“Look, I can tell you’re a bit thick in the head and all, but why the fuck would you come here alone?”
Grey smoke and burning refuse enter Will’s nostrils as he attempts to push himself over onto his back. He manages with a sort of low grunt, the stun spell having leached out of his right hand like murky water out of a saturated sponge. The ground is made of trash, burnt trash, scorched trash and various other kinds of trash, stretching out for almost a kilometer at it’s longest distance. Small pockets collapse in on themselves at irregular intervals as the heat from the generator built barely four inches under the lowest layers melts bottles and tins into an orange boiling sludge. Noxious grey and black smoke covers large swaths of the night sky like some cosmic entity closing the lid on the unsightly specimen lying below.
Smokey Dump, named for obvious reasons, is where local gangs meet to lob spells and weapons at each other in a brutal and inelegant display they generously term a “battle”. It is a practice that has been going strong for well over a decade, so long that “Taking someone to the dump” has become slang for challenging them to combat. Fights are violent and tending towards the long, the victor claiming the experience points and possibly gaining a few levels, the loser’s being reported to the police simply as “ganked”. Three gangs have, in the last month of infrequent fighting, managed to level up to a point where they can beat any other gang without contest, an upsetting of a careful balance which has led to something approaching slaughter every second tuesday. Smaller gangs live in fear of what has already become known predictably as the Big Three.
It is one of these three that is currently staring at Will malevolently from about three paces back, hair covered in a thin layer of black soot, faces lit from beneath by an unhealthy orange glow. The sliver of visible moon silhouettes them against the grey of the smog above, and a faint breeze rustles their collective jackets like the feathers of some monstrous bird. They look admittedly baddass, but on closer inspection the team is structured awkwardly, all hefty looking Tanks and Carries with no Supports or Mages to be seen. Many people underestimate the value of Support. When you’re an eight foot tall lumbering Tank, it’s easy to forget how quickly you can lose the advantage. Still, they are a team and Will is alone.
“Will, you idiot” says Will’s internal voice of reason. “You didn’t really expect this to go well did you?”
“Shut up and give me some mana” Will mumbles back. His head is spinning from the unnecessarily large number of things that have hit it in the last eight seconds. His eyes scan back and forth over the faces of the gang as he backs up crab-style. Blue dots flicker across his vision; he can’t tell if they’re his mana charging or just the head trauma.
“I fucking told you. I fucking told you you weren't going to just find some low level orks to farm. The shit did I...”
Will attempts to rise but the Tank fires a second stun and he falls back, appendages dripping with iridescent blue gunk. His head lands on the edge of a coke bottle and an unhealthy sounding crack rings out across the waste. Tanks are not supposed to carry stuns, as the mana cost required is usually too large, but this guy does not seem to care. He is a six foot tall broad shouldered football player type with a matted black mullet and the kind of dull grey eyes that suggest the absence of any cognitive faculties. From the instance of his birth, the Tank has known his purpose in life: To beat things with his fists until they yield shiny gold experience points. This angle on life has granted him the unique ability to disregard all notions of strategy or tactics. He likes to hit things. If a glowy blue stun spell will help keep things in the range of his fists, then what is he waiting for?
“At least he has the sense to bring a fucking team”
“He probably doesn’t. He’s probably just following them around because he wants a kill...”
“Look fuckwit, does this look like the right time to wonder about this?”
The Tank raises his hand to deal another spell but the gang’s Carry steps forward to stop him. He is the one who spoke first, a boy about the same age as Will, maybe a bit younger, seventeen or so with a slicked back mane of brown hair. His hands are in the pockets of his grey sweater, from which black smoke emits in a slow stream. A toothpick rests in between his teeth.
“Alright, speak up. Why’d you fucken’ come ‘ere?”
Will is not quite up to the task of speaking yet. He lets out a low gurgle before coughing on a chunk of ash that has blown his way. The Carry shrugs.
“What the shit. Dibs on kill.” A significant fraction of the assembled gang grumbles.
Will recognizes the kid from school. Zack Something-Or-Other, they share a Pre Calc class every wednesday. The kid sits in the back of the classroom, chair leaned against the wall, tossing flames at flies that come near the reach of his hands. Sometimes the teacher will ask him questions but he never bothers to answer. His mind is far away killing noobs on a battlefield of trash.
The fact that Zack Something-Or-Other leads a gang isn't that unexpected. Plenty of kids from Will’s class head over to Smokey Dump every day after school to fight low-impact duels with anyone and anything that shows up. It is something of a test of manhood, a neat blend defying parents, risking death, and gaining levels faster than normal. Kids limp away with damaged limbs, depleted mana, and repaired self esteem. Will never goes, which is why he is a low level five to this guy’s level nine.
“Can I sap his mana?” ask the one girl (and predictably the closest to support) in the group. “I’ve been low since yesterday and...”
“Jill, shut the fuck up and keep watch.” Says the Carry.
Jill steps back with an irritated huff and starts scanning the perimeter incase anyone else shows up. She is pretty close to a Carry herself, capable of becoming hugely powerful at higher levels, but she requires serious leveling up first before she can do so. They’re all young here, twenty one at the oldest, and on closer inspection Will notices that everyone in the group is pretty low leveled as well. There are level sixes, fives, even a three way in the back. The Carry apparently takes all the kills. And why not? He’s the Carry, in his mind at least, the single most important person on the team. He must have it all, every ounce of experience points, every stray weapon or spell he can get his hands on, if the team is to succeed. This is what he thinks, and no one is likely to tell him otherwise.
“Kills all mine” Says the Carry, crouching down in front of Will’s prone form. He takes one hand out of his pocket, a small flame flickering to life in his palm. The wind picks up, blowing the Carry’s hair sideways. The flame flickers like light through water.
“You see this?” Asks the Carry. “You know what the fuck I am?”
“Yes” says Will’s internal voice. “Which I guess means your brain has reached remembering levels.”
Will knows what he is. The Carry is a Fire Shaper, one of the seven classes that can manipulate the physical world with something approaching dexterity. Not the most powerful, not the most versatile, and still capable of playing any number of rolls, but of course the kid picks Fire-Shaper Carry. Everyone picks Fire-Shaper Carry, because it looks awesome, an important quality for a prospective gang leader. Being the most badass looking person on the field is a good way to deal with insecurities. You can hide them under layers of fiery wings and silver reflective armor, keep them buried away safely until you make it home, and suddenly no one is there to congratulate you.
The kid’s a Shaper, the girl’s a Tinker, the football player is a Tank, and Will... well Will doesn’t even know what he is. His class was set for him by accident to some obscure variety of Mage-Assassin twenty six minutes after his birth, which no one has ever heard of. His five abilities that he has acquired so far in his eighteen years of life don’t seem to do much. He can swap physical positions with his soul, but as far as he can tell, his soul seems to always be in the same place that he is. He can see into the minds of some people, but he isn’t strong enough to control it properly. His first weapon spell which he gained on his fifteenth birthday is so small and weak that he in desperation bought a bootlegged Rush-Stun from a dealer around the corner from his house. It’s not meant for his Class really, intended for a Charger or a Tank. It would be helpful right now if he could use it, but his mana’s been low since he skipped lunch, and right now he doesn’t think he could even manage it if he was at full.
Since he was born, Will could draw links between people. They appear as iridescent blue lines that only he can see. The lines snap if the people stray more than a few meters away, dissolving into glittering shards. When people’s links are broken they pause for an almost imperceptible amount of time in their conversation, as if their ears have begun to ring or a faint headache has set in. Other than that, the links seem to have no effect. Will has no idea what the links are supposed to do. Will’s parents have no idea what the links are supposed to do. No one seems have any idea what Will is good for.
Will often sits behind the girl he likes in Bio, drawing links between the two of them. She never notices them, no one in the class notices them, but Will does it anyway. When the link breaks with a strong gust of wind or a passing fly, Will redraws it, and watches it shimmer in the space between them. When the class ends, she gets up and breaks the links, sending gleaming shards into the air and pausing only to notice a faint ringing in her ears, or a slight headache.
Why is Will here? Will ponders this question as his death grows into an orange inferno, like a massive orb of melted trash. Is it because he wants to win? To gain levels and catch up with his classmates? Is it because he wants to vindicate himself? To wash away his insecurities in the same fountain of blood he has seen so many others do? Is it because he wishes to die?
The girl, Jill, is shouting at the Carry again, but he makes no notice. She is gesticulating wildly off to the left, looking at something in the distance. She tries to cast a spell but something goes wrong and it fizzles into nothing.
“Voice, I’m gonna miss you.” Will says in his head.
“Save that shit until after I work out how to save you,alright?”
“I’m gonna die.”
“Feel something then! Shit you are too calm. You are fucking suicide calm right now. Snap out of it William Devlin Jenkins, you are not going to die.”
“Yes I am god damn it. You’re supposed to be the rational one. Look at this and tell me I’m not done for.”
“Like fuck you’re not. Just wait, I’ll think up something, some way out. Always have. Trust me, I’ll...”
Will’s internal voice falters, and he doesn’t need to ask why.
Why is Will here? Perhaps he himself doesn’t know. Maybe he came here in a mad rush, an incoherent desire for action, for significance, a need to not be just that guy picked last for team fights, unable to beat even a level two orc, unsure of his place in the world. Perhaps it is all of these reasons. Perhaps no one other than him will ever know why a eighteen year old kid was found scorched to death on a field of trash.
Will shuts his eyes. “Good bye.”
He can see faintly into the mind of the Carry, can see the seconds counting down before he gets bored of the build up and releases the spell. He can see the minds of the other team members, little blue dots in the black around them. Five people. Five little dots. Five floating points of light. Five people. Six little dots...
There is a small sound, like water evaporating off a sheet of metal. There is a large sound, like a sheet of metal crashing from a four-story window. Screams resonate dully off the trash floor. Will opens his eyes. A short heavy-set man, baseball cap over bald scalp, steps past will through the level twenty-six shield between him and the Carry. The shield opens around him, closing again with a soft “shhhck”.
“Y’all kids better fucking run before I nuke yo asses.” the man yells. Green smoke explodes on each side, one burst to the left, one to the right. Poison Buffs ricochet off the running gang members as they flee the smoke. It expands in every direction, flooding the trash field like chlorine in a fox hole. The man, watches the team run for a few seconds. Orange lights flicker dimly in the green smog. Presently the man turns with a satisfied grin and passes through the shield, which flickers and dissolves like hope halfway through an unbalanced match.
The man says something which sounds like “doon-tweer-SOwrl”,
“Wha...” Will digs the dirt out of his ears as he attempts to move and his head explodes. The man speaks again but Will still can’t hear. He edges back slightly and something falls out of his ear.
“Yo kid, what the fuck you doing out here solo?”
Will can make out more details about the man now, he’s maybe thirty, black stubble running the length of his chin and cheeks. His eyes squint around his broad nose. A green t shirt shows a cartoon wizard with a wand. Will thinks for a moment before settling on “A walk.”
“A walk? You crazy motherfucker a WALK?”
“I...” He makes something up on the spot “...Have a friend a few blocks down.”
The man shrugs. “Your neck. That team was shit anyway. I tell you, I have not seen a worse team in a long time. Fuckers don’t understand the value of someone who can cast a good shield.”
The man is some kind of mage, that much Will can tell without checking his Full Aura. He pushes himself up to a standing position, head still swimming in a way not conducive to standing. Out in the distance, a section of trash collapses in an orange glow.
“Thank him” Will’s internal voice growls as the man helps him towards the edge of the field.
“Thank you.”
“Hey, no sweat. Pity I didn’t get a kill out of it” He stops and turns Will around to look at him properly.
“What are you anyway? An assassin? A rogue?”
Will scrunches his eyes, and with an immense effort of will forces his Aura into existence around him. Blue lights flicker around him insubstantially and a long shadow extends on the ground behind him. His Aura, though week, for a brief moment shines brightly in the dark of the field. The man's eyes widen.
“A Linker? Well shit man you’ve got the LONG leveling path ahead of you. Wouldn’t want to be you”
The two of them make it to the edge of Smokey Dump, a wide suburban road lit by a single yellowing street lamp.
“Look man, this is where I leave you. Hope you get home safe because I do not want that Vale of Poison to go to waist. See you around some day.”
The mage walks off, vanishing into the shadows outside the light. Will leans against the lamp post for a minute, then heads back towards his house. It is late, and he doesn’t want his parents to know about this little episode. He limps off, remnants of the stun spell dripping on the road behind him, a trail of shame glowing blue in the dark.
“I hope you’ve learned something”
“I have, have you?”
The moon moves slowly across the sky but the clouds of black smoke follow it like vultures after a kill. Out on the field of trash, the Vale of Poison dissipates slowly, seeping into the space between the trash, becoming yet more refuse, and leaving no evidence that it had ever been.
ns3.140.199.3da2
