Littering on the Road to Nowhere - SCP Foundation

« Previous Tale | Swords unto Scramjets | Next Tale »

ALCON / STANDBY TO RECEIVE PROCLAMATION

ALLAINGIAN BANNERS EXCEED PROJECTION / MULTIPLY AS IF BY SORCERY

SIR SOLMIN THE STAR-EYED HAS TAKEN THE FIELD

OTHER MILITARIES PROVE HOSTILE UPON CONTACT

DOGS THAT THEY ARE / RABID AS THEIR KINGS

WEATHER FOULING

RESUPPLY DELAYED

TAKE FROM OTHERS BEFORE THEY TAKE FROM YOU

Although violence carried on distant winds as Mealworm limped away from that most recent failure, it wasn't her violence, nor was it her war. Aster would be disappointed about lacking foes with equal capabilities. Galowyn and the others would be wroth over losses made meaningless. Indeed, she tasted a profound bitterness in the back of her throat when considering what ten years had earned—one spent recovering from abandonment, four on stumbling between outposts and caravans in the very land she helped stain red, another two on rummaging through once-classified plans, then three on picking what was needed from caches, graveyards, and tainted fortresses. All to be left with an unwieldable sword and an unusable key.

The sole remaining PACER was long gone from Mt. Perfidy's outskirts. Rather than follow a path of felled trees that led north along the Dulltooth Range—where high peaks hosted ELINT sensors and communication hubs staffed by dutiful orks—Mealworm turned back toward the heart of Cherinmark. Even if Gregor had been correct about the scope of conflict brewing there, its deepest reaches offered plenty of places to lose herself for another decade if necessary.

A nameless boar trail took her miles on its own, cutting across the outer layer of territory populated by cast-off communities. Although rulers complained tirelessly about being denied taxation or tyranny there, that massive ring of plains, roads, and rivers allowed passage across the continent better than any shoreside trail. Of goods and people. Of the ideas each carried. Mealworm paid that burgeoning seventh civilization no mind though, unwilling to show herself around royal agents or catspaws who might have her name on any number of ill-intended lists. Outcroppings protected campfires instead of sturdy roofs, then caves too small for bears and blinds abandoned by hunters. Whatever offered cover from the drizzle falling overhead every day.

Rations dwindled. Kindling dwindled. Symbols of modernity were discarded too, buried into little caches of their own while she worked to shed weight—as if either hunger or memories could truly be outrun by casting all else aside. Gone were inhalers that still held whiffs of intoxicating superiority, then replacement parts for systems which might never be seen again. Especially gone was that mask and its clogged filters, all too keen a reminder of what transpired, though black-streaked phlegm plagued her long after.

One evening among many, Mealworm came to rest in a half-formed hollow at the base of a truly gargantuan tree, enjoying the relative dryness offered by its branches. Legs askew, sword balanced atop them, she relaxed while watching the sunset refract through cloud cover. A privilege rarely afforded to those who grew up in the bowels of a repurposed aircraft carrier. Then again, such privileges had motivated her to volunteer for this away mission in the first place—not that anyone told her just how away it would end up being. That vibrant orange bloom spread tendrils of deeper red as it drifted further behind the horizon; purple veins followed, slowly subsuming the heavens in full as she finished a mug of ditchwater. Fortified microbiomes had to be used or lost, after all.

Her hand snapped to TAPEWORM TANGIBLE's scabbard before the first footstep could be heard over raindrops. That internal mass, that ever-present hitchhiker, urged her to draw first with how eagerly it pressed outwards against bone. As though it planned to break free and combat whoever intruded there. She maintained her grip instead, simply shifting to face the figure who pushed through curtains of rainwater falling from those outermost leaves.

Their waterproof cloak shed every droplet with ease, and boots barely displaced mud in motion; moreover, both arms shifted beneath inflexible fabric in a way that suggested some weapon was being cradled. Eyes orange enough to rival the sunset barely seemed noteworthy in comparison as they gleamed behind a long-snouted mask. Mealworm was foreign to this world, but so were cast-offs from the Howling Pillar who insisted on opening gaps of their own.

"They call these peerless blades if you haven't heard," she said casually, shifting to hold it horizontally between both hands. "I draw it and you die. Step closer, and I draw it. Shoot me, I draw it. Hang around, I'll draw it too. Consider whether your contract is worth paying that price."

"I hear each to be a maw unparalleled." Came words from a mouth clearly used to shaping other languages. "That is, they also say to draw it invites consumption."

"Might be. You won't live to see the meal though."

Although damp, bedraggled, and clearly dogged by exhaustion, it was a threat with sharper teeth than were carved into that mask. The hunter shifted whatever weapon hung to their chest, then dipped in a slight nod and backed through rainwater without looking away. Although the stim had long since fled her system, Mealworm was honed sharp enough to sense a mutt retreat downhill. Whether they would continue stalking from a distance remained to be seen. Disappointed, her internal mass curled itself for a slumber that would escape its host for quite some time.

Even insomnia couldn't dampen Cherinmark's majesty though, a land that refused to be described by minor words or to host minor existences. Trees grew even denser as Mealworm followed a path dotted by patches of paving stones—crooks aplenty where boughs formed low archways. Bushes bloomed in pastels rarely seen elsewhere. Ancient guideposts yet glowed with bound light. Where the forest relented, it was always to expose a river so narrow and deep that it must have been carved by a giant's sword, or vineyards so lush that hacksaws were required to maintain them. When absent, it was usually because some ancient-yet-unyielding fortress emerged from nowhere as though grown outright. Walls sometimes guarded. Banners sometimes proud. She even spotted a few of the A3/AD clusters that were surreptitiously constructed throughout the war to protect foreign interests. Isolation ensured that a great many remained ready to shoot down intruding drakes or aircraft, autonomous subroutines as territorial as ever.

Bulbous, soft-rined fruits replaced her last few energy bars (bit clean through in the elven fashion). Wells and cisterns refilled her canteen wherever available (water hosting even more aggressive parasites). In that fashion, along those roads, Mealworm continued shedding what was precious but unworkable, taking more and more of the land into herself. Without having to crawl through mud or meet in grottos with the whir of UAVs far overhead, those rolling hills in their hundreds of hues were truly spectacular—even more so, having healed from hard fighting in a manner flesh could never manage. How unfortunate that they needed to burn anew when her war returned with all its worst weapons. Then again, these seemed more than ready to heal from those wounds too.

Shedding her empty pistol into a roadside ravine came easier than expected as she approached the Roaming City of Unceda.

Although "nomad city" conjures a free-ranging image in the minds of those ruling seaside states, Unceda never bowed to such expectations in its creep across Cherinmark. Not tents, but sturdy structures nonetheless built to be dismantled and reassembled as owners see fit. Not horses, but lumbering beasts of burden whose six legs pull mobile walls through the mud. Logging continues, buildings shift, and seeding follows, all while rathole miners dart through the territory's tunnel network in search of veins to strip before the city passes by. In this, residents enjoy protection from the grim shapes that stalk through the night without fear of sucking resources dry; by that, their mine-lords and gem-barons grow wealthier, giving ever less consideration to homes and businesses that linger in the tailing district. Such it has been for centuries upon centuries.

Mealworm found the city a few miles back from where she expected based on past sightings. Planners had directed it through a valley cloven between sheer cliffs—no doubt seeking to exploit whatever their fission exposed—but in the process had slowed Unceda's crawl to, well, a crawl. It would probably take another decade before the city fully freed itself from that predicament. After wrapping TAPEWORM TANGIBLE in her jacket, she slid down the muddy slope, squelched through a lily pond, and made no effort to disguise her entrance through one of many gates that moved with everything else. Much as Cherinmark itself welcomed cast-offs, the guards made no effort to interrogate those seeking shelter. All the while, she felt the stare of that persistent hunter from somewhere in the tree line far behind.

'War's going bad,' was a report often repeated by other patrons of the Burrow, a tavern whose owner took great pride in placing it above rich veins upon each relocation. When rent could be paid in gems, then meals with ore, why would hopeful miners stay anywhere else? 'War's going great,' was the only report rivaling its frequency, and thus did Mealworm get scattershot news as she prepared for her journey's next leg. Allaingar took Fort Gräd again. Allaingar lost Fort Gräd again. Tellech established this redoubt on the Breskial Mainway. Tellech retreated from it just as quickly. Pardusht, Baeste, Timur, Skardoss, all states whose successes transmuted into failure with clockwork regularity. Either Gregor's grand stroke had failed already or had yet to ripen in full; all the better for ensuring he eventually got what he deserved.

"I hope they die," muttered a sallow youth one night at the longtable used for meals. "Sacks of garbage eager to spill everywhere. Chickenshit henfuckers. Pustules. Don't even know how to live and they're still making it harder for us. Pricks. Don't even know how to breathe unless a king tells 'em. Might as well drown in all the piss they gargle."

On he went to an impressive extent, overheard by nobody but Mealworm as she nodded and gnawed at stale bread. Who could disagree? When heard from this perspective, the war seemed a truly foolish thing, with nothing of value gained for long or held at small cost. No doubt because they lacked sage advice from abroad. At least some people recognized the magnitude of that absence.

Moving structures by day, rathole diving by night, she progressed in her own fashion as three weeks of travel were exceeded by three months of labor. The deepest holes. The heaviest beams. Exchanging aches, scrapes, and bruises for gold in both chunks and coinage. Shaving away at a scant sleep schedule allowed her to rebuild muscles depleted by malnutrition at the cost of deeper bags beneath dull green eyes, but that was always the deal. Each excursion underground reminded her of fishing through conduits on the carrier before she grew too big to fit. Every structure shifted alongside other workers felt reminiscent of days spent extracting a single bulkhead. Only here, nobody could keep her below deck.

"I'm heading out tomorrow morning," she told the Burrow's innkeeper after spending an evening cropping away unruly locks of hair. Although reserved by nature, or perhaps by necessity when so many vagabonds passed through, the old woman's bushy eyebrows rose more than normal while weighing her rent.

"Is that so? I hoped you were finally feeling at home with us."

"Probably for the best that I don't," said Mealworm. She got another look through foggy glasses as the innkeeper used tweezers to move a fleck of gold, allowing the scale to shift ever so slightly.

"And where might you be headed? We never can help but worry about our regulars."

"Further east. Figure I should try seeing Cherinmark's heart while I'm out here, or maybe I have to see it before leaving."

"Oh, dear…"

"It's fine, I've camped there before. You might even catch me returning if the city hasn't moved too far." She swept back bits of gold as the innkeeper deposited payment into a safe heavy enough to require special service whenever the tavern moved—from their odd oxen, from local orks, from sputtering GOC exoskeletons. "You should warn off that hunter who's been snooping around though. They probably won't have fun chasing me in there."

"Pardon? I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"Of course not. At least charge extra for the information, yeah? They're probably loaded with a royal stipend if they can afford lurking this long without progress." To that, the innkeeper could only share in a smile that had come easier of late.

Naturally, Mealworm left through her room's window in the dead of night. Laden with a proper pack full of proper supplies, not to mention proper tools and even more proper weapons, it wasn't her gentlest two-story fall; being burdened in that familiar fashion felt good nonetheless. She might have even whistled while leaving Unceda if it didn't seem liable to attract attention from shadows looming in the distance. Striding over trees or cresting mountains, their enormous shapes were barely visible through the drizzle, lit only by slight fragments of starlight. Lanky. Loping. Bearing collections of eyes and teeth that reflected better than pelts and antlers. Although walking in their direction, there was no need to fret. What titan would crave a morsel as meager as herself?

If the middle ring of Cherinmark seemed a place fit for legends to transpire, its deepest interior better suited their forgetting. The oldest, roughest castles Mealworm had ever seen were fully consumed there. Moss digested statues. Roots crushed stone. Flowers bloomed bone-white or blood-red atop graves too large for humans. No roads survived either, but she climbed plenty of enormous pavestones that had been upended by nature's churn and tilt. To proceed was to climb, and climb she did, making full use of picks and pinions that would surely vanish into undergrowth within days as callouses reformed and knuckles scraped raw. The footholds carved into trees would vanish even sooner.

When she last traversed those ruins, it was with her pack from Alpha-85. Bruised, bleeding, beaten, their squad had split off to play rearguard after the Battle of Ten-Bridge Gorge. Having somehow survived that maneuver, there was no choice but to divert through territory that the OPCOM said to avoid like death. It immediately justified those warnings. As if drawn to gore—shed by hand, shed into their hands—tragedy befell them during a scramble from pursuers with similarly poor judgment. Flowers bloomed from open wounds while vines latched around ankles like traps engineered. Thorns, thistle, and worse tore away with a drive that seemed hungry if not sadistic. When night fell, it was surely some combination of moans, lanterns, and feverish fighting that drew those shadows toward their holdout. Although feverish herself, it was impossible to forget a giant snout descending from between old-growth trees to close around her squadmates, nor the gnarled hoofs pounding down in its wake.

This was a territory that knew its inhabitants well though. Mealworm's journey was a quiet, calm affair this time, and her surroundings proved appropriately serene. No wonder adventurers seeking to conquer its catacombs were consumed more often than not. Cherinmark simply wasn't a land that could be warred upon with any chance of victory. Yes, that was surely it, and surely the reason for panicked shouts that echoed behind her too. A flock of enormous birds burst into flight from nearby, their triple jointed legs still clutching animals plucked from nests. She stopped and scratched her neck as automatic gunfire put every other living thing on edge. Maybe her fellow foreigner deserved one more chance.

With a hunting knife in hand instead of TAPEWORM TANGIBLE, Mealworm descended along paths that had shifted over some scant twenty minutes. She rounded a fork, saw that hunter snarled in vines, and immediately ducked behind an enormous stone foot that must have once supported the grandest statue yet. Another burst of gunfire took chunks off its side.

"Stop shooting!" she said, only to be shot at again. Balancing serenity with coursing adrenaline wasn't easy.

"Where have you brought me?" came a shrill response barely muffled by their mask. "What is this nest of… this den of… Quarry should not imperil itself such!"

"I didn't bring you anywhere. You should have stolen the sword in town if you didn't want to follow me out here."

"I had not considered you suicidal!"

"Not yet at least. You don't seem ready to die either, so how about dropping the gun? I'll cut you down, and then you can scurry off to tell your bosses about bravely pursuing me here at great personal risk."

The following silence was punctuated by so many rustling branches, dripping leaves, and shifting stones that it shouldn't be called silence at all. Adding to that noise, a squat submachine gun skidded past her cover—PG-12, issued only by Tellechian intelligence. Mealworm peeked around the statue, then walked out when no more gunfire followed. That hunter was suspended nearly a foot off the ground by overgrowth that only tightened around struggling prey. Crossing the path brought no unpleasant surprises. She first approached the vine wrapping around an unguarded neck to gently hold it in place. One slow cut had no effect. Neither did a second, though at least it hadn't clenched with bone-breaking force yet. Three times finally forced a retreat.

"No problem at all," said Mealworm, flexing a hand that tingled from toxins injected by microneedle. The hunter started responding, only for another vine wrapped around ribs to tighten, squeezing air free alongside several painful cracks. "Yup. No problem." She set to work on that vine next, but only after stripping away a pistol, a knife, and several grenades from under their cloak.

Sweat soaked both by the time her patient collapsed onto the forest floor, panting through their mask in an appropriate fashion. And what a toll surgery took. Killing felt eminently simpler, an act which was nothing but final when done right. "You're mad," was all they said before vanishing from existence with a faint pop, dragged back toward the Howling Pillar by the gravity all from that realm experienced. If only returning was so easy for everyone who traveled abroad.

They weren't entirely wrong either. A great many people would call her mad for that renewed march toward the heart of Cherinmark. Even more would call her deluded, foolhardy, or yes, outright suicidal, as though there weren't plenty of places to die in the lands below for those seeking it. Night fell before any imagined naysayers could be proven correct. With only a porous heatstone to keep her hands from cramping, she watched through the darkness as one of those massive entities who devoured her squad passed overhead. Earth barely shook beneath its hooves. Musk barely carried on the wind. Enormous yet removed, present yet distant, its existence confounded as she stared unblinking at the void sketched into near-black clouds. When distant bellowing sounded, full of some ancient, aching sorrow at a world encroached upon, Mealworm allowed herself a tiny howl too.

Their differing sorrows barely mattered beneath the drizzle.

« Previous Tale | Swords unto Scramjets | Next Tale »