Ch: 1 Hello, Darkness

  It was the same dream as always, the one where the system came into his life with such sudden, implacable violence and will.

  Nighttime, the soft hissing roar of tires on wet pavement whispered softly under his parent’s quiet voices from the front seats and music; always the music. A sudden bright light broke his sleepy revery, followed by a brief scream of terror and a shattering crash that sundered the world into endless black nothingness.

  Lights appeared again, terribly bright, joined by an annoying, arrhythmic beeping and pain that wracked his body from head to toe.

  That is where it all started; with pain, noise and fear. He saw and heard that terrible night once more, as a witness this time, from outside the room looking in on his own bandage swathed form. The social worker jabbered on nervously, spewing nonsense about foster care and how the state would see to his needs, while being unable to even look at what was left of him.

  Doctors, surgeries, nurses, physical therapy, pain, misery. He watched it all play out again; from the perspective of an audience member at a show. His own story, viewed from the cheap seats; barely audible, but so firmly emblazoned on his memory that he had no choice but to follow along, all unwillingly.

  A big rig blew a tire and tore through the highway median that rainy night. Other families had been shattered at the same instant, but he couldn’t muster enough empathy to even consider them. His own life and family was gone, no one left but him; a fourteen year old kid with crippling injuries.

  #

  It was morning in late spring, the breeze that drifted through his tent held birdsong and the scent of green, growing things. Shaking off the dream, he grabbed his bad leg and twitched it out of his blankets. After four long years, his morning ritual was instinctive. Kickoff with the right, while balancing on the weak left leg, then a quick hop and he was standing.

  That old familiar gripping twinge and electric tingle arrived right on time; they would be his constant companions for today, tomorrow and the rest of his life. After a quick wash in the pail of rain water in his tent, he dressed and ducked through the flaps, into a cool green oasis.

  Deep in a blackberry bramble, on a long vacant industrial yard was his humble home. A small tent, a few scavenged solar panels wired to a hodgepodge of mismatched parts and an old car battery powered what little of the modern world he had scavenged: A smartphone several years out of date, with a cracked screen… and a battered, crackly radio.

  His camp was well screened by trees and his impenetrable berry bramble, so he probably didn't have to live so close to the bone… He’d occasionally considered bringing back a proper mattress, or a found sofa, but it always came back to the risk.

  The risk of discovery, of being sent back into the system. That was the last line, he was never giving the system power over his life again. He had run… well, limped away clean and cut all ties to his old life.

  A stream ran through his camp, just a few yards away and a rusty barbed wire topped cyclone fence provided the illusion of abandonment from the road. A camp stove hidden under a camo tarp finished off the rough and ready home.

  He wound his way through the paths cut seemingly at random in that thorny tangle, till he reached the lone gap in the fence. It was in the center of a thicket of half grown fig trees, hidden from any casual search.

  He took a rusty eyesore of a bicycle from among the trees, mounted up and began laboriously pedaling towards town; looking for all the world like a lower class rural highschooler riding a deeply unimpressive bike to school. The bike was more to hide his limp than for transport, pedaling with one and a half legs sucks.

  Breathing through a surgical mask sucked too, but showing his face always drew attention… No one really wanted to stare, but something about his oddly misaligned face made the scars seem even worse, somehow. Drawing any kind of attention was a sure ticket back into the awful zoo that the system wanted him in.

  He’d never considered before that rainy night, how tranquil and well ordered his life had been up to the month after his fourteenth birthday. They lived over the store, with mom’s studio in the attic. Grandpa lived over the workshop in the back, in a converted barn. All together it was a tidy little fiefdom of their own, isolated in the middle of a medium sized north coast town.

  Outside school, he’d lived, breathed and slept music; it surrounded their little tribe and marked them out as different. They were strangers even in the community that grandpa, dad and he had been born in.

  Everyone knew the Wards, of course; they ran the music store that celebrities appeared at on random occasions and played music at every festival and fair in the area.

  They were fixtures at local events, while being so quiet in their daily lives as to almost disappear into the crowd. Now they had disappeared.

  The shop was foreclosed and forgotten, their instruments scattered, sold to pay off a legion of ravenous vultures in bad suits; lawyers, taxmen, doctors and collection agents. Even his own guitar, built with his own hands, was gone; taken and sold with the rest; without making a dent in the mountain of medical bills that were going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

  Of course he was not going to school, school meant adults; adults who would shove him back into the system that had already taken so much and offered only rules and threats.

  The lad cranked his way down a seedy alley and knocked on a steel door marked only with an address number. After a moment it creaked open and he slipped inside. Abandoning his bike in the alley was no risk, he was secure knowing that no one would steal a rust raddled klunker like that…

  He smiled behind his mask, daydreaming about a fantasy formation of armored, rusty, bike riding tetanus troopers, astride their oxidized mounts.

  “Band name… Junkyard Knights…” He said without preamble, when the door finally creaked open.

  “We’d play free form jazz rock and Steely Dan covers on found instruments.” The old man answered, without missing a beat.

  “Nice…” The boy sighed with a quiet chuckle. They played the ‘Band Name Game’ almost constantly, which drew some confused glances from shop patrons occasionally.

  One of the mismatched friends would pull a highly improbable band name from nowhere and the other would have to explain the fictional band’s style and genre. There was no scorekeeping, just a pair of nerds goofing together…

  If his camp was a pleasant oasis, this was a slice of dusty, slightly funky heaven. Musical instruments in all stages of repair and construction were everywhere, hanging from pegs, hooks, and racks, lying on benches and stands. A forest of gleaming wood and brass, shining in the bright workshop lights.

  “Morning, Gary.'' The old man grunted, as he walked out to the sales floor into even more wonders.

  “Good morning to you too, Mr Halls!” He cringed at his own obvious eagerness.

  “Kid, you gotta get yourself a poker face from somewhere. Go on, let’s get to work.”

  It's a strange thing, growing up in the family instrument shop he’d expected to start his day just this way; cleaning, dusting, polishing and tuning up, before opening for business.

  He remembered those hazy childhood days at school, rushing home for the important lessons, the ones he earned by working in the shop. From his earliest memories the music was always there, it was cool water on a hot day, a warm blanket in the night.

  There was always something playing then, whether it was a record, dad’s guitar, flute or mandolin or mom's almost endless repertoire of instruments. Silence was a rare and unwelcome visitor.

  The instruments were his passion and first romance, he loved them all and consumed them omnivorously; guitar, bass, mandolin, keys, percussion, violin and even a little trumpet. He played them, sold them and was gradually learning the skills of a luthier in the workshop after school.

  Those days were gone now, lost in a single night on a rainy highway. Nobody was at fault, just bad weather and bad luck. Now he was living half the life he expected, with half the number of functional legs he’d planned for.

  First came a morning of cleaning and tuning, then at opening time, he would limp back into the workshop, to repair customers' instruments, while old man Halls handled the shopfront.

  There was a lot of brass work today. The school district had contracted with Mr Halls for their ragtag collection of student instruments for decades. The kindly old geezer had been paying out of his own pocket to have the work done in another town, since his partner had retired and his arthritis had made even simple repairs a challenge.

  With a crooked grin, Gary opened the first case in the pile. It was a nice tenor sax, just in need of a little care and attention. Gently tapping a dent from the bell and soldering a small crack, saw it neatly polished and snugged back in its case with little trouble.

  A few hours later, he stood sweaty and triumphant over a small mountain of battered instrument cases, while checking the list a final time before calling it a day.

  There was something about instruments people actually played, they felt more alive and vital than simple metal, plastic and lumber could account for. Some subtle sense told him at a touch which instruments were loved and cherished by their creators… and owners and which spent most of their time silent and abandoned.

  School instruments were the best and the worst, they were usually low end, student level, bought in bulk and maintained infrequently; but often better loved and more alive than some of the valuable guitars that well to do customers brought in for cleaning and maintenance.

  Working on some lawyer’s ‘Look at my expensive wall decoration, doesn't it make my office look edgy?’ vintage Gibson was less enjoyable than replacing a stuck spit valve on a middle schooler’s beat up trombone.

  “You got all those done today? Kid, whatever your deal is, I got no problem with your work. The usual?” The kid nodded silently.

  “I'm supposed to say don’t break anything, but you love these damn things more than I do.” Halls grinned, “I’ll be back in three hours, shops closed, go nuts kid.”

  Three hours alone in a shop filled to bursting with every noise maker ever developed by man might not be everyone's cup of tea, but he planned to drink deeply. The bell over the door signaled Halls’ exit, heading to his twice weekly geezer jam session.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Gary scooped his pay envelope off the counter and into a pocket with barely a thought, then settled down to an electric piano for some serious jazz noodling. After about twenty two minutes of ‘Take Five’, he scooted around and pulled a classical guitar into his lap.

  He didn't have his mother’s facility with the full array of instruments, but he could hold his own with guitar, mandolin and banjo… and fake it pretty convincingly with most of the rest.

  Halls had offered many times to bring Gary to his jam, but the rotating membership included cops and a district attorney, so that was out. A kid on the run from the foster system, living on a vacant lot can’t just hang out with the forces of law and order, but he regretted playing alone.

  ‘Music played alone is like a fine meal eaten in silence.’ Grandpa always said, whenever he’d found Gary practicing alone.

  He tried to remember the last time he’d played with another person his age, as music carried him off into his memories. “Cindy.” He whispered, recalling the girl who had first sparked his interest in brass instruments.

  He took up trumpet with mom, because lessons were an excuse to talk to the pretty, dark haired girl with laughing brown eyes.

  She was his first kiss, shared in the corner of the sales floor behind the cymbal display.

  “You can kiss me if you want, Gary…” She’d whispered that afternoon, as his heart thrashed against his ribs like a frightened bird.

  Cindy had been finding excuses to touch him during their lesson, and had followed him onto the sales floor afterward. She watched him work, humming and toying with the instruments as he’d dusted and tuned.

  The taste of bubblegum lip balm and boba tea flooded his mind, as he thought of her for the first time in so long.

  Gary saw her a few times around town, after the accident, when he’d still dreamed of a normal school life. She’d avoided him like a bad smell, not even able to bear looking his way.

  “Hey Cindy!” He’d called, hobbling after her down the school hallway on his shiny new crutches. She’d never even looked back…

  He had simply vanished that day, as though he’d walked off the edge of the map of the world he once knew. Only the system remembered him, when it could be bothered.

  That was almost as hard as the funerals… Flowers and cards from around the world flooded in, or so the social worker said.

  He didn’t even remember her name, but she never remembered his either. She always snuck a peek at his file to remind herself at the start of their infrequent ‘sessions’ and avoided looking at him, whenever she could.

  Nearly four years since then and it still hurt; the numb burning ache of being lost at the mall as a child… and knowing he would never be found again.

  Just a few more days in the shadows and then he could step out into the light again. In less than a week he would be eighteen and a legal adult and free to begin living his life... If only he could remember how.

  That was the most terrifying part, how do you go from just surviving to actually living again? Where do you go to begin again, when you never really had a chance to start?

  #

  When the old man got back everything was in order and tidy, the kid sitting at the counter tearing into a burrito from the truck across the street with admirable gusto. “When you want to become a real employee, let me know, kid. If you got law troubles, maybe I can help out…” Halls trailed off as a sad smile came through the invisible mask Gary never removed. His expression seemed to dim the lights in the room just a bit.

  The scarred and mangled boy slid off his stool and shuffle limped to the back door, pulling his battered mask from his pocket.

  “I’m not hiding from the law Mr Halls, my family is super Jehovah’s Witness, so I'm not allowed to play music at home...”

  It was a sweet little lie, one that hurt to tell to a man who had only offered kindness and access to his collection of marvelous toys. That was just one more burden, another debt to weigh down on him; but questions and paperwork were too big of a threat, especially now.

  Just one more week of this and he would be free, an adult, ready to live on his own terms and make his way in the open.

  #

  A little while later, he was once more on his bike, cranking for home with a new coat from Goodwill and best of all; a pearwood soprano recorder, also from the thrift shop.

  A recorder should be quiet enough to play at home without attracting unwanted attention… and for three bucks it would be sad to just leave it there. Even now he could feel the smooth waxy wood on his fingertips… very distracting while riding in the evening.

  ‘Toast? Why do I smell toast and jam?’ He wondered briefly and then there was nothing.

  #

  With sinking dread, he woke to bright lights again; not surgical lights this time, but beaming sunrays filtered through leaves.

  “Wha?” He said with wit and insouciance, while drooling something viscous from his mouth and ears.

  He scrabbled at the rapidly drying slime with panicked fingers, finding it all but gone. It vanished, leaving behind only a mild salty taste, like snot… delightful.

  In a rush, he sat up and reached for his left leg from a long habit; planning to get on his feet and found… Smooth, warm flesh and straight bones?

  It was a leg, a normal straight leg, with no ruddy purple scars or wasted muscles to be seen. In wonder and mystified delight, he stood and stepped cautiously onto it… Perfect!

  A wide grin spread across his face and was immediately replaced with confused concern.

  “I’m naked in the woods. And my leg is back.” And so he was; in a light forest glade of oaks and olive trees, underfoot was a scruffy blend of tough herbs and grasses.

  Birds and bugs, some of them quite unfamiliar, went about their days, oblivious to the sticky, naked miracle among them. A tingle in the corner of his eye caught his attention and at a glance, a pale amber window leapt out into view.

  Interface!

  It read, in bold cheerful letters.

  Something traumatic has occurred. In the interest of keeping you alive, new resources and potentials have been unlocked within you. Enjoy the new you!

  A confused and exasperated thought sent it flittering away in faint yellow sparkles, only to be replaced by another:

  Congratulations, you are made anew!

  Gary Ward, Demihuman Monster Age:17 Rank:normal

  Might:normal

  Resilience:normal/null: error

  Agility:normal

  Will:normal

  Mind:normal

  Animus:normal

  Debuff removed, mobility, left leg. Debuff removed, mobility, spinal damage. New abilities unlocked.

  The strange message filled much of his vision with a wall of friendly golden text.

  Interface: gathers and disseminates environmental and internal information, via graphical objects and text messages.

  No mana cost, no cooldown.

  Pockets!: Small to medium sized objects can be safely stashed and removed from a non dimensional space attached to your spirit/soul/shade/ghost. Weight and mass limits apply. Minor mana cost, no cooldown.

  Familiar Stranger: When first encountering non hostile entities you will appear to be vaguely known and non threatening. You may choose to seem more forgettable or noticeable to any creature of animal intelligence or higher, scales against subjects willpower and perception. Possible advantages to stealth and/or performance activities. Language and literacy adaptation. Written, spoken or gestural languages are adapted to immediately. No mana costs or cooldown.

  Artisan: crafting, artistic and creative skills receive bonuses for current knowledge; new skills are much easier to acquire and promote. Can craft, repair and use objects of one rank higher than current level; not all functions or options will be available when using higher rank items.

  No costs or cooldown. Resources and items may be extracted from interactions with the world. No mana cost no cooldown.

  Homebody: Home is truly where the heart is. You may establish a dwelling in any open space capable of supporting a structure. Dwelling will conform to available space and creator’s design parameters as much as possible. 10 minute ritual, very high mana cost, 1 hour cooldown.

  Temporary objects can be created in the dwelling at creator’s Will for a minor mana cost, no cooldown. Created objects dissipate on exiting dwelling.

  He shook off the new message, after realizing he was outstanding in his field; nakedly. He looked about caught in the early stages of shock and panic, taking in nothing while musing on whether to call this emotion shanic or panock… ‘No those both suck!’ He thought furiously, while still mid freakout.

  “Did I just get bamfed to another world?” He asked aloud. “Whose leg is this? Where’re my pants? I just got paid! Where's my flute?”

  The last one got him searching out of mindless animal reaction; he looked all around for any sign of where his things might have gone, even patting himself down briefly.

  While patting his thigh, his right hand slipped into a… “Pocket!?” He gasped as his hand and forearm disappeared into empty leg meat.

  Nothing was in there, he checked the left and sure enough, a big empty pocket of nothing.

  Getting his breathing back under control, he took a slow look around. It was just an empty clearing, marked only by the depression in the grass he had awakened on.

  Trees and shrubs covered the low rolling hills in a semi arid scrub forest all around. It was a relatively familiar environment at least. He could hear a stream not too far off, marked out by the greener foliage and reeds along its still hidden bank.

  He took a moment, looking to the near horizon, searching for signs of human habitation. There! A thin streamer of gray smoke rose a mile or so off to the southwest, just too far away to smell it. He ambled over to the stream, relishing his newfound mobility and took a good, long look.

  Clear and quick moving water flowed over a bed of rounded stones, at a touch it was too cold to be anything but spring fed in this warm place. A new screen popped into the corner of his vision, softly glowing, until he gave it attention.

  Water; normal, potable/component/reagent/solvent.

  He blinked it away, only to get another.

  Common bullrush; normal, edible/component/reagent/medicinal.

  And another.

  Common plantain(herb); normal, edible/component/reagent/medicinal.

  They kept coming for a while, detailing (presumably) everything he had touched since waking. Near the end of the list of herbs, fungus, minerals and lichens, he found an outlier.

  Etheric slime; magical, edible/component/reagent/medicinal/solvent/unknown/unknown/unknown. Degrading/dissipating.

  The other messages he had noted and dismissed; on this one he looked deeper on instinct. The message expanded slightly as he watched.

  Etheric slime; magical, edible/component/reagent/medicinal/solvent/unknown/unknown/unknown. degrading/dissipating.

  Residue produced by etheric travel, a short-lived and highly valued magical component, is non toxic and harmless. Dissipates into background magic within minutes of appearance unless preserved magically or alchemically.

  This sample no longer exists.

  The power to identify things by touch would be very handy, but that assumed he was not hallucinating, Gary had enough confidence in his own mental acuity to dismiss that thought. He made a conscious decision to push any doubts about the reality he was experiencing to the side.

  No one who has lived in pain, with scars and debilitating numbness could doubt their sudden absence. No one dealing with the burning, tingling shocks and outright electrocutions that a damaged nervous system provides, could ever fail to notice if the effects were to vanish one day.

  If today was the day that happened, he was willing to accept any damn thing.

  Fortified in his own mind, he turned up stream, the flow came from the direction of the smoke trail. With a grunt of satisfaction, he started following the stream, walking just a bit away from the green wall of rushes and foliage surrounding his brook. Using the softer grass and soil near the water to ease his feet, it took over an hour to make his sore, barefoot way upstream.

  In a clearing, against a low cliff wall, sheared from the hillside by some violent force in the distant past, stood a small stone and plaster cabin; a lazy curl of smoke dribbling out from the chimney.

  Nearby, a spring leapt from a fissure in the rock, tumbling down to feed a small creek, swelling it into the stream he had followed up here.

  Mustering his courage and nothing else, he strode into the clearing and called out.

  “Hey, folks! I’m naked out here, but I swear I'm not some crazy perv!” No answer.

  “Hello!” Still nothing. “OK, I’m coming in, sunburn is a whole thing…”

  He approached the porch, surrendering any attempt at modesty. Pinned to the door by a small iron nail was a parchment note in elegant flowing script, reading;

  ‘If you can read this, come inside; your nudity will not offend me.’

  With a shrug he took hold of the door handle, a simple wooden sliding affair and gave it a push. The door swung open at his first touch, revealing a comfortable room; with a hearth holding a small, nearly exhausted fire.

  A cot sat in one corner and a simple but comfy looking chair sood on a rug by the hearth. A low table beside it held a small stack of books, a thick manuscript and a rolled scroll.

  One wall was obviously the sheer rock face of the hillside, unadorned, save for an odd shaped door cut into the stone and filled by a solid looking bronze bound door of wide hardwood planks.

  The chair held a skeleton, or rather a man so old that his flesh seemed to have become little more than taut leather over his bones.

  More precisely a dead man. Not long dead, he was still slightly warm, composed in a restful position; he could have been asleep except for his emaciated and slowly cooling condition.

  Realizing he was naked in the home of a dead man, standing over the body, naked, (did I mention naked?) he began looking for a closet or wardrobe.

  A weird cabin in the woods with nobody around should have made a trouser burglary child’s play; but a careful search of the cabin turned up no clothing beyond the robe on the dead man. Not a stitch.

  There was the bedroll on the cot… but that looked like it was a tidy bit of craftsmanship, it would be a shame to make it into a loincloth.

  He found a cupboard containing a few bags of grain, flour, salt and some dried meat, fish and vegetables. It was probably enough food for a couple weeks, if he was careful. More if he gathered whatever his weird ability said was edible.

  He remembered eating gathered cattails and duckroot while camping with his family. “Damn, now I want s’mores.” Talking to himself was getting to be a habit these last two years.

  #