I have finished my short story, hope you enjoy!
Solace IX
Lumina
Solace IX. Earth reborn-or so the travel ads claim. They usually depict pictures of luscious greens and snow-capped mountains, screens filled with happy faces getting back to nature. “A vacation resort for any sort”. But the truth behind the adverts is one of neon lights, smoggy cities packed dense enough to be a black hole, consuming all that gets caught within its event horizon.
Tucked deep within those neon cities are shadows so dark and harrowing even organized crime fears them. Within those deepest shadows are where people, and their belongings, simply cease to exist. It is in these chthonic recesses where Skretch has made his home, and in his home he doesn’t just survive, he thrives.
Within this gloom he lurks about, his whiskers twitching at the shifting air currents. The gentle hum of a nearby reactor echoes in his ears. It is unpleasant, but it makes the job of stealth that much easier. His eyes dart in the same twitchy cadence as his whiskers, and he watches as his creepers stalk through the shadows.
“Yes.” Skretch said to himself. The word stretched like time as it left his muzzle.
His arms twitched and moved spastically as he directed traffic, sending his creepers to their positions. The filthy spoiled surface-meat had seemingly abandoned this reactor, despite it being in good operational condition. It was now Skretch’s job to discretely reroute some of that delicious power back to the brood-food for fueling the surge that would end Lumina.
He watches as the moments tick by. He watches as his team moves in unison, as if they were all one restless entity jerking around with skittish motion. He watches as they begin their work diverting wires and cables towards the brood, ensuring the matriarch gets her fill. Soon, however, one of his creepers materializes from the shadows, ensuring that he keeps his head lower than Skretch’s as he approaches the Master Creeper.
“Yes? What is it?” Skretch asks, his voice dripping with impatience. His speech is slower and more deliberate than the other creepers-a product of spending countless hours honing his mastery of language. Skretch finds the twitchy spasms of speech that other Veer Myn speak with to be a mark of ignorance.
“Skretch. Master Skretch. There is a skitter-band of surface-meat approaching.” Skabbix’ eyes darted down one of the subterranean tunnels as he spoke, indicating the direction they were coming from.
“Surface-meat know we are here?” Skretch wonders out loud. He thinks of all the possible plans of action, his brain thinking in the same spasmodic pace his body moves in.
“Purge-things, Master Skretch. Purge-Things. And they carry a Nest-Burner.”
The purge-things make Skretch reel, but the words Nest-Burner fill him with dread. He fights the urge to shrink and cower as he thinks back to the many times he has seen the destruction of purge-things firsthand, eradicating brood-clusters with ease as they sweep through with their nest-burners. He swallows hard and his large eyes narrow. He remembers who he is.
“I am Skretch. Skretch the Master Creeper. Skretch the Gnawer of Shadows. Skretch the Deep Scourge!” He loudly whispers.
Skabbix stares at his Master Creeper briefly, his head cocks to the side as he tries to understand what is running through Skretch’s mind before responding, “Yes, Master Skretch. Yes yes.
Skretch looks angry at Skabbix’ interruption.
“Skabbix! We must melt into shadow. We cannot fight Purge-things head on. We must skulk. We must stalk. Purge-things like to shoot. We get in tight. We must taste the stench of surface-meat when we pry them open. We must blast them from their clang-suits. No purge-things will leave alive.”
“Yes! Master Skretch!” Skabbix is intoxicated at the thought of a fight with the purge-things.
“Gnawtch!” Skretch whispers loudly over the hum of the reactor, and soon a patchy young nestling appears in front of Skretch.
“Master Creeper,” he whispers. He stares at Skretch, unafraid.
Gnawtch. Skretch, the Master Creeper, has plans. You will continue to route the power. Run the brood-cables. Gnawtch does not stop, no matter what Gnawtch sees or hears.” Skretch eyes the nestling carefully, studying his reaction.
“Gnawtch is not afraid of purge-things, Master Creeper!” He replied with a dangerous vigour.
The nestling had never encountered purge-things, so he had no reason to fear them. Skretch had come across them many times, and Skretch knew there was a keen intelligence in being afraid. Their powered suits made them near-unstoppable, especially one-on-one, and their precision with the laser-rifles they carried with them were especially lethal. One purge-thing could decimate a whole brood-squad of stalkers, especially with their nest-burners.
“Gnawtch is not afraid because Gnawtch is stupid,” Skretch snapped, “Skretch has seen the purge things. Skretch has fought the purge-things. Skretch knows the violence it will take to kill them all. Skretch knows how to creep in tight. When Skretch kills the purge-things, Skretch gets so close he can smell the purge-thing’s stench through their clang-suits. Skretch is scared. But Skretch will use that fear. Gnawtch is not scared, and will die brave and stupid!” Skretch’s lungs heave as he speaks each word a warhead loaded with anger and ferocity.
“Gnawtch will do as Master Creeper commands,” Gnawtch replies. He isn’t afraid of the purge-things, but Skretch’s visceral demeanor gives him a nervous tick. “The brood-cables will be run. The brood will feed. Gnawtch is proud to have this honor.”
“Good.” Skretch drags the word out in a death rattle. “Creepers! Melt into shadow with Skretch!” As he speaks he disappears into the darkness. He vanishes into the black depths of the industrial undercity, and his creepers follow—melting into shadow, twitch by twitch.
From the depths of the darkness the Veer-Myn patiently await the squad of enforcers that slowly make their way through the labyrinthine darkness. Skretch crouches into shadow, his whiskers twitch as he thinks back to the intelligence that has been gathered on the reactor during this break in the brood’s work. He thinks of the countless hours spent skulking in shadows. Watching. Waiting. Skretch thinks of how stupid the man-things are, and how they abandoned a near limitless power source. He recalls a conversation he sat through, sneaking in the shadows. How the reactor was not stable enough to be trusted. How its use could cause severe damages severe enough to push beyond the “loss threshold”.
Skretch smiles a sinister slight smile as he thinks back to this incident. He does not know what a “loss threshold” is – in his mind it is a foreboding precipice that gives way into a pit of despair and fear- but he is certain the man-things are weak. They are pathetic beings formed by the self-serving and cowardly choices that dictate their lives.
He is at home, here, in the darkness. In the shadows. The underbelly of the cityscape above. The forgotten lands that even the denizens of humanity fear to tread. The hum of the industrial hellscape thrums around him, and distant pipes hiss like the warning of a Brood Mother to her nestlings. In here, the depths of the underworld, Skretch is at home. Alive.
Now is not the time for such thinks, however. He smells the purge-things, no, he can nearly taste them they are so close. They move with almost supernatural speed, and Nightmarish strength, but they are loud- their clang-suits create vibrations that dance across the hairs within Skretch’s ears. He centers his mind as he watches them approach. He melts into darkness. The purge-things do not know this, but they are being stalked by predatorial shadows. Skretch watches silently, flexing and stretching his clawed hands, preparing his blast-bombs for use in cracking open the purge-things in their mechanical clang-suits.
His eyes dart from one enforcer operative to the next, his frenetic brain counting as they walk walk by, ignorant of the danger they are in. Skretch counts them. A paw and a half. He can easily kill two, especially with the element of surprise, but the other four, he’s not sure. Are his creepers up to the fight? There are too many nestlings with him. Stupid nestlings, like Gnawtch, who think only for themselves, and not for the brood. They must be taught. Fear. Fear and death are excellent teachers, he thinks.
As his eyes search the purge things he finds the one he is looking for. The one carrying the nest-burner. Hatred flows through every patch of fur on his body, and his muscles twitch in anticipation of the violence he will wreak upon them. He chances a last second glance to Gnawtch. The nestling works half-heartedly, one eye on the power cables, the other scanning the purge-things. Skretch knows this will be a mutinous problem, but not one for right now. His savage eyes dart back to the unknowing victims. Slowly he skulks closer, ever-vigilant, ever-silent. His breathing slows to a crawl, despite his body twitching fiendishly. He can reach the purge-things. He can rip the nest-burner from its filthy hands if he wishes. He knows it is time to strike.
“Death from Shadow!” Skretch cries as he pulls the pin from his makeshift blast-bomb. His clawed hand wraps around the nest-burner’s neck, his claws ripping at the armoured undersuit that covers it. The force of his claw creates a small gap between the undersuit and the hard clang-suit that covers it. It is within this gap that Skretch plants his blast-bomb. Before the operative can react to the incredible speed of his assailant, Skretch leaps into the air, creating space between the purge-thing and himself. The operative reactively lifts the nest-burner and aims it at Skretch, and he has the veer-myn dead-to-rights. Before the trigger on the burner can be pulled a violent explosion bursts from the chest of the enforcer, sending bone shrapnel and armor shards flying in all directions.
The blast is a cacophonous roar that echoes through the undercity. The air is acrid, scorched flesh invades the nostrils, and Skretch twitches a nervous but self-satisfied twitch. Skretch knows the purge things well, and he knows how to fight them. He knows which to kill first, and how to send them an efficient, if lethal, message.
Chaos erupts in the aftermath of the blast. Skretch watches from his place in the shadows as the remaining purge-things fight back. Their rifles flash their beams of light as the electronics inside create a crackling noise with each trigger-pull. Skabbix manages to separate a purge-thing’s head from its body, its neck now a volcano of blood erupting in torrents. Not far away Murr is gunned down in an attempt to close the distance to a different purge-thing. Hot flashes of light cauterize wounds before they bleed out.
Skretch now has a few precious seconds, and he uses those to check on Gnawtch. Gnawtch is stupid, and there is a chance he acts on impulse, abandoning his priorities in order to slay purge-things. Skretch is surprised to see Gnawtch working diligently. Briefly he witnesses the nestling cast yearning glances towards the sounds of chaos and fighting, but his eyes return to his work.
Skretch smiles appreciatively. It won’t be long now before the man-things’ derelict reactor feeds countless broodlings and nestlings. .
He turns his attention back to the purge-things. Only a paw’s worth left to kill. He counts and sees that he has lost Churr and Murk. A painful loss eased only by the benefit their lives have given the brood.
Gnawtch hungrily watches as the fight crescendos. He yearns to play in this orchestra of violence. He understands that Skretch is the conductor, but he knows that one day it will be Gnawtch. He watches as a purge-thing slays another creeper, a nestling named Skrit. He watches as creepers melt into shadow, only to reappear again in a whirl of violent fury. His ambitions and desires are too much.
“Gnawtch not afraid… Gnawtch is better fighter than even Skretch. Skretch is weak and jealous keeping gnawtch away from the fighting. Skretch knows Gnawtch’s ambitions.” He whispers to himself. He looks to the menial task he has been set to and decides it is beneath great Gnawtch.
Nearby another creeper, Claw, is inches from a purge thing. Its laser rifle is rendered useless at such close range, and flashes of light fly in a cyclone as it attempts to extinguish the vermin that clings to his clang-suit so tightly. Claw is small in stature, and scampers easily all around and over the purge-thing. Claw jumps to avoid a blast of light from the purge-things burn-rifle, but finds himself caught in the purge-thing’s grasp. Armored fingers begin to close around Claw’s throat. Hoarse chittering suffocates in its grasp. Claw thrashes wildly, doing everything in his power to escape the clang-suit’s iron grip, he even tries to bite at the wrists and hands, finding purchase in the armor, but only managing to lose one of his teeth.
Gnawtch descends upon the purge-thing from the shadows, blast-bomb in hand. He lands gracefully on the back of the purge thing, a wicked smile hangs like a noose from his twisted face. Briefly his eyes lock with Claw’s, and for a second Claw thinks he is saved.
“Stupid Claw. I would save you. But Skretch likes you. You are weak. You will not make it into Gnawtch’s litter. Gnawtch will get new nestlings.”
Gnawtch plants the blast-bomb under the purge-things helmet and leaps into the air. Within seconds Claw and the purge thing erupt as blood bursts like lava from the gaping holes the blast leaves.
Once again Skretch surveys the scene. Gnawtch is no longer patching the brood into the reactor. Rage fills his head as he furiously searches the area for Gnawtch.
“Two purge-things left,” he says to himself as he finds Skabbix.
Gnawtch is nearby, and Skretch watches as he leaps away from Claw and the purge-thing. Skretch watches as one of his creepers is killed by the nestling.
Gnawtch seeks glory. Gnawtch seeks reward. He does not seek to work within the brood’s rules. He will pay.
One of the purge-things has a light-fist, and it hums with electrical energy as it reaches for Skabbix. Skretch leaps toward the melee, but everything happens faster than even he can move. Skabbix rips his blade from a soft spot in a purge-thing’s clang suit just as the light-fist grabs his skull. There is a silent lull in the maelstrom that is followed by a hum and a crunch as Skabbix’s skull bursts in its palm sending brain and bone fragments scattering into the air.
Skretch curbs his rage and watches as Gnawtch begins stalking the purge-thing with the light fist. Slowly Skretch creeps closer. He will watch what happens. He knows he can kill this last purge-thing, but he doesn’t want to have to fight both it and Gnawtch. Better to let the nestling tire itself out.
The fight is intense but brief as the purge-thing turns and swings its light-fist in Gnawtch’s direction. The nestling jumps high to dodge, and flash-bursts blaze from the flash-pistol in its other hand. Gnawtch twists his body, expecting the secondary attack, and the shots miss. Gnawtch comes down on the arm wielding the pistol and he sinks his own flash-knife into the wrist joint of the clang-suit. The wound is superficial but the purge-thing drops its weapon. The light-fist punches but Gnawtch is fast, dancing out of the way again. He scampers onto the purge-thing’s back, causing its arms to flail in an attempt to grab him. Soon the flash-knife is driven into the neck joint of the clang-suit.
Gnawtch heaves as air rushes into and out of his lungs. Adrenaline surges through his body and his twitching muscles ache for more.
A slow clap echoes from the shadows. Skretch inches forth from the shadows, his face twisted in a sneer of disdain.
“Gnawtch a great warrior.” Skretch says coolly.
Gnawtch’s heartbeat begins its slow descent to normalcy. He grips his flash-knife and stares at Skretch.
“Gnawtch better than Skretch.” Gnawtch says as he eyes his Master Creeper.
Skretch stares in silence, the tension between them builds into a wall
“Perhaps. But Skretch is smart. Gnawtch is stupid. Gnawtch sacrifices brood for his own glory. The brood has no nest-space for stupid nestlings. Stupid nestlings are purged. Stupid nestlings are drowned. As Gnawtch should have been.” Skretch’s eyes are sharp and vigilant. He studies his nestling.
“Gnawtch is smart. Gnawtch will slay Skretch. Gnawtch will finish brood-work. Gnawtch will return to brood and get his own litter of creepers. Gnawtch will be Master Creeper.” The words drip like acid from his poison mouth.
“Nestling is stupid. Nestling has man-thing ambitions.” Skretch starts.
“Nestling is GNAWTCH!” Gnawtch’s anger boils to the surface now, “Skretch’s creeper-litter is weak. Skretch is Weak. Gnawtch has name. Skretch old. Skretch not even gray-fur, getting nestling respect. Skretch is no longer Skretch. Skretch is Dustback. Old and Decrepit.” His grip tightens around his flash-knife as he speaks.
“Nestling still too stupid to understand. Skretch’s litter is not Skretch’s. Skretch’s litter is the Brood Mother’s. Skretch only watches it. Cares for it. Nestling cannot take a litter from Skretch, Skretch has none. Skretch only has this,” He draws a short power-infused sword from its scabbard as he talks. Electrical energy flashes and hums around it. “Skretch’s only possession is his man-opener. If Nestling want Skretch’s belongings, Nestling better come take it.”
Gnawtch’s muscles tense and coil, and he is snake-like in his movements as he begins his dance with Skretch. The flash knife hums in his grip. He knows Skretch will have a reach advantage, but the dustback is old and slow, at least that is what Gnawtch believes.
“Gnawtch will have it. Gnawtch will have it all!”
Skretch stands patiently, his flash-sword in hand. He feels the gentle pulse of the energy that flows through it as the light pulses and creates jagged shadows that dance across his face.
“Earn your drowning, Nestling.” Skretch says with a sneer.
Gnawtch lunges, thrusting the flash-knife towards Skretch’s ribs.
This, Gnawtch’s second duel of the day, is lightning quick but far less intense.
Skretch sidesteps just before the flash-knife finds purchase, and Gnawtch finds himself shocked at the preternatural speed with which his opponent moves. If Gnawtch is fast then Skretch is a whirlwind of motion and violence. He does not strike with the blade, but rather the hilt of his sword finds Gnawtch’s back and the nestling stumbles to the floor.
“Nestling fights like purge-things. Stupid. Slow. Emotional.” Skretch chides as he stands over Gnawtch.
Gnawtch angrily jumps to his feet, and in a fit of rage yells “Gnawtch is strong!”
Skretch watches as the nestling once again thrusts his blade at him, this time the blade opens a slight cut on Skretch’s side. Blood begins to pool and coagulate in his mottled fur.
“Nestling is strong,” Skretch’s eyes narrow, “And Nestling will die strong. Strong and stupid.”
The man-opener cackles and hums in retaliation as it finds itself sinking deep into Gnawtch’s shoulder from above. The blade is ripped back out sending sprays of blood in all directions. The wound is deep. Gnawtch will die slowly.
“Skretch must now finish Nestling’s work, so Nestling can die.” Skretch whispers into Gnawtch’s ear as the nestling slowly bleeds out on the ground.