Awake

By Thio Isobel Moss

Highwayman, all 263 pounds of him, hit the stone floor like a sack of wet bricks. He slumped against the wall, yanked his mask off, and used it to mop sweat from his light brown hair.

“Remind me...why don't we bring a keg on the bridge?” The dwarf’s voice was as rough as a gravel road.

Nebthu handed him a water. “No booze on duty, you lush. Besides, even Snake Venom would be too weak for this trash-fire... Speak No Evil, six-point-five.”

The burly shifter braced the wall, his head dropping against the raw stone, shoulders rippling as he exorcised the demons clawing inside his skull. I averted my eyes. Nebthu was a former SEAL and our rock — only Oscar might out-tough him. If something stuck with him, we didn’t need the details.

We all had our ghosts.

I pulled my glasses from my quest tote and put them on, feeling indecent relief as I listened to Oscar bark at his aids.

It was funny. The big horrors often made little impact. The small shit — a show of defiance, a nine-rayed sun scratched into a wall a thousand times, a plate of food next to a starved corpse — those set up camp in my brain and gatecrashed my dreams. The unanswered questions were clingy imps.

“Time Bandits,” I volunteered, stretching out on the floor. “More cages over bottomless pits — yawn. Four.”

Deathblade nodded emphatically, coaxing a snicker from Finiel.

“Clockwork Orange,” Tellus muttered, curling into herself. “Nine.”

Nebthu slid down beside her, arm out in invitation. The curly-haired brunette accepted the comfort, tears spilling despite her shaky smile.

Highwayman sniffed, snooty and nasal. “Insidious; a two, if I'm generous. They capitalized on the color scheme but failed to evoke the unpredictability of the film.”

We shut up, glad to be alive but craving distance from this crap.

“Everyone's breathing, the B-teams got to sit it out, twenty-two retrieved, and we're off dungeon duty for sixteen weeks,” Oscar grunted, stitching up wounds with spelled thread. “Apprentice picks are next.”

My gut twisted like I’d swallowed a gearshift.

Good effort, shitty prize — training newbies to wade through depravity’s deep end. Candidates were often chosen years in advance; it was just the sales pitch that remained. It was a prestigious gig, but no sane parent wanted this life for their child. I’ve never regretted my choice of career, but a part of me always hoped my invitations would be declined.

“Incoming,” Kukri hissed, nodding to the wall. The stone undulated like a drunk puddle, and a dark pinprick swiftly bloomed into a large gopher hole. “Any guests RSVP?”

“My plus-one,” I yawned, climbing to my feet. The floor had proved comfier than expected.

The portal twisted into the entrance of an ancient temple framed by apple-green pillars ornamented with carved animals. A tall figure in black fatigues — masked, gloved, and with her utility belt jingling — emerged. She marched forward, telegraphing discipline with every stride, and, without so much as a hello, thrust a zip drive at me. 

“Thanks,” I said, sarcasm switching on, and traded the drive for the one in my zippered pocket.

Arms tight to her chest, the newcomer signed: Nineteen’s awake and drilling holes through your thick head.

A spike of adrenaline shot through me. Every retrieval had been dosed with the same potion; they all ought to be down for the count. I replied in kind: Intriguing development. Please alert the relevant parties.