards outcomes that allow you to survive

Will Of The Flesh: Your Will suffuses your every cell, hardening them against external psionic manipulation. Anything that consumes your flesh will be imparted with your Will, allowing you to issue commands only the strong willed can resist.

Worm Tongue: You can speak the writhing tongue of the worms, allowing you to communicate with insects and worms.

I hummed quietly to myself, reading over my new Traits as I plucked the archer’s head up by the hair and headed out the door. Worm Tongue didn’t really seem spectacularly useful; while my first thought went to asking for information, insects aren’t generally intelligent enough to give a coherent and useful response even if you could understand what they were trying to convey. Then again, perhaps this world was different or the act of speaking to them with this language granted them the intellect to be worth communicating with. There was also the far more plausible possibility of there being intelligent worms and insects out there that might be worth speaking to, something I considered downright more likely than not given what I had seen of the world so far.

Survivor was exactly as vague and unnerving as I expected, hinting at ideas I wasn’t sure I liked at all and telling me almost nothing concrete, but at least it seemed generally positive. I could feel a qualitative change whenever I thought about my Fortune and felt the thin barrier of destiny (or whatever it was) bending under my spiritual weight. My ethereal shadow in the uncomfortably thin tapestry seemed to wriggle slightly, shifting about and stirring the dark waters in seemingly random ways I could only guess somehow impacted my likelihood of… encountering survivable circumstances, I supposed.

I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to understand what exactly was going on there, though I would never turn away knowledge that could save my life. Fate and destiny were both concepts I had dim views on, a thrumming of defiance stirred at the thought of some predestined doom laid out before me; yet, somehow the unnerving shifting I felt from Fortune didn’t feel like anything so planned out as fate. I calmly ignored the way that thought seemed to have made my spiritual shadow twitch and shift in ways I couldn’t begin to comprehend, deciding to pull my mind away from that yawning black ocean before something that may or may not exist might feel my gaze upon it.

Will Of The Flesh provided me with confirmation of another thing to be wary of, but also provided a potential solution to it. That was a lot better than most newfound concerns, really; problems that solve themselves are my favorite kind of problems. What managed to stand out even more than a suspected threat being proven real was the second sentence of the Trait's description; being able to inflict my Will onto anything that consumed my flesh could very well be a game changer… if not for the tiny, barely notable little factor that my fluids were thoroughly tainted by the Blight.

I'm fairly certain most people would be too distracted by their soul melting to follow any commands I could impart.

The only thing that's been able to survive consuming my flesh are the lazy flies buzzing in my bones. I still wasn't entirely sure how they had managed that, but at least their suspicious survival meant the bottom half of my shiny new Trait wasn't totally useless. I could vaguely feel a connection to each fly and maggot that gnawed upon my innards since I got the Trait, as if each was intangibly carrying a part of me even after my meat digested. Unfortunately, I didn't have time to truly get into testing what I could do with this newfound power before I reached Markus' door.

I knocked politely but urgently and waited for a response with my face firmly blank. Much as I may have wanted to follow Rokharth's example and just kick the door in, a mook like myself was much more likely to get shot for pulling that kinda shit than a leading figure like that damn old bloodsucker. I hated this kind of petty internal politics shit, but my disdain wouldn't make it go away on its own; I had a few bloody plans to remove at least the source of it, but wishful thinking never got anyone anywhere but dead and disappointed.

Markus' voice came through the wooden door muffled, but his assent to entry was clear enough despite that. I entered the room quietly, glancing about to see only the gang boss himself was present. He was sitting at his desk, leaning back in his plush chair and looking over a thin binder; on his desk were scattered papers, with a glass of what looked like whiskey sitting next to a half eaten sandwich on a small plate.

He glanced up at my entrance, goggled eyes flicking up from whatever paperwork was in his hands to me for a second as he took a sip from his glass and looked back down at his papers. Amusement bubbled up in my chest as I watched the man visibly do a double take, nearly spitting out his drink as his steel eyes settled on the decollated skull hanging at my side. He pounded his chest with one hand, choking down his whisky with a cough as I lifted the head up to be more visible.

I wasted no time, beginning my report right away before he could get a word out and potentially start us off on a negative note. "The building seems to have been a brothel before Merthoux burned it down; given it was on our territory I assume it was one of ours, but I don't know for sure. The occupants had been executed in a manner that vaguely matches our own, and sloppy versions of our tags were painted in the former residents’ and guests’ blood. The whole thing was very obviously and very poorly staged to look as if we were behind the attack; though, given the sheer ineptitude of the attempted staging and the incredibly poor choice of target, I have no idea why Merthoux would seriously think it could convince anyone we were behind it."

I shrugged my thin shoulders, "Regardless of my opinion of the quality of the frame job, some asshole evidently either bought it or wanted us to think he did. There was a horde of South Side Serpents waiting in the building drugged up to the gills, and an archer waiting in ambush atop a nearby building. Our casualties were regrettable and more than I'd have liked, but thanks to the resilient distraction of my men and decisive action on my part, we managed to capture almost all of the enemy conscripts alive and I personally slew the lieutenant leading the attack." I threw in a disingenuous compliment to the thugs that followed me, mostly as a means to make me taking primary credit for the mission going as well as it did not seem quite so blatant. Not that I wasn’t the main reason any of those ungrateful fucking stooges got out alive, even if I had to (privately and internally) admit that my triumph over the Ashwinder wasn’t entirely a matter of my pure skill.

Not that anyone else ever needed to know that.

Throughout my report, Markus’ gaze continually moved slowly between my face and the severed head dangling by the hair from my fingers. His eyes tracked a sluggish dribblet of half-dried blood as it pooled at the tip of a jagged flap of loose skin, accumulated enough substance for gravity's cruel hold to outweigh its desire to cling to its own kind, and fell onto his desk with a small splash.

He hummed quietly, pulling a cigar from his coat pocket, lighting it with a snap of his fingers, and taking a long, deep pull from it. He breathed out a cloud of smoke that almost obscured my entire body for a few seconds before it slowly danced its way to pool on the ceiling with the rest of its ilk. "Well, this certainly complicates things."

That was… not the response I expected.