Work Text:
You heard a story once. Or maybe it was more of a precautionary tale, actually. Aren’t all stories with bad endings kind of like that? They tell you what not to do, don’t they? So you can do better.
Anyway, you heard a story once, and it kind of goes like this:
Central Town is a place where people pass through but no one ever really stays. Not for long anyway. It is a settlement, not a home. You think it might have been one a long time ago, but that, too, has passed now. But you’ve grown up there so it kind of is like home in a sense. Or the closest to a home you’ll ever get which is good enough.
And it’s fine, honestly. The Sword Master is nice enough, an old friend of your parents as you’d been told, and you’re content enough staying with him. It’s fine. You don’t mind. You like being an apprentice even though you know you pretty much suck at it.
Sometimes drifters pass through the town and almost all of them stop at the dojo. Barely any of them talk, half of their faces hidden behind shawls and cloaks and helmets made to withstand the weather conditions outside of town, and if they talk, they’re usually brash and gruff and very, very close-lipped. The Sword Master tells you not to take it to heart, that that’s just how drifters are, but he shouldn’t have bothered in the first place. You don’t really care.
Sometimes you want to laugh at the irony of it all. “They’re collectors of knowledge, both lost and forgotten,” the Dash Master had once, conspiratorially, whispered to you before he’d shoved a piece of candy into your hands and told you to scram. But what’s the point of collecting knowledge if you never share it with anyone?
“Why, they preserve their tales for eternity, of course!” the Apothecary had told you, handing over your order of herbal tea that never tastes good. You’d think that with all the coughing people do nowadays he’d at least make the tea better-tasting but no luck thus far. “Ever seen a drifter’s cloak, youngin’?” And you’d shaken your head because you’d never really seen one. Not from up close, in any case. Your parents don’t count—you barely even remember their faces, let alone their cloaks. Then, the Apothecary had leaned forward, close enough that you could see the milky white colour of his eyes. “They stitch their tales into their cloaks and scarves,” he’d said, eyes twinkling like he was telling you a secret. You’d decided not to tell him that cloth was hardly eternal. Cloth decays. Cloth rots.
But honestly, what’s it to you?
Anyway, the case in point is that you don’t know what to think of drifters. Most of them are weird, though you still remember the one the townspeople had called Guardian. They’d been rather nice, you think. They’re long dead now, of course, as is the drifter they’d taken in. The young drifter’s body had never turned up, and you don’t think you actually want to know what happened. Sometimes it’s better not to know.
It’s whatever, honestly—dwelling on memories won’t do you any good. Fingers curled around the upgrade the Sword Master had instructed you to go out and buy (from that weird guy running the weapons shop no less; he really gives you the creeps), you steer clear of the chasm in the middle of town, that gaping abyss with the eerie fuchsia glow that everyone else is so intent on ignoring and head up the stairs, past the merchant who’s been there for as long as you can remember. You don’t spare him a second glance—the Sword Master continues to preach the importance of manners but that seems like both a waste of time and breath. It’s not like people expect much from you, anyway.
Not bothering to knock as the door to the dojo slides open, you immediately head over and drop the upgrade on the table, your gaze coming to rest on the woman lounging on the chair. You frown, grateful for the hood hiding most of your features. “Who’re you?” you ask because the Sword Master is nowhere to be seen and he doesn’t usually leave customers alone in the dojo.
She smiles, showing off sharp teeth. It looks vaguely threatening. “Wouldn’tcha love ta know?” she drawls. She has a voice like chalk on a blackboard—unpleasant. A bot hovers over her shoulder, beeping uncertainly.
Instead of backing down which definitely would be the safer option, you cross your arms over your chest. And then, because the Sword Master isn’t here to chide you, you say, “I really can’t stand drifters like you.”
(Because that’s what she is, isn’t it? Got the garbs and cloak and all. And the nasty attitude.)
She clicks her claw-like nails on the table, and your eyes flit to the gun at her waist. Then, to your surprise, she laughs. Loudly. It’s kind of grating. “Fair enough,” she says. Her accent isn’t one you’ve ever heard before, you realize, but it’s like that with most drifters that pass through. You just hope that she leaves sooner rather than later.
“What do you want here?” you decide to test your luck if you’re already at it. “The weapons shop is to the south of here.”
“Nae lookin’ for a sword,” the woman says absentmindedly, resting her arm on the table and propping her chin up on her palm as she stares at you with an unreadable look in her eyes. “Just lookin' for intel.”
“You’ll need a sword if you haven’t already got one,” you tell her stubbornly. “It’s death out there.” You would know. You’d left the town once, only once, because the kid always playing soccer had somehow convinced you it would be a good idea. Though it’d be too easy to pin all the blame on the kid—it had just as much been your fault. Not that you’ll ever admit that. Anyway, you had left the town once so you’re pretty confident in saying that there are problems a gun simply can’t solve. “And if you’re looking for intel you won’t find it here. Talk to the drunk guy near the eastern exit or try the tavern or something, I don’t know.”
The way she stares at you makes you slightly uncomfortable but you refrain from shifting your weight. “I know whit's it like out there.”
Yeah, you suppose she would. She had made it here after all. You don’t tell her that, either.
“I came here a lang time ago,” she continues, “see, back in my days there wasnae a gapin’ hole in th' middle o' town.” She doesn’t elaborate.
“Seems like you’ve been out of town for quite a while then, missus,” you say, arms still crossed. “Like I said, if you want more info, ask someone else. If you’re not here to buy, then get out.”
She snorts. “Watch yer tongue lest th' moggie steals it,” the woman says, wagging her clawed fingers at you. “Name's Alt, by th' way.”
With a huff (why won’t she just leave already?), you unbuckle the hilt holster around your hip and chuck it on the table as well. “Yeah, well, I don’t care.” You think you would have cared had she come by years earlier when you’d still been bright-eyed and naïve. When becoming a drifter still had seemed like a good idea.
“Seen yer face afore, up north,” she remarks almost conversationally like she’s talking about the weather. Her face is a mask of perfect placidity but her eyes belie her intent. “Ye git folk up there?”
“Hardly.” But your parents had gone north, hadn’t they? It’s unlikely they’re still there, of course. Or that they’re even alive, for that matter. The woman might be lying for all you know. You busy your hands with grabbing a rag and wiping down the table, glaring at her all the while. “And I don’t care much, either, so you can save your breath.”
She raises her elbow as if to let you do your job only to slam it back down on the rag when you approach, trapping it there. “Sure,” she drawls, “listen, kid, I’ll be honest with ye. Am ‘ere for a reason. Ye know whit’s doon there?” It sounds like a rhetoric question. Like she’s just making sure.
Like hell you know. You shrug, trying to snatch the rag from her grasp but she doesn’t relent. “Don’t know, don’t care. You’re free to find out for yourself.”
“Anyone’s ever been doon there?”
Rolling your eyes, you decide to give up the pretence. “You won’t get much out of him.”
Seemingly satisfied now that you’ve finally given in, Alt raises her elbow again and picks up the rag herself, inspecting it like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Try me.”
“He’s dead.”
She groans in annoyance. “It figures. Th’ sickness?”
“Dunno,” you answer honestly. “Went down there one day and never came up again. Maybe he’s still alive but I wouldn’t bet on it.” That’s what the Sword Master had told you, at least. You barely remember the guy. He’d never stayed for long, always off to whatever it was that drifters did. Though… he had taken care of the cult up north. So maybe you shouldn’t speak too badly of him. You almost feel a little guilty.
Humming in thought, Alt reaches for the upgrade on the table, turning it around in her hand. You fight the urge to grab it and hide it away. “Say, how attached are ye tae this town?”
That’s a pretty weird thing to ask someone, isn’t it? At least you think that’s a pretty weird thing to ask. “Not terribly,” you relent at last when it seems like she isn’t going to add anything else. And it’s the truth. You don’t care much for this town. The people in it, maybe. Some of them.
“There’s a settlement nae too far from ‘ere, just past th’ forest,” she says, pointing her thumb in its direction and you don’t like what she’s implying. When you simply incline your head, she throws her head back and laughs. “Surely yoo’ve noticed?”
“Noticed what?”
“This place is rotten. Rotten tae th’ core. Someone ought tae take care o' th' vermin.” Her eyes glint with something you can’t quite name. Drifters, you come to realize once more, are weird, though this one definitely is in a league of her own. You shudder thinking about what the other towns she has passed through must look like now.
Just as you’re about to retort (or voice your confusion), the door slides open again and Alt cranes her neck to look past you. “Took ye lang enough. This one yer spawn?”
You swivel around and, behind you, the Sword Master elegantly raises one eyebrow. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks back instead of giving an actual answer but that’s just the Sword Master for you. “I hadn’t expected you to return so soon.”
“Aye, me neither,” she says and chucks the upgrade at him. He catches it in one hand and turns to you.
“Why don’t you go outside for a while?” he says pointedly, putting on that voice that tells you a ‘conversation between adults’ will be taking place now. “You haven’t played with that other kid at the soccer field in quite some time. Why not pay them a visit?”
You cross your arms.
He sighs, always fast to give in. He’d never been very good at being strict. “Yes, I thought so. Take a seat then.”
Well, you needn’t be told twice. Scrambling over yourself, you pull one chair back and plop down, barely contained excitement at being allowed to listen in outweighing the indignity of seeming overeager.
Alt watches you with hawk-like eyes as the Sword Master disappears into the adjacent kitchen, soon followed by the whistling of the kettle. Her claws click against the table but she doesn’t say anything.
Barely a minute later, the Sword Master emerges from the kitchen, balancing three cups in his hands which he carefully deposits on the table, the scent of cinnamon and cloves and something floral wafting over immediately. Pulling your cup closer, you wrap your hands around it.
“So,” he says, looking a little uneasy which is kind of disconcerting. The Sword Master doesn’t get worried. Not like that. You think the last time you’d seen that look on him was when… yes, when that younger drifter, the one Guardian had brought here, had swung by the dojo for what had been the last time any of you had ever seen him. But that had been years ago. Everyone either just pretended that it’d never happened or talked about it in hushed voices behind closed doors.
(There’s a terrible secret this town keeps, you think. You just don’t know what.)
The Sword Master clears his throat. “I’m assuming you’re here because of the-”
“Coz’ o’ th’ immortal cell, aye,” Alt interrupts him, and he winces, glancing at you. Seems like the Sword Master hadn’t wanted you to know about that. Interesting. Alt follows his gaze to you. “Och, was th’ kid nae s’pposed tae know?” She doesn’t look even remotely apologetic. You decide that, maybe, you do like her. Just a little bit.
Encouraged by the nonchalance with which she talks about the subject at hand, you straighten up a little. “What’s the immortal cell?” you ask no one in particular, fingers gliding over the rim of your cup, the tea inside it long forgotten. Alt hasn’t even touched hers.
“Th’ immortal cell-” Alt starts just as the Sword Master raises his hand to cut her off. She closes her mouth again.
“Nothing you ought to be concerned about,” he says sternly, and if that isn’t ominous you don’t know what is. And then, to Alt, “I assume you will want to deal with it swiftly?”
She shrugs, poking at her cup until it almost tips over. “Ye know how it goes.”
“Has it got to do with the drifter who went down there?” you dig deeper. The Sword Master looks at you strangely but you’re not asking him. “I already told you he’s probably dead.”
“Aye, well, tosser sure as hell didnae finish th’ job.” She rolls her eyes and tips her chair back slightly until it’s just balanced on its two hind legs.
“Unlikely that he even knew what ‘the job’ was,” the Sword Master mutters under his breath but Alt pays him no attention. He takes a sip of his tea, one hand poised beneath the cup and the other curled around it.
Waving one hand around wildly, Alt snorts. “And ye just let him go?”
He closes his eyes for a moment. “He was not deterred, no matter what I said. It was a futile endeavour.”
“Like a wee lamb tae th' slaughter,” Alt snorts. Then, turning to you, she adds, “told ya, this place is rotten tae th’ core.” Leaning forward until the chair legs hit the ground, she props her elbow up on the table. “But I’ll finish th’ job.”
“What will you need?” the Sword Master asks, massaging his temples. He seems exhausted already. You can’t blame him.
“Just have th’ town be empty by next week.” She grins, slightly crazed, like it’s a joke only she’s in on. “Best ye head over tae th’ town past th’ forest. Dinnae come back for a while.”
He nods. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She rises from her seat, knocking on the table once. It echoes hollowly. “Good. But I might need an assistant.” Saying that, she looks at you.
Setting his cup down, the Sword Master shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”
“Cannae always hide ‘em away frae th’ world,” Alt says, “they got tae learn, sooner rather ‘n’ later.”
“It’s still too early,” he argues back, sharply. You don’t think you’ve ever seen the Sword Master angry. Not even when you and the kid from the soccer field had accidentally broken one of the sword display stands.
But… but you also hate it, that they’re talking about you like you’re not even here. Talking over your head like you’re some kind of object whose fate they can decide just like that. “I’ll do it,” you say in a bout of childish bravery—or stupidity, perhaps. The line dividing the two is little more than a semantic one, anyway.
“You will not,” the Sword Master says, and though his voice is steady, you can see that he does not like this thought. “I promised-”
“Kid’s already decided, haven’t ye?” She waits until you nod and then turns back towards the Sword Master. “Let ‘em make their ain decisions, I say.”
“But-”
“Nae buts. I’ll be back next week.” And then she’s out of the door before either of you can retort. You blink after her. The Sword Master slumps in his seat, still clutching his cup like it’s a lifeline.
“I… didn’t want it to come to this,” he says after a long stretch of silence, just the sound of early evening, vendors and merchants packing up their belongings to turn in for the night. On the roof, a dove coos. “Gods, I’d hoped-”
You don’t offer any apologies. You’re not sorry for what you’ve said. You’re just sorry that it’s making him unhappy. So you shrug. “It’s fine,” you say, which is a lie. Neither of you say anything else after that, sitting in uncomfortable silence until the Sword Master finally heads out, claiming he ought to start making the necessary arrangements right away. You don’t stop him. You just watch him go.
(Just like you’d watched your parents go.)
But it’ll be fine. Surely it’ll be fine.
Alt shows up on your doorstep the following week, just as promised. The town is deserted, completely empty—it had been a lot of hard work, especially when it’d come to convincing the older folk, but after Guardian’s… untimely departure, it was the Sword Master who held most of the authority in town.
Locking the door behind you (whatever good that’ll do), you tug at your satchel’s straps, filled with paraphernalia and necessities alike. The Sword Master had left you a lot of food behind. That, and he’d made you promise you’d come find him in the town past the forest after Alt had finished whatever needed to be finished. You had said yes and felt like a liar. He’d hugged you goodbye. Had your parents done that as well when they’d left?
You don’t remember.
“C’mon,” she says impatiently as you mournfully look back at the house you spent your childhood in. The town is… eerie, when it’s this empty. Still, you follow her as she leads the way with self-assured steps, not bothering to look back. “Time tae bring this tae a finish.”
You don’t know what exactly that means but you suppose you’ll find out soon enough. Trying to keep pace with her, you look around, committing everything to memory. Just in case.
She only stops once you’re in front of the gaping hole in the middle of town, gazing down with what—surprisingly—seems to be a wistful expression on her face. “This willnae take lang,” she says, flicking something into the depths, too fast for you to make out what it is.
“We aren’t going down there?” you ask, inclining your head because, well, you thought that had been the grand idea. Go down there, deal with whatever had killed that other drifter and then… you hadn’t really thought much about what would come after that, actually. Tell the townspeople you’d dealt with the problem (not that you even know what the problem is) and be hailed as a hero. In retrospect, that does sound rather silly.
“Too much curiosity’ll git ye killed, kid,” Alt says, peering down again. There’s a flicker of light at the bottom, you think. Fuchsia and orange. “Now bow yer head.”
You do as she says, despite your confusion. “Why?” you ask, intently staring at the ground. Your shoes are scuffed.
“Got tae pay our respect tae th’ poor soul doon there.” She slightly inclines her head. “Okay, that’s enough.”
Frowning, you lightly kick at the dirt, watching as a cloud of dust rises. Something at the bottom of the hole glitters in the morning sun. You wonder what it is. “Shouldn’t we, like, also say a prayer, then?”
Alt snorts. “Ye'r free tae do so.”
You don’t. But you allow yourself to think about what could’ve been. If he hadn’t gone down there. If he’d had a family, too. And if they missed him. Well, it’s a pretty moot point. “What now?”
And she grins, showing off her teeth. “Watch,” she says as she flicks something else into the hole, grabbing a fistful of your cloak and dragging you away from the edge.
Then, there’s a sudden spark, a flash of light and you shield your eyes. Alt laughs even as the ground beneath your feet rumbles, cracks forming in the dirt, and then- then there’s a scream if it even can be called that at all. It’s nothing more than a high-pitched note, really, drawn-out and metallic and inhuman and you cover your ears and pray it’ll end soon. Next to you, Alt won’t stop laughing.
Dark smoke curls upwards from the bottomless chasm, sooty and hot, and you stumble backwards, away from the hole and tug your cloak higher to cover your mouth, coughing into it. It tastes like iron.
But the spectacle does stop, sooner or later—you’re not sure how much time has passed until the dust finally starts to settle, and as you blink to get it out of your eyes, you notice that the buildings which had been more or less even before now stand crooked, some sunken lower than others. Heat emits from the hole, now partially caved in. “What was that?” you ask weakly, unsure as to whether you actually want to hear the answer. There’s still a ringing in your ears and you shake your head to get rid of the sensation.
Alt grins down at you. “Ye dinnae even wanna know.” Her sharp teeth flash in the light.
“But it’s over now?” you ask, looking around the town which partially lies in ruins. It’s a pity, really. This’ll take a lot of time to rebuild. The cave must’ve stretched out beneath the entirety of the town. “What’d you need me for, then?”
“We,” she says, “are headin’ north. C’mon, chop-chop. We’ll be checkin’ back ‘ere in a week. See if it’s actually dead.” She claps twice before turning on her heels and stalking off, not sparing a second glance at the hole or whatever had been down there. Or bothering to explain what ‘it’ had been.
You hurry to follow her, fingers tightly curled around the straps of your satchel. “The Sword Master told me to meet him at the next town,” you say but… you’re excited. Just a little. Excited to be able to leave this town behind. To do something on your own. Well, almost on your own.
She waves her hand around slightly. “We’ll git ye a bot,” she says just as hers hovers over her shoulder, beeping quietly. “Now c’mon, we dinnae have all th’ time in th’ world.”
You glance back at the hole in the middle of what once was Central Town, orange flames licking at the charred earth. It could be worse, you think. It could always be worse.