Man that video hits different as an adult, now knowing about furry culture.

This is Lego. That’s at least $60

One more tonight, the rest tomorrow.

I held the image of the reddish-pink footprints on the stark green digital background in my mind as I turned around and surveyed my surroundings one last time. I readied myself to use my secret ability, what had originally granted me my twisted form and unnatural height. I had once as a young man used this ability several times, before I knew the incredible importance of motivation and personal connection. This time I was convinced I could control it. I had never felt so motivated before, and couldn’t remember a connection ever as strong as the one I’d formed over the past four months. I suppose it’s similar to how sensation is the most vivid and sharp when it’s first returned to a limb that’s been “asleep”. Time to find some answers.

After an hour’s hike—which, the back of my attention told me meant this was premeditated, since I’d never strayed more than a quarter hour’s walk away when foraging—I came to the edge of a forest and found myself at gunpoint, just outside a chain link fence topped with lazy loops or razor wire, with security checkpoints periodically throughout its length.

Well, well, well. What have we here? grated a voice off to one side out of a hidden speaker. I froze. I knew that voice. There always was only one. “Many mouths, and one voice.” I remembered a brochure on a table bearing that slogan, hearing the same voice, and my parents voices outside arguing quietly, but heatedly. I try not to remember the events that happened after that.

There was a fight coming, and it had just gotten even more personal. But first, I had to endure a sermon from the Zealots.

———————————————

That’s all I’ve got time for for now, but in the next section I should be able to finish the final bit of necessary worldbuilding—explaining who/what the Zealots are, but after that I’ll get to the epic fight scenes, I promise.

You can find more verbose, rambling, unfinished drafts at r/PenPaladin

All of them were dead—every single one. I vowed revenge, just as I had vowed to protect them with everything I had. Broken promises are a powerfully destructive force. My options were to seek the catharsis of revenge, or let the broken shards of my promise inside me grind around and tear me apart.

I had a secret. One that I had vowed never to use unless I was in danger of burning myself out in a single del swoop. I knew they were dead, in a funny little ironic way that only healing magic could provide. I knew exactly what was wrong, how they had died, and that I could do nothing about it. As I ran into the forest clearing where they had been about to set up camp—they were experts at setting up camp now, or at least, had been—I had just enough presence of mind to know they were gone. One advantage of being a healer for so long is the ability to let go, even if it hurts. But it was a good thing that it did hurt. In the same way a slap to the face, a bucket of cold water, or touching a hot stove could wake you up, the hurt of a sudden loss caused me to become more alert, ready to fight, or run, and then fight.

Ever since the world rediscovered magic, technology has been pretty much useless. In fact, the resurgence of magic had caused most tech to melt or lock up, and was what had caused the first apocalypse. Monsters of our own making still roamed the world, augmented by breeding programs, gene hacking, and K’r{inaudible} knows what else. They survived the environmental hazards much better than we did at first. My parents had been monster hunters, which was what had originally spurred me to seek out magic. A world run by angels and demons and artificial intelligence in tandem made for a cruel master. But I still, despite being a strong user of magic, took precautions to preserve a few choice pieces of technology.

I’d found my holo-goggles in an underground bunker my grandfather had insisted on making, still shrink-wrapped in the original packaging. You could always tell where the crazy nutters like him had lived, because sticking out from the slag would be a huge concrete cube at a funny angle, often still with the burned and twisted remains of a bombed-out house bolted on to the top. Bless him, but I do miss him. Zombies would have been almost easier to deal with than all of everything we eventually did end up with.

I shook myself out of my thoughts and pulled the goggles out of their special protective hidden pocket in the backpack I always wore beneath my cloak. I couldn’t use them long, because the background radiation—both magical and classic-style—would do enough damage even if I didn’t magnify it. So I held very still, slowing my breathing in an almost meditative exercise as I pulled them out in a fluid motion, held them to my face, and scanned the area. I spotted the tracks I needed and committed them to memory, then continued the follow-through of my practiced motion, tucking the glasses back into their pouch and reseating the weight of my bag. A minute of slow calm, maybe five seconds of controlled movement, and then it was over. When I move too fast, parts of me turn clear. When I’m in a heightened emotional state, I can slip and suddenly that limb or digit is filled with glowing golden power. Unhelpful unless I intend to use it, especially so if I’m near technology I don’t intend to damage.

They were just kids. I didn’t know why that bothered me so much. When you’re a near-immortal, life extended by the very thing that can drain it of any meaning, details can get a bit blurry. Everyone dies eventually, but my line of work put me closest to those who died the fastest, cut short the soonest. I realized with a start I couldn’t specifically remember the last time I’d clearly held onto a name or face, knowing they would die. It was a wonder I was even still healing with any sort of effectiveness.

As I looked down at them, the youngest not more than seven, the oldest a gangly tall—I dunno, maybe fifteen year old? I noticed they were all visibly unnerved by my appearance, the youngest trembling and clutching at a stuffed wolf. I noted with amusement it had an eye patch stitched on. The poor kid looked like he was going to wet himself when I first came around the corner. I sat down, reducing my height from seven feet to only five, but still towered over his head. So much for looking nonthreatening.

Magic has taken its toll physically as well over the years. Besides standing seven feet tall, my skin is completely a monotone grey and I turn slightly transparent if I move too fast. Most people think I originally looked like a normal person, but honestly I can’t remember.

I was impressed though. These kids got past my appearance relatively quickly, sliding into the booth across from me. I wanted to know what their quest was, their endgoal, and their plan to get it. Interestingly, it wasn’t wealth, artifacts, or even reputation. Not fame, not power, no bloodlust to sate, but just freedom. They wanted to find a place where they wouldn’t have to be hunted down every night by rival gangs or worse. Just a place they could go and exist without fear, owning their own possessions, even if there weren’t many. As to how, they had no idea. They were just kids. I think it was then, sitting in an abandoned Denny’s, that I saw myself in them. They wanted my expertise as an adventurer more than the insurance dragging along a healer afforded. So I made a snap decision and agreed. No contract, no payment, no promises or guarantees from them. An unsponsored party, of true adventurers, who were already showing true bravery even in the smallest of ways.

I think that’s why I snapped so hard when, four months later, I returned from foraging and found them ambushed.

I used to draw upon my own strength, magically enhanced, to heal my companions. I could channel a limited about of divine power, but it had its price. Every deal with the devil does. I paid that price, every single day, whether I healed that day or not. The closer I was with my target, the more we’d been through together, the better they healed. But I never grew close anymore.

If somebody hires you because you can bring them back from the brink time and time again, you would think they would pay you well, or at least show some gratitude. They usually did, once or twice. But I was contractually obligated to, and more so, I had to heal to keep myself alive. They knew it, and even if they didn’t start off as callous bastards, they all eventually died that way. Not my fault that the fact they took me for granted loosened the connection and made it harder to heal. It was, however, my fault that I didn’t do anything about it. Sure, I could have pushed harder, but who on earth would expend their own life force for assholes?

A younger me might have. But the problem with using your own soul as the spark to light a bigger magical fire is that it always burns up a bit of the soul too. You eventually lose the ability to care. Once emotions go, morals and ethics begin to follow. Now, I wasn’t a soulless emotionless machine like my fellows often mistakenly believed, they were just buried deep, quelled to a smolder so as to not distract—for anyone who tries to heal without any sort of driving goal, a reason to want it, or some sort of passion or obsession, instantly fails. The magic burns you out. Not in any sort of way that would be a spectacular explosion or a violent last gasp, though.

But today was different. This party was just kids. Cold ruthless killers, a product of not only the street gangs of their childhood, but of the impending threat of war that had forced them into that life. I suppose I should have seen the signs coming, of parties coming, failing, going ever so faster, throwing themselves into the fights ever so recklessly, but I didn’t. I was just fulfilling my contract. I look back and wish I had noticed, something to shake me out of my twisted reverie sooner. But I was fading, losing myself in the disconnect. I was just lucky to wake up when I did.

(To be continued)

Harder and stronger too