Slumrat Rising

The Real Real

The Real Real

Thierrie liked to call himself The Charisma of the Streets. Truth liked to call him “A fucking drug dealing pedophile pimp,” but only if he was being polite. And Theirrie was grinning at his sister, luring her away from her brothers with a smoke.

Truth had told him once before. Looks like Thierrie needed a reminder.

“Think you got the wrong street, Theirrie. You definitely got the wrong person.”

“Nope, don’t think I do.” Thierrie’s grin got a lot nastier, as Sophia ran to catch up with the sibs. “You day drinking? Just like the old man, huh?” He glanced at the empty bottle in Truth’s hand.

“Thought you might be thirsty, so I brought you something. Or maybe you need some high speed dentistry.” Truth’s voice was very even. “Fuck off, Thierrie. Nothing good here for you.”

“Big talk from a level zero. Real big.” Thierrie wasn’t smiling any more.

“Don’t act like you got a spell worth shit. I know you, Thierrie. We all know you. You got a busted Sharp spell from Skellie when you thought 9th Street was going to be a thing, and you ain’t got better since.”

“More than enough to chop your ass up. And that’s the Truth.” Thierries’ fingers turned metallic and pointed. Truth couldn’t be bothered to roll his eyes as the “joke.” He had heard them all before. After a tense moment, it was Thierrie who relaxed and removed his spell.

“You know what? I don’t need to bother with your ass. One month and you getcha green hat. For one. Whole. Year. You know me, and I know you. One month, and your cute little brothers and sister are all on their own. You know what? I don’t think Harmy is ready for it. Talks a good game, but he ain’t shit. So I don’t have to do shit.” Thierrie lit the cigarette he had tempted Sophie with.

“They will come to me. And there will be not one goddamn thing you can do about it. Or maybe I can cut a deal with your Dad. The Red and Black or me? It’s all the same to him.” Thierrie swaggered off. Truth stood in the mouth of the alley, wanting to puke. Thierrie was right. The only way out was to get into Starbrite. Get the housing. Get the backing. Get the Sibs emancipated. He was running out of time.

Truth started by hitting up all the local shops and small factories that might need a runner or some day labor. He got a few chores, pulled in twenty wen which he reckoned was pretty good.

Then it was back to the path along the canal, fishing out trash and hoping for treasure. Not bad, not bad, a few busted bits of flying bird mounts or spell chariots that scraped off over a bridge. Or were just tossed in the canal because someone didn’t want to pay the dump. Bless them.

It wasn’t a bad haul, and the sun was still some distance from the horizon when he decided to call it a day. His studying was messed up last night, and he wanted to try and catch up a bit today. Every minute counted. Every second. But they needed money for food and, if he could possibly save up enough, cultivation supplements. Real ones, not the bullshit his mom peddled.

Truth tried not to think about Thierrie. Or the neighborhood kids Theirrie gave a “fun, easy job.” Then Thierrie gave them a little base when the John’s got too rough and things weren’t fun or easy and it all got too much. Then gave them more base when it kept on being too much, but this time it wasn’t free, no, he just took the cost out of their earnings. And he always kept the earnings, they just needed to ask him for money when they needed it. It was much safer that way. Oh yes. Much safer. His little druggie whores couldn’t be trusted with cash. Look how fast they burned out on base. Then he needed new whores.

The thing that fucked Truth up the most was that Thierrie thought he was one of the good ones. He really, truly did. He didn’t smack his whores around much. He at least tried to buy clean drugs. He would, actually, give them money if they asked. He even helped them find squats they could huddle together in, sharing the costs and food. Sharing what comfort they could. Keeping them handy for when Theirrie wanted to drop by and enjoy his own stock.

One month, and he has to do his national service. One month, and he can’t keep the pimps and dealers away. The only way out is Starbrite. Pass the test, join up, put the sibs in company apartments, away from all the bullshit while he served. Emancipate them from his parents. It could be possible. But he had to, HAD TO pass the test. Or the sibs were dead. They were fighters, but not like him. They would slip, and the slums would fish hook ’em.

Wasn’t like there was anyone else looking out for them. Not like there was anyone they could go to. No CPS for slumrat denizens. No relatives that would put them up for longer than a week. Mom had thoroughly burned all those bridges, and Dad pissed schnapps and poppy on the ashes.

One month. Twenty nine days now. He half jogged to Phil’s, the scrap in a heavy sack over his shoulders. No time to waste. Not one minute.

Phil liked a nice, orderly shop. You put your junk on the scale, a blue light flashed, and the scale said what the junk was and how much it weighed. Then Phil gave you a price. You took the price or fucked off. Or argued with the golems.

Truth queued up quietly. It was early yet, so it was mostly people trying to sell their trash rather than the real scavengers. Phil didn’t bother to let most of them push their shit on the scale. If they complained- Golem.

“Ah, the funniest named trash picker I know. Anything good today, Truth?” Phil asked with faint interest.

“Some good bits, some ok metal. Even got an intact lift spell.”

“Oh? Now I’m a bit interested. Toss it on the scale.”

Truth did, the light went up, and the spell went “ding!” Sand moved on a little tray in front of Phil, laying out what all was in there.

“Way to talk a big game, kid.” He reached in the drawer and carefully laid out a few ones and fives. Catching Truth’s eye, he slipped five twenties under them. “This is barely scrapable.” There were other scavs around. And regardless, in the slums, you don’t flash the cash without a way to defend it.

“I’d ask if you could do any better, but…”

“Forget it. You want more, argue with the golems.”

“I’m not that strong. But hey, I’m going to join Starbrite soon!” Truth half grinned. “That’s got to be worth something.”

“Sure is. Forget it, SIR.” Phil rolled his eyes. “Look, even if you did join Starbrite, so what? You’re still nobody, a weak little punk in a company that does not give even half a fart about you. Only thing you can rely on is you.”

“And your golems.”

Phil raised his eyebrows. “Golems I made and paid for. My strength. You? Got nothing. And your whole big thing is you are going to join a fancy gang.” He waved his hand. “Beat it. You’re holding up the line.”

And off he went. Phil was OK, but there was only so much advice Truth was willing to listen to.

One hundred and thirty seven wen. Best haul in ages. Better than some weeks. That lift spell must have been in even better shape than he thought. But how to spend it? His instinct was to save but… this was a crucial moment. He had to get over the hurdle to Level 1 before the test. The difference in treatment and available jobs for a level zero and level one were… significant. You weren’t a kid any more. You got paid what you were really worth.

On the other hand, the sibs hadn’t had any good food in a long while. One meal wasn’t going to fix everything in terms of nutrition, but some more protein would be huge. Maybe if he got a big sack of dry sea monster flakes. You could boil them in soup. They sold them for uptown aquariums and fish farms, but you could eat them. They didn’t taste good, but what’s new about that?

Truth went back and forth. He bought more rice, some vegetables that would keep, and a big block of tofu. That would keep them going for a while. One hundred and nineteen wen left.

He would later figure out what they really needed. One month left. Twenty eight days and eight hours left.

Truth dropped into the cultivation exercises. It was one of his favorite parts of the day. Just stretching and breathing, imagining the breath swirling down into the little depression over his heart where his first spell slot would be. Level 1.

“Cosmic rays” is what he learned in school. But it always sounded phony. Still better than “Stellar rays,” which was the other thing they got called. No difference apparently. Not that Truth knew what “Cosmic” or “Stellar” meant, really. Somehow it never came up on the streets. But he knew he had to know it if he wanted to get off the streets, so he learned it.

The stars generate invisible energy that sweeps across the universe, and if you know how, you can use them to open up spell slots. Make you stronger than any born human could be. Faster. Smarter, maybe. “Cosmic rays.” That could travel through space, but you could breathe in the energy. What a stupid lie.

But it worked. He got a little stronger every day. Level 1 was so close he could taste it. This was when a rich kid, or even a less poor kid, would take a supplement. Even if their parents had to scrimp for half a year, they would have something to help push their kid through that final barrier. Put them in the best shape for the SAT.

He looked at the ashtray next to the broken down armchair. Dad smoked Red Bats, the knockoff Golden Bats they sold in casinos. Everyone knew they were soaked with poppy. Didn’t seem to bother Dad any. Probably why he liked them.

The sibs kept an emergency stash of cash in a hollow spot they carved out of the wall where it joined the floor. They disguised it with a rat’s nest. Not that their parents ever checked, but after Dad ran their pockets for drink money a couple of times, they knew better than to hold cash. Truth hid the money. It wasn’t enough for a real supplement. Not even a hundredth of an elixir. But there were some knockoff things that might speed up his cultivation a bit. He would save a few more days, a week tops. Then. Level 1. His first step to safety.